David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Mariotto grinned. "Something devilish?"

Pietro laughed because he was expected to. "I have to order him some new sandals."

Mariotto turned to walk backward. "What happened to his old ones? Burned in the hellfire?"

"No," said Pietro. "My brother."

Montecchio nodded as though the answer made sense. "We'll head to the river and circle around to Cobbler Lane on the way back to the palace — you cannot deny me the opportunity to replace your cap. It would stain my family's honour to let this injustice go unanswered!" He whooped as he whirled off into the crowds, Pietro in his wake.

Behind them came the sound of the human tongue in disjointed harmony. Each traveler spoke his or her native language, rendering the air thick with a war of French, English, Flemish, Greek, and more. Interlaced in the tumult were the harsh, sharp sounds of German — Veronese speech owed at least as much to German as it did to Italian, and the local dialect was redolent with its accents.

Over the noise Pietro said, "Why are you out this morning? Aren't you in the wedding party?"

"Yes! I did my best, but I couldn't talk him out of it! Cecchino, poor fool — just a couple years older than us and already tied down to a wife! But until the feast there's nothing but servants racing about the palace and women cooing about how lovely it all was. I had to escape."

A roar of approval from the men around them caused them to raise their eyes to the highest balconies of the building nearby. Several young women had emerged and draped themselves over the railings, their garments falling revealingly open. One girl waved at Pietro and flashed something pink from beneath her bodice. Pietro blushed and waved shyly back. I shouldn't be shocked , he thought. This is the market plaza, after all.

Grinning, Mariotto said, "I could arrange an introduction."

Pietro avoided that. "In Florence they're forced to wear tiny bells."

"You don't say."

"Yes. There's an old joke about churches and prostitutes — the bells call a man to repent what the bells call a man to do." This earned the first genuine laugh from his newfound friend.

Montecchio never stopped talking as he led a merry chase down the long street. Figuring that Pietro would soon be sent to hunt for tools linked to his father's profession, he made sure to point out where to find the best wax for sealing, the best cut quills.

They reached milliner row, close to an ancient tufa wall which stood in stark contrast to the rose marble and red brick all around them. These were the old walls, built by the Romans or their forebears — no one knew for certain, as the first true inhabitants of Verona were lost to memory. Regardless, the walls existed, enclosing the oldest and richest part of the city. What good they would be if attacked, Pietro wasn't sure.

Twenty minutes later he was once more appropriately, if ostentatiously, hatted. He'd settled on a puffed-out burgundy affair sporting a thin green feather just above the left ear — the Ghibelline ear. Feeling rakish, he followed Mariotto to a string of cobblers where he ordered sandals to be ready for the poet the following day.

The sun was directly overhead, which meant the bridal dinner was nigh. Mariotto unfettered his infectious grin. "We'd better get back. My father asked me to be amusing for Maestro Alighieri's children."

"Alaghieri."

"That's what I said." He clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "To tell you the truth, I was dreading it. Thank you for being nothing like what I imagined the son of a poet to be."

Again Pietro smiled because he was supposed to. Inside his skin he shuddered. That's the question, isn't it? What is the son of a poet — of any great man — if not less than. Inferior. Useless.

To cheer himself up, Pietro looked for a way to repay Mariotto's kindness. Being lost and alone in a new city was nothing unusual for him. Having a friend was. When they were five minutes from the palace, traversing the Plaza delle Erbe once more, he spotted the perfect gift. "Wait here!" Dashing off through the crowd only to reappear a few moments later, he gave an elaborate bow, twirling his new hat between his fingers in a flourish. "For you, signore. "

With his free hand Pietro offered a pair of fine corded leather straps. From one end of each hung a solid silver vervel for engraving the owner's name.

Montecchio's eyes lit up. "Jesses! Oh no, really, Alighieri, it's too much." Now it was his turn to protest feebly.

Pietro was helpless to stop his embarrassingly lopsided smile. "Your hawk should be as well dressed as you are."

Mariotto admired the small tokens. "Tomorrow we'll go riding along the Adige and see if the fellow will fly at all."

Pietro nodded. "I'd like that." If father will let me.

A bell began to ring to the south, then another to the east, and Mariotto's eyes grew wide. "We're late!"

The Benedictine bells were just finishing the call to Sext when two panting teens raced up the inner stairs of the great Scaliger palace in Verona. Attaining the top, they skidded to a halt at a demure distance from the open double doors. Listening, they heard arguing and laughter echoing down the hall. They grinned at each other in relief. They were not too late.

An understeward came bustling forward. "Master Montecchio, welcome. Your father and brother are already within." He glanced at the other young man with an inquiring inclination of his head.

"This is my friend, Pietro Alighieri," said Montecchio.

"Alaghieri," said Pietro automatically.

"Right, sorry. Pietro Alaghieri. He's the son of-"

"Of course," said the steward, unable to entirely hide the sign against evil he made behind his back. "Your esteemed father is also within. If you will both doff your boots, I have slippers waiting by the door. You are the last to arrive."

This statement renewing their panic, they hastily removed their boots in favor of soft-soled, pointy-toed slippers.

Montecchio said, "I've always heard your name as Al-ee-gary. What's this Al-ah-gary business?"

Pietro shrugged. "It's my father biting his thumb. Alighieri is the Florentine pronunciation. Since the banishment, he's insisted on the older pronunciation — Alaghieri, after our ancestor, Alaghiero di Cacciaguida."

Mariotto nodded as if he were truly interested. "And your brother came with you?"

Pietro grunted as he struggled with his right boot. "Jacopo."

"What's he like?"

Familial pride battled honesty. He settled on saying, "He's fourteen."

"Ah. No brothers here, just a sister. She's all right, if a little quiet. Aurelia."

"Mariotto and Aurelia?"

"Actually, Romeo and Aurelia. My mother named us — or so my father tells me. I never knew her. She chose Romeo as my baptismal name, but he wanted to honour his father, so I am Romeo Mariotto Montecchio. Call me Romeo and I'll murder you." He finished fitting his own slippers on and stood up tall. "Ready to face the lion's den?"

If it were a lion I wouldn't be so terrified. "How do we explain being late?"

Mariotto clapped Pietro on the shoulder and together they made for the grand hall. "Some things you just have to take a deep breath and live through."

Just before they reached the door, Pietro halted beside a fresco on the wall by the door. It was one of a set of five, each depicting a man on horseback, behind whom flew the banner of the five-runged ladder. The five men showed a great deal of resemblance, but it was to the last, closest to the door, that Pietro gazed at.

"Our lord," said Mariotto approvingly.

Pietro peered at the glazed paintwork. If you didn't know the man, the fresco might have been deemed flattery. Mounted on a great destrier , mace in one hand, sword in the other, head free of his hound-shaped helmet, Cangrande was fiercely beautiful, his face full of dark joy. Above his head, alongside the banner of the ladder, flew a personal banner with a greyhound racing across an azure field. The artist had added some dark spots to the banner, signifying the blood spilt in battle by this magnificent cavaliere.