David Blixt - The Master of Verona

I adjure you who shall transcribe this book, by our Lord Jesu Cristo and His Glorious coming, Who will come to judge the quick and the dead, that you compare what you transcribe and diligently correct it by the copy from which you transcribe it, and this adjuration also, and insert it in your copy.

Below that, written in fine Latin, three words — Explicit, Deo Gratias .

"You will have to do the page again," said Antonia.

The scribe balked — it would take another whole day to replicate his work. "Why?"

"I will have no scurrilous additions to my father's work. No ' Finished, Thank God !' No ' For his pen's labor, may the copyist be given a beautiful girl .' No ' May the writer continue to copy and drink good wine .' None of it! You will do another version of this page and leave off any such nonsense. Honestly," sighed Antonia, shaking her head, "I can't see why you would want to do any extra work. Don't you have enough to copy? Would you rather be working on a Bible somewhere?"

All the copyists shook their heads. Yes, a complete Bible brought a goodly sum of money, but it took fifteen months to complete, during which time the copyist starved.

"I'll take care of this," said Cerdone, lifting the parchment from the board. His first thought had been to say something in the man's defense. Then he decided to keep the page for himself. One page closer to that bonus.

Soon Antonia left the writing house, feeling much more herself. She hurried to her next appointment. There was so much to do!

And besides, it looked like rain.

Vicenza

Over a hundred miles north of Florence the skies wept fiercely, pouring down sheets that reduced sight to less than the width of a man's hand from his face. Hissing torches illuminated nothing more than their brackets. Reports came of oxen and horses lost in mudslides.

Looking out over the balustrade of the covered loggia above a central atrium, Pietro sat with his right leg propped up high on cushions. The rain created a shimmering wall just beyond the lip of the roof, through which the other side of the Nogarola palace was made quite invisible. He could just discern the shape of a fountain below with three female figures pouring their water into the basin. Intently, he watched the rainwater dance in the overflowing fountain. He played with the laces of his doublet. He recited bits of poetry. He tried in vain to ignore the tiny filthy creatures wrapped into his leg's wound.

Maggots . Nothing in all Dante's traversing of Hell was so disgusting. Maggots . Literally eating him. Morsicato, the Nogarola's physician, had sworn that they were the best way to fight infection, that they only ate dead meat, not living flesh. So they were wrapped under the bandages, right in there with his puckered wound. Maggots. Pietro couldn't help imagining the soggy little white things gnawing away at him. What if they move away from the knee? What if they move up…?

Cavalcanti. You were thinking of Cavalcanti . ' Bilta di donna e di saccente core e cavalieri armati che sien genti…'

But poetry was no refuge from his imagination. He'd come out here hoping to drift into sleep, but the idea of dozens of tiny mouths chomping at him kept him awake. Worst was the itching. Pietro had woken this morning from dreams of gigantic worms feeding on his blood and tears to find his little brother newly arrived and poking under the folds of the bandages for a glimpse of the little devils at work.

Of course Poco's curious. His brother is a walking feast for worms.

As if to illustrate the point, Morsicato approached bearing a tray. Smiling gruffly, he said, "Master Alaghieri."

"That time again?"

"I'm afraid so. May I?" The physician knelt beside Pietro's outstretched leg, removed the blanket and lifted the long shirt, then began gently unwrapping the injury. "Rain shows no sign of letting up."

"No," said Pietro, desperately not watching the fellow adding or subtracting maggots to the wound. Valiently, Pietro fought to keep his bile down. He'd already vomited twice today. It was one of the reasons he'd moved into the open air. "But after two days of sweating, it's good to be outside."

"The army would have happily exchanged places," said Morsicato. "I was out in their tents this morning looking after minor ailments." He paused to grin, stroking his forked black beard. "Venereal ailments. Anyway, they're all huddled in tents, wrapped in straw and murdering time by using pig knuckles for dice."

One of the maggots had transferred to the doctor's beard. Pietro looked sharply away. "How are they holding up?"

"They're anxious. Wondering why we're not moving. Full of the usual rumours."

That got Pietro's attention. "What rumours?"

"Oh, some say having his victory snatched away by rain has driven the Scaliger mad. That he's slain all of us in the palace and torn out hunks of his hair and dashed his brains out against the walls. Others say he's kept to the private chapel of the Nogarolas, begging the Lord to clear the skies. A few say he's found a new mistress to keep him occupied until the rains pass." Morsicato gave a grim chuckle. "At least that would explain his delaying the attack." Suddenly he looked guiltily up. "Not that I mean-"

Pietro pressed his lips together. But the doctor was only echoing what was in the mind of every man in Vicenza. When Cangrande's army had arrived a day after the battle, the Capitano immediately dispatched a century directly back to Verona with most of the prisoners, fourteen hundred in all. Far too many to shackle, Cangrande had ordered their ankles bound in single file for the march. That done, everyone waited to hear him give the order to march for Padua.

But that order never came. Instead Cangrande had called five of his most trusted councilors together, given them orders to hold in place, and then retired to his sister's palace.

Now it was too late. For two days the rain had not stopped, swelling the natural defenses of Padua, turning the roads to muck, destroying any chance of taking the city and ending the war.

If he hadn't delayed they might have been victorious. But to say so aloud was treason.

Pietro took a breath, thinking of what a man of his position should say. "I know it's difficult, but we have to trust our lords. Especially this lord."

"You're right, of course. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me." The doctor bowed his bald head and continued gently examining Pietro's leg. The maggot in his beard had disappeared.

The awkward pause lasted until Pietro said, "How is Lord Nogarola's arm? I haven't seen him today."

Shaking his head slightly, Morsicato's voice was clipped. "Recovering from the surgery."

Pietro tensed. Surgery! That meant that Antonio Nogarola's broken arm had begun to fester, and Morsicato had been forced to cut the arm away. Lookng at his own leg, Pietro silently urged the little maggots on in their horrible work.

The doctor produce a poultice. "This will sting." And indeed there was a pinch as the doctor touched a raw spot among the stitches. Squirming, Pietro found himself wishing for the one person who could take his mind off his wound. Nonchalantly he said, "Is Donna Katerina with him?"

"No, she's with her brother. They've been closeted all day with his closest advisors."

"I'm still new to Verona. What can you tell me about the Scaliger and his family?"

The knight-doctor gave him a quick glance. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Are there more in their family?"

"Their father, old Alberto della Scala, had three sons by his wife. Two have died. Bartolomeo and Alboino. And there were two daughters, Donna Katerina and her sister Costanza, who is the eldest of the lot."