Nineteen

 

17 June 1327

 

In the weeks that followed the incident with the pot-au-feu, as the locals were calling it (a sick joke, as the words ‘pot of fire’ in French also referred to a beef stew, and quite a bit of meat had been turned to bloody stew that Good Friday), Pietro Alaghieri, Knight of the Mastiff, became the most sought-after guest in Avignon. He dined with princes and prelates, counts and courtiers. He ate off silver and gold plate, partaking of the finest dishes France had to offer, with sauces and spices devised for the most discriminating palates.

The conversation of Dante’s son, it was soon discovered, was learned and reasoned. Destined for the cloister before his brother’s death had elevated him to the role of heir, he spoke of Hell, both poetic and theological, with insight, scripture never far from his fingers. While he spoke highly of his father, he downplayed his own achievements. His humility was tested as he was praised, but his natural reticence kept him from ever singing his own praises, a rare thing in Avignon. And in Avignon, what was rare was valuable. Pietro di Dante became even more sought after. So long as no one was crass enough to mention his religious ill-favour, it was winked at.

This sudden social prominence had the unwelcome effect of renewing Lucia’s interest in him. She was no longer physically affectionate, thank Heaven, but she now insisted on bringing Pietro along to meet her coterie of friends. Pietro was shocked to see how many of these were males, and of the men how many were priests. But then at least half the males in Avignon were under some sort of holy orders – it was joked that the butchers had taken vows, if only to keep their livestock pure. Petrarch himself had told that jape, and Pietro had forced himself to laugh. His host’s strong impious streak reminded Pietro of a different Francesco.

Cesco. Pietro was beginning to have trouble recalling his boy’s face. A face that had surely changed in eighteen months. He wondered if the Emperor had let the boy grow his hair long again, as he preferred. He wondered if the boy was still monkeying over buildings, or if he had grown out of such antics. He wondered if the boy – young man! – was still risking life on a daily basis. He’d heard of the adventures in Trent, of course. After that, each new post from Italy had Pietro holding his breath for news of some terrible accident. Then a letter would arrive in the boy’s own hand, carelessly relating irrelevant news and asking obscure poetic questions that Pietro could barely make out, much less answer. The last letter had seemed like gibberish, until Pietro realized that the boy had encoded it from German, not Italian. Little bastard…

The word bastard led him once more to Pathino and the medallion. Still no answer. And no sign of Tharwat since the business with the pot-au-feu. A clear precaution on the Moor’s part – they’d been seen working together in the most public way, and therefore could not be seen together again. Pietro had in fact been asked about the Moor on several occasions, and could only reply that the helpful dark-skinned heathen had not been there with him. Which was strictly true. Pietro was working very hard not to lie, not to anyone – it was hardly fitting to be trying to return to God’s sight by telling falsehoods. Even in a society filled with them.

But this was the important day. Finally – finally! – Petrarch had convinced his patrons, the powerful Colonna family, to host a reading of Dante’s epic poem. “You have a powerful advocate – I mean, beside myself! Young Giacomo has been hounding his uncle on your behalf lo these many months. He remembers you fondly from Bologna and your newfound glory has given him the opportunity he lacked! Now all that remains is to choose what passage you will read.”

“You have one in mind,” observed Pietro.

“Indeed. The tale of Francesca da Rimini.”

Pietro groaned. Doubtless Petrarch hoped his Laura would be present and swoon for the tale of thwarted love. “I thought you hadn’t read L’Inferno.”

“I haven’t. But one would have to be living in Plato’s cave not to have heard that particular passage. It’s perfect!”

Perfect for Petrarch, perhaps. But Pietro regretfully declined the request. He had uncomfortable associations with that canto – Mariotto and Gianozza had used it to justify their breaking of faith with Antony. What no one ever seemed to realize was that God had put Francesca in Hell. Her deed was not romantic, but damnable.

Pietro settled instead upon one of his favourite passages, a diatribe his father had penned the night of Pietro’s duel in the Arena, all about the internal strife tearing Italy apart. Another reminder of the split between Antony and Mari, it was also the one moment in all his life that Pietro had inspired his father’s words, creating his own little corner of the canticle. Religiously unobjectionable, it was sure to please the French guests, and make the Italians nod ruefully.

