Their escort had been hailed by the guard at the gate. The escort now shouted out the names of the passengers – one name, really, followed by “and his sons!” The city’s guards acknowledged the claim and came forward to confirm the number of passengers in the carriage. And, Pietro saw, to gawk a little at his father.
“It is you, then?” asked one.
“I thought you’d have Virgil with you,” said the other. Pietro hoped he was joking.
Dante said, “You didn’t recognize him? He’s the coach driver.” One guard actually looked, then laughed in an abashed way. The poet passed a few more words with the guards, and one of them made a comment that he thought witty until Dante sighed. “Yes, yes. Hellfire singed my beard black. My sons are tired. May we enter?”
They were delayed while word was sent ahead and the gate was opened. Then the coach resumed its course, passing into the dark archway that led into the city. When Dante recognized a church or a house he named it.
All at once Dante smacked his hands together and cried, “Look! Look!”
Pietro and Poco twisted around to see where he was pointing. Out of the darkness Pietro could make out an arch. Then another, and another. Arches above arches. Then the torches revealed enough of the structure for Pietro to guess what it was. The only thing it could be.
“The Arena!” laughed Poco. “The Roman Arena!”
“It’s still in use,” said Dante. “Once they evicted the squatters and cleaned it so out they could use it for sport again. And theatre,” he added sourly.
Quickly they were past it, but Pietro kept picturing it in his minds eye until the coach pulled to a stop. The driver called down, “The full stop!” and laughed. Everybody was itching to show off his wit to the exiled master poet.
A footman opened the door to the coach and, hearing a sound, Pietro poked his head out. Word of their arrival must have spread faster than fire. There was a crowd of men, women, and children, growing larger every second. After two years of walking from place to place, of leaving their hats on posts in each new city they came to until someone lifted them, thus offering lodging and food, Pietro still wasn’t used to his father’s newfound fame.
Pietro stepped out of the coach, first making sure his hat was at the proper angle – he liked his hat, a present from the lord of Lucca and his only expensive garment. But even in his fancy hat with the long feather he heard the crowd’s sigh of disappointment. He didn’t take it personally. Instead he turned to hold out his arm to his father.
Dante’s long fingers took the arm of the youth, putting more pressure than he showed onto his son’s flesh. His foot touched the stones of the square and the crowd took a single step back, pressing the rearmost hard against the walls.
“Fool carriages,” muttered Dante. “Never get cramped like this on a horse.”
Jacopo had popped out of the other side. Now he came around the back of the carriage, an idiot grin on his face. With a word to the porters to stow their baggage, they followed a beckoning steward.
The awed crowd parted for them. They were gathered to glimpse Dante, an event Pietro guessed they tell their friends of while making the sign to ward off evil. The old man was evil, but not in that way.
Following the steward’s lamp they passed under an archway with a massive curved bone dangling from it. “La Costa,” said Dante. “I had forgotten. That bone is the remains of an ancient monster that the city rose up and killed in olden times. It marks the line between the Piazza delle Erbe to the Piazza del Signori.” The market place, the civic centre.
The alleyway opened out into a wide piazza enclosed all about by buildings both new and old. The whole square was done up in cloth of gold and silken banners that shimmered in the torchlight. Below this finery were Verona’s best and brightest. Dressed in fine gonellas or the more modern – and revealing – doublets, these wealthy nobles and upper-crust watched now as Dante Alaghieri joined their ranks.
The buildings, ornaments, and men were all impressive, but Pietro’s eyes were drawn to a central pillar flying a banner. A leap of torchlight caught the flapping flag, revealing a ebmroidered five-runged ladder. On the topmost rung perched an eagle, its imperial beak bearing a laurel wreath. At the ladder’s base was shown a snarling hound.
Il Veltro. The Greyhound.
Then the crowd before Pietro’s father parted to reveal a man standing at the center of the square looked like a god on earth. Massively tall, yet thin as a corded whip. His clothes were of expensive simplicity – a light-colored linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck, under a farsetto, a doublet of burgundy leather. Instead of the common leather ties it bore six metal clasps down the front. His hose, too, were dark, a wine-red close to black. Tall boots reached his knee, the soft leather rolled back to create a wide double band about his calf. He wore no hat, but was crowned with a mane of chestnut hair with streaks of blonde that, catching echoes of the brands, danced like fire.
Yet it was his eyes that struck Pietro most. Bluer than the sky, sharper than a hawk’s – unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world.
Cangrande della Scala stood surrounded by minions and fellow nobles to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. A man’s whose only wealth was language.
Dante released Pietro’s arm and, drawing himself up, walked with dignity to the center of the square. He took off his hat with the lappets and, just as he had done a hundred times during his exile, placed it at the base of the plinth at the center of the square. From Dante they might have expected speeches. But Pietro’s father had a keen sense of drama.
Pietro watched with the rest as Cangrande stooped for the limp old-fashioned cap. As he rose Pietro caught his first glimpse of Cangrande’s famous smile, the allegria, as the lord of Verona twirled the hat between his fingers.
“Well met, Poet.”
“Well come, at least,” said Dante. “If not well met.”
Cangrande threw back his head and roared with laughter. He waved a hand and music erupted from some corner of the square. Under its cover Dante spoke, and Pietro was close enough to hear. “It is good to see you, my lord.” The poet directed his gaze to the ornate decorations. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I must confess, it was luck. Our garlands are for tomorrow’s happy wedlock. But they are far better suited to grace your coming.”
“Silver-tongued still,” replied Pietro’s father. “Who is to marry?”
“My nephew.” Cangrande gestured to a not-so-sober blonde fellow, raising his voice as he did. “Tonight he takes his last hunt as a bachelor!”
Dante also pitched his voice to carry. “Hunt for what, Lord?”
“For the hart, of course!” The crowd broke with laughter. Pietro wondered if they were indeed hunting deer, or for girls. But his eyes found a handsome young man, dark of hair, well dressed, who carried a small hawk. So, deer. Pietro was both relieved and disappointed. He was seventeen.
Dante turned to face his sons. “Pietro. Jacopo.” Jacopo tried to flatten down his hair. Pietro stepped eagerly forward to be introduced, ready to make his best bow.
But his father forestalled him with a gesture. “See to the bags.”
With that, the poet turned in step with Cangrande and departed.
