The good humor on the loggia gave way to hunger as the smells drifting from the dining-hall – wine, spiced meat, melting cheese, warm bread and olive-oil – started men salivating.
Pietro was singing a ribald chorus with the groom’s friends, hoping his father wasn’t listening, when he noticed a woman in the great doorway. She was older than he might have thought, but lovely, done up in the new fashion, with her dark hair in wavy curls framing her oval face. Dressed in hanging panels of brocaded gold and burgundy, she glided into the room. Giovanna of Antioch, great grand-daughter of Emperor Frederick, sister to Cecchino’s mother, and wife to the Capitano of Verona.
Removing himself from the cluster of men, Cangrande strode over to her, the wiry greyhound dogging his heels. She went up on her toes and spoke in his ear.
At the corners of the doorway beyond her two children appeared. Pietro nudged Mariotto and whispered, “I thought Cangrande didn’t have an heir.”
“Not by his wife, anyway,” replied Mariotto dourly. Realizing he’d spoken aloud, he colored. “I apologize. Those are his brother’s sons, Alberto and Mastino.”
From Mariotto’s indicating nods, Alberto was the larger of the pair, and must have been about eight or nine years old. He was a pleasant enough looking child. Indeed, he seemed embarrassed to be where he knew he shouldn’t. The youngest man in the room was probably Pietro’s own brother at fourteen years, almost a man, also a guest. Alberto knew the world of adults was still outside his sphere.
But just behind him, prodding him onward, young Mastino looked to be about six. Undoubtedly a della Scala, his face bore all of the easy magnificence that graced his uncle. Yet in watching him Pietro saw a little devil at work. Mastino pressed his brother on into the room. When Alberto wasn’t scolded, little Mastino strode boldly past his pliable older brother. He stood on his heels, hands on hips, looking around the room as if he owned it. He was a genuinely gorgeous child.
Cangrande bowed to his wife, stepping back as she addressed his guests. “Gentlemen, lords, and honored guests! The wedding feast is prepared!” A cheer. “I regret to say, though, that my husband has shamed me. Shamed me, his loving wife, by offering his nephew a feast that far outstrips the one for our own nuptials all those years ago. He has done me shame by offering to you what he never gave to me. So you must all assist him by making sure there is no evidence left!” Laughter, more appreciative cheers.
Cangrande draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Someone, assist the groom to his seat at the head of the table. He seems to have found the courage he needs to face his wedding night – if only he can remember what to do!” With an accompanying roar the group broke apart and prepared to move into the feasting hall below.
A hand slapped Pietro’s shoulder. “Nice job of wriggling.”
Pietro didn’t bother to turn. “You’re just jealous, Poco. You couldn’t have done it.” This was said to Jacopo, Pietro’s brother, whose name Pietro had had such trouble with as a boy he’d reversed the sounds, turning it into Poco. As Pietro grew older, the nickname became an appropriate joke. Jacopo was short for his age. He’d also inherited their father’s protruding lower lip, which set his young face in a perpetual pout.
“Who needs Aristotle?” asked Poco.
“Anyone with sense,” came the voice that made them both stiffen. Dante’s fingers clipped his younger son a light flick on the ear. “Pietro, who is your new friend?” Pietro told him. The poet looked surprised and uttered a mysterious, “Interesting.” Before Pietro could say anything, though, Dante said, “Come along, Jacopo. Pietro, I’ll see you downstairs.”
Cowed, Poco trailed closely behind as Dante made for the exit. The bridegroom was being physically carried out the same doors by three friends while a fourth friend plied him with bread and water. Little Mastino and Alberto followed, poking the groom in the ribs to see if they could make him vomit.
Mariotto and Pietro hung back from the crowd of guests wandering out to their various suites to change for the meal. It would be at the least another half hour before they were all seated and able to eat, and the perfect time for Mariotto to approach the young Capuan.
The fellow was staring out the arched palisade at a rider galloping into the courtyard below. The Capuan’s doublet and hose were very fine, but showed a reckless neglect around the elbows and knees. His muscles looked about as slack as a sackful of horsefeed. Hearing footsteps on the marble behind him he turned, face haughty. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He must have thought they were servants.
“Ah, good day,” said Pietro. “I’m, ah, my name is Pietro…”
“He’s Pietro Alaghieri of Florence,” said Mari, making sure to pronounce it correctly. “He’s the son of the great poet Dante. I’m Mariotto Montecchio.”
“Veronese?”
“Just like the best horses, I was born and bred right here.”
After a brief pause the sandy-haired stranger realized he had not reciprocated the introduction. “I’m Antony – Antonio Capecelatro, second son of Ludovico Capecelatro of Capua.”
Mariotto nodded. “We were wondering if you’d care to explore the city with us.”
Antony frowned. “I thought you said you lived here?”
“I do,” said Mariotto.
“Don’t you know it already, then?”
For the first time Mariotto was flustered. “Well, yes – I do. But Alaghieri here is new to Verona. So are you. I thought we might go out after dinner and explore the city together. Maybe we can find some contests or games to take part in.”
“Games?” said Antony, livening up. “Are there games here?”
“All the time, when the Capitano is in residence. Didn’t you hear – he commanded games for tomorrow.”
The Capuan was skeptical. “All princes do that – and they’re always pitiful!”
Mariotto smiled knowingly. “You haven’t seen Cangrande’s games. He held a Corte Bandita three years ago and eight men died. Three more lost an eye apiece.” His own eyes gleamed. “There are cat-battings and bear-baitings. And there’s the Palio every year. That’s known as the toughest race in Italy.”
The Capuan was intrigued. “Inventive, is he?”
“You have no idea,” said Mariotto. “Now, do you want to come with us tonight – or would you rather wait here with the old men and the women?”
Antony clapped Mariotto on the shoulder. “I should throw you over the balcony for that, pipsqueak.”
Eyes beaming, Mariotto said, “Try it! Look, we can find our supper in the city, and perhaps meet some women. Tomorrow there’ll be knife fights and wrestling matches on the bridge – maybe even a goose-pull!”
To a mental list of Mariotto’s attributes, Pietro added fickle. He felt himself being relegated to the role of tagalong. He said, “Maybe we can have a swimming race in the Adige.” Swimming was one Arena Pietro excelled in.
Antonio reached out a hand to grip Pietro’s shoulder. Though not taller than either youth, his bulk and wide peasant hands made him seem gigantic. “I will follow you two to the end of the earth, if it means not another minute of poetry – no offense, Alaghieri.”
“None taken,” said Pietro, moving out of range of Antonio’s grasp and serrupitiously rubbing life back into his arm.
One of the huge falcons let loose a cry. The birds were all still on their perches, waiting for the Master of the Hunt to return them to the aviary. They were fidgety, having been disturbed by the noisy dance.
“Do you want to see my bird?” asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow-hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. “Dilios!” The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master’s voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. “It’s still small enough that I can hold him without protection,” he said, indicating his arm. It bore only one sheath of leather from the light colored farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto’s arm with its pounces. “Here, Dilios. There’s a good boy.”
“Dilios?” said Antonio, puzzled. “What kind of name is that?”
“It’s Greek.” Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.
“The only survivor of Thermopolie,” supplied Pietro.
Antonio look a little embarrassed. He said, “I’m a dunce about literature.” Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.
Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios’ leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out, startled. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in his hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.
Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger’s greyhound, tail stiff, head low.
Something was happening. With a quick look between them the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios’ blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall they watched and listened.