As his taste for fancy hats had died long ago, Pietro declined to borrow clothes from Petrarch. Instead he dressed in a lawyer’s gonella, as was his right, being Verona’s legal representative in Avignon. The gown was not as comfortable or fashionable as a farsetto, and Pietro recalled his own disdain for his father’s fuddy-duddy taste in clothes as he donned it. I must be getting old. He was thirty this year.

Together with Petrarch and Gherardo, mincing in their fantastical and torturously ill-fitting boots, Pietro made his way through Avignon towards the Palais des Papes. Their destination was situated just across from that impressive, ever-growing edifice. A three-story fortress of brick crowned with a tower rising a further four stories, the palace of Cardinal Giovanni ‘Sciarrillo’ Colonna was the center of intellectual life in Avignon.

It was also well fortified. The Colonna family knew something about reversals. The previous generation had been men of high standing with Pope Clement, but after his imprisonment by Pope Boniface, they had been not only defrocked but excommunicated, their property seized and their castles attacked. They had responded by making war on Boniface, attempting to abduct him and take him to France. His death had ended the feud, and the Colonna were once again on the rise within the Church. But the outfitting of their new palace bespoke a commendable caution. One never knew what the future might bring.

It was a mark of Pietro’s past life that as he studied the façade he scanned for handholds, wondering if Cesco could climb to the oddly angled roof at the top. Smiling, he entered and climbed the stairs to the salon.

Seeing the stunningly august assembly facing him, Pietro was instantly transported back in time thirteen years to his first encounter with Cangrande’s court. Just as then, there were knots of men seated or standing, arguing politics, religion, literature. His father was not present, nor Cangrande, nor Mari and Antony. But the feel was the same. The only major difference was that nearly everyone wore the robes of an ecclesiastic.

And just as Mariotto had been his guide long ago, today he had Petrarch tugging him by the elbow. “Over here. Pietro, may I present our hosts, Stefano and Sciarrillo Colonna. My lords Colonna, Ser Pietro Alaghieri.”

“The hero of the hour!” Sciarrillo was the more notorious of the two, famous for his temper and his daring. A quarter of a century ago he’d slapped a pope right in the face. He was of medium height, with angry eyes, hollow cheeks, and a marvelous moustache that was so full that it seemed a thing unto itself, swooping across his lip like an artist’s fancy. “Well met, ser, well met. I admire your patron. We Ghibellines must stand together.” An odd statement coming from a cardinal, considering that the original Guelph-Ghibelline strife arose from the struggle between pope and emperor. But over the years it came down more to the politics of Italian cities. Besides, Sciarrillo was a man who knew well the occasional need to oppose the Holy See.

Sciarrillo’s elder brother bowed his head. “An honour.” Count of Romagna, several times the Senator of Rome and Imperial Vicar of Italy, Stefano Colonna was sixty-two years old, the same age Pietro’s father would have been. Recently arrived from Rome, he was reputed to be a throwback to the ancient days of that city, a true patrician gentleman. Indeed, he and his brother claimed to be able to trace their lineage all the way back to the Julio-Claudian emperors of ancient Rome. Clearly he was a gracious host who put a high price on civility, and also upon honesty, as his next words proved. “We regret not welcoming you before now. Rest assured, your many petitions have not gone unnoticed, nor your patience. My brother and I have the utmost sympathy for your situation. Our father felt his excommunication keenly, and we have not forgotten.”

Startled by this frank statement, Pietro found himself bowing even more deeply, his right leg extended, his left bent, hands wide. “Alas my lord, my father was the one with the skill for words. Your kindness in accepting me at all is a gift, an honour, and a privilege. I treasure your invitation, and am moved by it.”

Stefano nodded, pleased. “Though I am a mere guest here, just as you are, I am certain my brother would henceforth welcome you at any time. I do beg your forgiveness if any soul here is less understanding of your presence. We have many guests, and not all of them are as civilized as one might wish.”

Duly warned, Pietro allowed himself to make the rounds of introductions. The first was a familiar face – young Giacomo Colonna, son of Stefano, whom Pietro had met in passing in Bologna. As grave as his father, but somewhat less intelligent, he was a good friend to Petrarch and was able to pass several words with Pietro about their common acquaintances at University. There was another son, Stefano’s heir, but he was still in Italy.

