David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Cangrande named everyone at the table to Pietro, ending with the only man Pietro didn't already know. "This is Francesco Dandolo, Venetian ambassador and co-owner of two of my names. He is a Cane , too. Isn't that right, Dandolo?"

The Venetian made a deep bow to Pietro, ignoring what was obviously some kind of jab. "Honoured to meet you, young man. I understand you acquitted yourself well in your first battle."

"That he did," said Cangrande before Pietro could answer. "And from a man once destined for the church! If things had gone apace, he might have been able to intervene for you with the pope!"

The Venetian saw Pietro's puzzlement and sighed. "I was entrusted with the task of removing the excommunication Pope Clement laid on the Serenissima, our noble city."

"That floats on a bog," remarked Cangrande. "And this noble man, to do honour to his home-"

"Come," interrupted Il Grande, "the meal waits."

Having already made the Venetian visibly uncomfortable, Cangrande was not averse to letting his story go. For the moment. To his credit, Dandolo maintained a dignified composure as he settled at the far end of the table.

Pietro found himself at the table's middle. Close on his right sat Il Grande, and directly across the table sat Marsilio da Carrara. That one refused to speak or even look up, which suited Pietro fine.

On Pietro's other side Albertino Mussato had been given a wide leeway for his splints. The historian-poet bore a broken leg, a broken arm, and a fierce knob on the top of his head. Down the boards, Asdente sat bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, a fresh bandage wrapped about his head like a turban.

Pietro's father and Mussato were acquainted, having both attended the crowning of the last Holy Roman Emperor in Milan. As they sat, Dante asked after Mussato's head wound and Albertino grimaced. "Hard to say if it's addled my brains or not. I'm able to write, but someone else will have to read it to see if it makes any sense."

Cangrande took his place at the head of the table. On his right sat Il Grande, on his left the Mantuan lord Passerino Bonaccolsi. "I'll read your writing happily, Albertino. Marsilio, the wine stands by you." Young Carrara grudgingly passed the wine.

"You may not enjoy my new piece," warned Mussato. "It's a screed against you."

The brilliant smile leapt forth. "Really? Will it be good?"

"Oh, it will be excellent. But, my dear Dante, I have yet to congratulate you — L'Inferno is the finest epic since Homer."

"Well, Virgil, at least," corrected Dante. He had been placed across from Mussato, no doubt to let the two poets converse on their craft. As the company settled itself there was some technical talk between them regarding canticles and cantos, publishers and copyists. Mussato was grandiose in his praise, though Pietro thought he was forcing it a little.

Cangrande was busily chatting with Il Grande, but Passerino Bonaccolsi turned to add his praise to the Inferno . "Wonderful! Though I do take umbrage over your treatment of dear sweet Manto. We Mantuans keep Virgil near to our hearts, and to hear him excise her son Ocnus entirely from the birth of our city — well, I wouldn't come visit for awhile, is all I can say."

This , thought Pietro, from a man whose own father is treated harshly in the story. He's more upset by father removing the magic from the founding of Mantua.

Dante answered blandly, invoking God's gifts, not his own. Mussato said, "Don't you mean 'the gods'? That's what your beloved Virgil says, with the words you put in his mouth."

Dante looked pained. "My poor pagan mentor never knew Christ's glory, since he died before the birth of our Savior. He refers to the divine in the only terms he would have known. But just because they were so unfortunate as to not know the true Divinity does not mean they were incapable of glimpses of truth."

Mussato glanced at the Scaliger. "That's true of a lot of people today."

Asdente grunted. "We had a fellow on campaign who could read — he was probably killed yesterday, come to think of it. Each night he'd scare the younger soldiers by reading aloud from your poem. I really enjoyed seeing them shit themselves from fright. 'That's what you'll get,' I told them, 'for impiousness and fornication!' Kept them out of my hair for months. Ha!" cackled the Toothless Master.

"Indeed," said Mussato, glossing over his fellow Paduan's rough manners, "your use of contrapasso is brilliant. Bertran de Born, carrying his own head! A marvel! I mean to steal it to use against the Greyhound there. For God's sake, someone, pass the wine. My head's killing me."

As the wine was passed again Dante leaned his forearms on the table. "Tell me, what form will your screed take? Epic?"

Bonaccolsi said, "For Cangrande? I'd be surprised if you could fill three stanzas with his life story. Look at him! Still a stripling! If he were a fish, I'd throw him back!"

"A damned lucky stripling," snorted Asdente into his wine goblet. The metal bowl made his voice reverberate. "He always gets what he wants."

"Now, Vanni, that's a blatant lie," grinned Cangrande. "I don't always get what I want. If I did, then you'd be Veronese and my sworn man to the death. Padua couldn't stand without you."

Asdente chuckled. "Padua could stand against anything in the world — except you, Pup!"

Cangrande beamed. "Pup! Now there's a title I haven't heard for a while! And how does the great Count of San Bonifacio?"

"Not so well, I imagine," said Il Grande. "After this, he'll have to admit that his Pup has grown into a proper hound."

"With teeth for tearing," added Mussato. "I'm lucky my right hand can still scratch a few lines."

"Which brings us back to my question," said Dante patiently. "What form?"

"A play," said Mussato happily. "Seneca would be proud."

"A play? In Seneca's style?" cried Dante. "Fascinating."

"God!" implored Asdente. "Here I thought we might get a good conversation going — death, treason, murder, war. But no! Poetry! It always comes back to poetry. Pah!" He spat as if he were eager to be rid of the word.

Dante ignored him. "So this is to be a dark Tragedy?"

"A Tragedy for the people of Verona, as dark as my mind can make it."

"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Cangrande proudly.

"Oh, no, no! I'm setting it back in the days of Ezzelino da Romano, when he was ripping up the countryside like you are now. The play will show what happens when a tyrant is let to rule over us. Your name will not be mentioned."

The Scaliger raised his glass to Mussato. "When it is finished, you must send me a copy. I'll fund the first production."

"Figures," growled Asdente. "Everybody knows you enjoy hanging around with actors and other parasites."

"And you, my sweet Asdente, and you."

Amid the jeering and laughter the first course arrived, and for a short time everyone was occupied with plates of armoured turnips, a dish of ash-baked turnips covered in spices, cheese and butter. Pietro was grateful for the activity. Extremely uncomfortable in this august company, he was well aware the only person near his own age and rank was staring murder at him from across the table.

Swallowing a turnip, Il Grande pointed his knife at Dante. "Tell me, Maestro Alaghieri. You were once a devout Guelph."

"How devout can a White Guelph be?" interjected Marsilio.

Il Grande ignored his nephew. "Now you live at a staunchly Ghibelline court and were a supporter of the late Emperor. I admit exile would sour me against my home, and I can certainly understand how a bad pope can make one jaded about the Church. But do you really, truly believe that the Emperor should not be subject to the papacy?"

"I do."

"Oh God," muttered Asdente, rolling his eyes at his neighbour Dandolo. "Here we go. Popes and emperors."