If asked, Pietro would have said he was a disappointment to his father. He hadn’t the wit to be a poet, and he was a poor manager for his father. Pietro thought that his little sister would be a better travelling companion for the great Dante. She had the mind for it. Pietro’s sole consolation was that Poco, by his very presence, made Pietro look good.
Like now, as Jacopo pressed their father further. “The Greyhound. What’s he really called?”
“Cangrande della Scala,” said Dante. “The youngest of the three sons, the only one still living. Sharp, tall, well-spoken. No. That won’t do. I said, words don’t do him justice. He has a… a streak of immortality inside him, inside his mind. If he continues unchecked he will make Verona the new Caput Mundi. But ask me no more about him. You will see.” When Jacopo opened his mouth Dante held up a hand. “Wait. And. See.” He pulled the curtain shut, blocking the stars and plunging them once more into darkness.
They rode on through the night. Awake now, Pietro listened to the easy chatting of the soldiers outside. They talked of nothing important. Horses, wenches, gambling, in the main. Soon Pietro heard his father’s breathing become regular. A minute later the coach was filled with snores as Poco joined in.
Pietro couldn’t sleep now, though, if he tried. So instead he carefully peeled back a section of curtain and watched the the miles pass by. Dante always insisted on riding facing forward, so Pietro could only see the road behind them, illuminated in bizarre twisted patches by the torches of their escort. A wind was fretting the oak trees and juniper bushes that lined the road. He could smell the fresh breeze. A storm, maybe. Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But a storm.
In a little while the trees thinned out, replaced by farms, mills, and minor hamlets. There was a jolt of the wheels, and suddenly they were rattling over a stone road, not a dirt one. The clop of each hoofbeat hung crisply in the night air. Pietro was again glad of their escort. Too many things happened to foolish night-time travelers.
One of the men spied Pietro and cantered his mare closer to the carriage. “We’re coming up on the city. Won’t be long now.”
Pietro thanked him and kept watching. Verona. They were Ghibbelline, which meant that they supported the Emperor, who was dead, rather than the pope, also dead. Verona had a famous race called the Palio. They exported, well, everything. Any goods from Venice that weren’t going out by ship had to pass through either Florence or Verona. Florence led only to the port at Ostia, but Verona was the key to Austria and Germany, and thus on to France and England. It lay at the foot of the Brennero Pass, the only quick and sure route through the Alps.
All of a sudden the suburbs were upon them, the disposable homes, shops and warehouses of those not wealthy enough to buy property inside the city walls. But already it smelled like a city. Pietro found it strange that the smell of urine and feces was a familiar comfort, but he’d lived in cities all his life. Florence, Paris, Pisa.
The carriage slowed to a walk then stopped. Pietro’s father roused. “What’s happening?”
“I think we’re outside the city gates, father.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said the poet sleepily. “I was so consumed with composing the encounter with Cato – I told you about Cato? Good – I lost all track of our travels. Open the curtains. And wake your brother!”