“What brings your father to Avignon?” asked Pietro.

It was a casual question, but Giacomo became instantly guarded. “Family matters. Nothing important.”

“Ah.” There was something in that, but it was none of Pietro’s affair.

The next guest Petrarch introduced was the gregarious Cardinal Napoleone Orsini. His family were longtime foes of the Colonna, but evidently Stefano’s nobility had been able to reconcile this sixty-four year old cardinal to French society. As bear-like as his second name, with a grizzled mane of his first, Pietro knew of Orsini from letters written a decade earlier when Mariotto had been exiled to Avignon and taken service with this holy man. Once a serious contender for the Papacy, Orsini had been a cardinal for thirty-nine years and voted in conclaves for five different pontiffs. He himself had placed the tiara upon this latest pope who’d proved such a lawyer in his oaths.

The intervening years had not been particularly kind to Cardinal Orsini. Blighted by the Holy Father’s refusal to restore the papacy to Rome, he’d spent the last few with his head basically in the sand, penning a few biographies of saints.

Yet he was cheerful as Pietro mentioned Mariotto’s name, recalling as everyone did the lovesick young man denied his wedding night with his stolen bride. “He was the perfect lover, always in a state of agony. Thank Heaven he did not choose the holy order. Such passion, transferred to Almighty God above, would have outshone us poor old men as the sun does a candle!”

Another man who caught Pietro’s attention was Cardinal Luca Fieschi. Not only was he an Italian, he was related to both Pope Adrian V and the infamous Pope Innocent IV, who a hundred years before had declared the whole world under papal dominion and hounded Emperor Frederick II to his grave. In many ways Innocent was to blame for all the modern strife – and for Pietro’s troubles, having reaffirmed the concept of excommunication.

But Pietro found Cardinal Fieschi a charming man – perhaps too charming, and certainly full of his own pedigree. Not content with just his famous papal ancestors, he also let slip that he was related to the kings of England through Edward I’s mother. He seemed quite determined to awe Pietro with his importance and august lineage. Pietro made a show of being impressed, then quickly moved on.

He was slowly introduced around the whole room, and spent an hour in pleasant conversation with many different men. Despite Lord Stefano’s warning, no one was the least bit rude. Praise was heaped upon him for his Christian bravery, for his piety, his dignity, his father, and his devotion to duty. As Sciarrillo put it, “Imagine accepting public disfavour in order to raise your master’s heir in secret! You must be a poet’s son! It’s so - Romantic!”

More men were arriving, and Pietro quickly lost track of the names in a sea of introductions. There were women, too, wives and daughters of the laymen, as well as sisters, cousins, and nieces (or natural daughters called nieces) of the ecclesiastics. But as Stefano was a stickler for propriety, the men and women did not mingle, with the Eves removed to a different salon from the Adams.

Petrarch crept close, interrupting Pietro’s conversation with a pair of prelates with a fidgety whisper. “She’s here.”

“Who?”

“Laura! I must go to her.” He slipped away, leaving a flummoxed Pietro to wade through the sea of crimson with only Gherardo as his guide.

Pietro pulled a face. “Is she really here? Or is this an excuse to pose before the women?” Gherardo could only shrug. He hadn’t seen her either, and his brother was absolutely refusing to share her full name.

It was close to the hour appointed for Pietro to read when he felt a chill enter the room. It was indeed as if a physical frost had crept in, for that’s how cool the whole assemblage became, as if an icy wind had blown into the chamber to take the bloom from the entertainment.

A new arrival was bowing to the hosts in a perfect display of guestly homage. Dressed in cardinal’s robes, he was at least seventy years old, thin but unbowed by age. He spoke to Stefano, and the noble Colonna seemed non-plussed by the man’s appearance. He sent a wary glance in Pietro’s direction. With the air of a man resigned, he led the newcomer directly to where Pietro stood sipping hazelnut water and eating cruste rolle.

Seen up close, the man owned the most chilling grey eyes Pietro had ever seen. He radiated a polite hostility as he waited for Stefano to speak his name, though by now Pietro knew who had to be.

