David Blixt - The Master of Verona

"Is she still alive?"

"Oh yes," said the doctor, finally discovering the fat maggot in his beard and replacing it in Pietro's wound. Pietro quickly closed his eyes. "She resides at the palace of her second husband, Signore Guido Bonaccolsi, brother to Passerino."

Eyes firmly shut, Pietro felt the process of wrapping begin. "Passerino Bonaccolsi. He's the Mantuan lord. Someone told me he's Cangrande's best friend."

"They're close, but I'd have to say the Scaliger is closer to my patron, Donna Katerina's husband. But then Bailardino helped to raise him. The day he married Katerina he accepted her little brother as a squire…"

Listening to pieces of della Scala family gossip, Pietro tried to puzzle out Katerina's age. If Katerina was just married when she took her brother in, she was at least twelve years her brother's senior. As close as he could guess, that put her somewhere between her thirty-fifth and fortieth year. Twice his own age.

The doctor was still praising the lord of Vicenza, and Pietro felt the need to change to topic. "You said that they're with advisors. Who?"

Morsicato frowned as he tried to list all the famous names. "Their cousin Federigo. The Mantuan lord Bonaccolsi. Lords Montecchio and Castelbarco, of course. And the Paduan Nicolo da Lozzo. Bishop Guelco. Oh, and the new man in Verona, Cap-something."

"Capecelatro," supplied Pietro, intrigued that Antony's father was being included. A cynical voice wondered how wealthy he really was.

"That's right. Oh, and your father, of course! I'm sorry, he should have been first."

Pietro laughed. "You're forgiven. My father isn't known for his diplomacy either."

The doctor chuckled dutifully and leaned back. "There. Is that comfortable?"

Lying through his teeth, Pietro said it was. He knew he couldn't actually be feeling the maggots wriggling, yet he had to force himself to lie still. "Who else?"

Morsicato pulled a face. "I heard they've invited the two captured Paduans, Il Grande da Carrara and his nephew."

"That ass," growled Pietro involuntarily.

The doctor nodded. "And a Venetian ambassador called Dandolo."

That made Pietro sit up. "A Venetian? What's he doing here? Is Verona going to war with Venice?"

"I have no idea," said Moriscato, holding up his hands. "Now sit back. I've told you all I know. Except…"

Pietro gave him an urging look. "Yes?"

Morsicato looked rueful. "Well, it's just that I was passing the door not long ago and it sounded like-"

"Like what?"

"Like they were playing at dice."

"Dice?"

"That's what it sounded like. And Donna Katerina was ordering more wine for them all."

Pietro digested this for a moment, then had to laugh. The fate of three cities, perhaps more, decided over dice.

As the doctor gathered up his instruments and poultices, Pietro asked, "When is her husband due back?"

"Two days, perhaps three."

If I were wed to Katerina I would never leave her side . "Well, thank you for looking after me. And for the news."

Morsicato actually bowed. "My honour, lad. Not often we see such bravery. Your father speaks of it to everyone."

Pietro blinked at that. Before he could muster a proper response the doctor was gone to other duties.

Brave? Was Morsicato lying? Pietro's father certainly hadn't used that word to him! Tight-lipped in public, the poet had launched into a caustic diatribe the moment they were alone. What words had he used? Not brave. Stupid , yes. Foolhardy , certainly. Thoughtless heedless jolt-head determined to land in an untimely grave , that was still ringing in his ears. But brave? No, Pietro was sure that word hadn't been mentioned.

He wondered if Katerina thought he was brave. He wondered about Katerina a lot. He found himself acutely resenting the shadowy figure of her absent husband. Insanely, he was also jealous of her relationship with her brother. However acrimonious, their deep connection was obvious. In the lady's disdainful treatment of her brother he saw a depth of feeling he'd never witnessed before.

An itching in his leg — in his leg! — reminded him of the maggots, and he shifted it closer to the brazier that was pleasantly toasting his right side. Maybe I can smoke them out .

To distract himself he continued piecing together the mosaic of Cangrande's family. At the top of the family tree was Cangrande's uncle, the first Scaliger ruler of Verona, called Mastino. Then Mastino's brother, Alberto, and his three sons and two daughters. Two of those sons, Cangrande and Katerina's brothers, were dead. Pietro remembered his father talking warmly of Bartolomeo and disdainfully of Alboino.

Dante had also spoken with open hostility towards the late Abbot of San Zeno, father of the current one. A bastard of Alberto's, wasn't he? I wonder if there are any other by-blows out there, any bastards with the Scaligeri blood. Mariotto hinted that way.

There was a thought there, something nagging at his memory, a conversation between brother and sister — but he couldn't grasp it. With a sigh he sat back, closing his eyes and focusing on the rain, feeling the heat of the brazier gently warming him…

There was a scraping sound. Pietro opened his bleary eyes and found the Scaliger moving a chair at the brazier's other side. "Forgive me. Do I bother you? Were you dreaming?"

"Just dozing," said Pietro, shaking his head clear.

"Mmm. These days when I dream, I dream of rain." Cangrande settled lanquidly into the cushioned chair and stretched his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I make use of your brazier. Supper will be served soon." Cangrande reclined, fingers steepled at his lips, eyes on the rain.

"Are the conferences over?"

"Yes. Everything is settled."

Dying of curiosity, Pietro bit his tongue. They sat together for a time, both staring into the shimmering wall of water that pounded the cobblestones beyond the lip of the roof. The sound was hypnotic, as was the shivering light from the brazier as it reflected off the rain. Pietro's eyes grew heavy-lidded again…

"Do you think your father is right?"

Startled by the question, Pietro roused himself. "About what, lord?"

"About the stars." The Veronese lord shifted in his seat so that he leaned towards the rain. It brought his face into view on the far side of the smoking brazier.

"I, ah — I don't know what you mean, lord," was Pietro's feeble response.

Suddenly Cangrande rose. "Come. We'll discuss it at supper."

"Me? At supper, lord?"

"Yes, you, at supper. It's a small party — your father, the Venetian envoy, Il Grande and his nephew, the poet Mussato, Asdente, and myself. With you, we'll make eight. We need another to make up your father's magic number, but who? Not Guelco — I've foisted him off on Mariotto's father, with the impressive figure of Signore Capecelatro as his second. And your two friends are off exploring the Montecchi stables, I believe, so they're out of reach. I know — I'll invite Passerino to join us, that will be nine. The Nine Worthies. Your father will approve. Come!"

Even with a crutch and a helping hand, it took time for Pietro to navigate the halls, and the others were already gathered when he and Cangrande arrived. The Scaliger greeted them genially, as if half their number were not sworn enemies with feathers on the right side of their caps and red roses pinned to their gowns. "Please, sit! This is an informal gathering. Now that we are no longer wrangling we can enjoy each other's company."

"Just tell Asdente to keep his dice to himself," declared Passerino Bonaccolsi genially. "I've lost a month's rents to him."

Vanni gave his ghastly grin. "Fine. We'll use yours."