“Ser Alaghieri, allow me to introduce his Excellency, Cardinal Bernardo Guidoni.”

“An honour and a privilege.” It was a slow chill that crept shudderingly up Pietro’s spine as he bowed before the cardinal’s fixed smile. This was no longer a friendly gathering. Perhaps the Colonna brothers had intended it as such, but the advent of Bernardo Gui made this an informal hearing, far more dangerous than any courtroom. Here he could not call upon a lawyer to defend him, and any chance remark could be used in some future event to damn him.

Not that his lawyer was here. Trust Petrarch to abandon him in his moment of greatest need! Out of the corner of his eye, Pietro saw Gherardo scamper off to drag his brother away from his inane lovesick mooning. Yet there was nothing for it but to put on a brave face and pray not to end the day in a papal prison. He was sure his would be far less comfortable than the one Occam and Bonagratia enjoyed.

Cardinal Gui was smiling, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “Our host has been requesting my presence for supper for weeks, and I understood it was to meet his protégé, young François. Who, as I hear, has taken up the role of advocate for the son of the infernal poet. When I heard of this gathering, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to accept.”

“You honour me far more than I deserve,” said Pietro, desperately glad he had eschewed wine today. “I have long wanted to meet you.”

“Have you? Then this day is a blessing for us both. I understand that you are reading today. I must confess, I’ve longed to hear your father’s words spoken by one so intimately associated with them. May I be so bold as to request a canto?”

Surprised to hear Gui knew his father’s works well enough to request a passage, Pietro was certain this was a trap. But there was no way but forward. “Of course, your Excellency.”

“I would like to hear the fifth canto of your father’s work called Paradiso.”

The chill turned to sweat on Pietro’s neck. The fifth canto. The Moon and Mercury. Damn. “I’m afraid I don’t have a copy with me.”

“I do.” Gui produced one from his robes. “I’ve marked the page.”

“Thank you.” Pietro received the book as if it were poisoned. “I would be honoured to oblige – if our hosts have no objection?” Please object! Please!

Beneath his patrician reserve, Stefano Colonna was fuming. And his brother looked just as angry. Gui had placed them in the position of being ungracious hosts. But they did not, could not, know the dangers that lay in that canto, and therefore had no grounds to prevent the request. “I am sure that any lines from your father’s masterpiece will be a welcome diversion—”

“And educational,” said Gui.

“— but I’d actually hoped for a little personal satisfaction. I was going to request canto twenty-seven from L’Inferno.”

Pietro could have kicked himself. He had entirely forgotten the damnation of Guido da Montefelto, suffering all the torments of Hell for his advice to betray the Colonna family! It was the obvious choice. “I had planned, actually, on a canto from Purgatorio.”

“Why not all three, then?” asked Bernardo Gui with complaisance. “Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. A trinity. Three is perfect in all things – even poetry.”

A copy of L’Inferno was found. The lack of open hostilities had caused the room to relax, if infinitesimally. With the pervading silence and the leather-bound books in hand, there was no way to delay. Pietro took his place before them, opening L’Inferno to the twenty-seventh canto as his hosts made the introduction. No one dared applaud until Gui began lightly patting his hands together.

Stomach in knots, Pietro made a few remarks, setting the stage for the canto he was about to read. His father had traveled deep into the bowels of Hell, reaching the eighth bolgia, where men suffer all in flame, looking like walking candles. “As Virgil tells my father, ‘These spirits stand within the flames. Each one is wrapped in that in which he burns.’” Pietro quickly related his father’s encounter with Ulysses and Diomedes, burning together in a single fire for their stratagem with the Trojan Horse, and for tricking Achilles into joining that war. Then Pietro began to read.

The passage began with Ulysses and Diomedes moving off, and another walking flame coming close, and speaking Dante’s native accent of Lombardy. This was a recent arrival in Hell, and though the poem did not name him outright, every reader knew by the description of his deeds that this was Guido of Montefeltro.

 

“While I still kept the form in flesh and bones

my mother gave me, my deeds were not

a lion’s but the actions of a fox.

 

“Cunning stratagems and covert schemes,

I knew them all, and was so skilled in them

my fame rang out to the far confines of the Earth.”

 

Defeated, Guido had taken the monastic life until he was called from retirement by Pope Boniface, who was then besieging his enemies. The poem did not mention those enemies by name, but all present knew they were the Colonna – Stefano, Sciarrillo, and their father and uncle. The Colonna family had been much attached to the previous pope, whom Boniface had forced to abdicate under dark circumstances.

Calling Pope Boniface the ‘Prince of the latter-day Pharisees,’ Guido related how that evil Pope had asked his advice on how to take the Colonna stronghold, Praeneste. Absolved in advance of all his sins, Guido gave simple advice: ‘Promising much with scant observance will seal your triumph to the lofty throne.’

Pietro heard his audience hiss as he read those lines. This indeed had been Montefeltro’s advice, and Boniface had dutifully promised the Colonna family a pardon if they surrendered. Believing his lies, they’d agreed, only to have their stronghold demolished, their lives threatened, and their very souls placed in peril. This had led to their attempt to kidnap the Pope himself, when Sciarrillo had slapped the pontifex maximus in the face. That night had eventually led to the pope’s death, which in turn led to the removal of the papacy to Avignon. So much strife due to one piece of fraudulent advice.

As Dante had written it, the dead Guido had started his ascent to Heaven when a devil had arrived to claim him:

 

…”No, wrong me not by bearing that one off.

 

“He must come down to serve among my minions

because he gave that fraudulent advice.

From them till now I’ve dogged his footsteps.

 

“One may not be absolved without repentance,

nor repent and wish to sin concurrently –

a simple contradiction not allowed.”

 

The fiendish cherub then gleefully added, ‘Perhaps you didn’t reckon I’d be versed in logic!’ The weeping flame departed, and Dante moved on to the next level of Hell as Pietro finished the canto.

Now the applause was not strained or reserved, though Pietro suspected it was more for the damnation of the hosts’ enemy than for his reading. Pietro noticed Petrarch sidling into the room. He didn’t know why, but he was relieved. Perhaps he just needed a friendly face.

Then Pietro’s heart leapt up into his throat as Cardinal Gui spoke. “‘One may not be absolved without repentance, nor repent and wish to sin concurrently.’ An excellent observation. I must make a note of it.”

Again the room released a silently held breath, and conversation began to flow. Pietro answered a few poetic questions, saying that yes, his father had once praised Guido of Montefeltro, but that was before his false advice had become publicly known. Then the two Colonna brothers began relating the siege, and Pietro stepped back to sip his hazelnut water, hoping their story would last until nightfall.

But the tale was finished in just ten minutes, and Gui had another question ready the moment it was done. “Is it true, Ser Alaghieri, that your father based the plan for Hell upon Verona?”

Stepping back to the podium, Pietro forced a weak smile. “Upon the Roman Arena there, yes. He imagined the ancient days of gladiators and lions chasing good Christians, and saw in the blood-stained earth a river of blood. As the seats form rings around the center, his plan grew from there.”

“Ah! Clearly Verona is a Hellish place. Are there nine rings?”

“No. He chose nine rings of Hell to mirror the nine heavens, nine being three threes. And three books for the Commedia, a trinity of his own redemption.”

Gui was not to be diverted. “Are there still lions in the Arena?”

“Lions on occasion, but no Christian sacrifices.”

“I’m gratified to hear it. I feared your master, being out the sight of God, might make free of the ways of old Verona.”

“On the contrary, your Excellency, Cangrande’s father burned Paterene heretics in the Arena.”

“The son is not the father. If the sins of the father do not damn the son, then neither can the good deeds of the father absolve the son. But back to this magnificent and most just poem – there was a reference I must confess I did not recognize. The simile about the Sicilian bull..?”

The answer that leapt to Pietro’s lips was simple history, nothing dangerous there. “It comes from the histories of Orosius and Valerius Maximus, as well as Ovid. An ancient tyrant had an artisan craft him a brass bull in which he could roast his enemies alive. The moment it was finished, the tyrant ordered that the craftsman be the first victim, to test his creation. My father called that justice, as did Ovid. ‘There is no law more just than that the craftsman of death should die by his own handicraft.’”

Even as he said it, Pietro feared he had gone too far. Could he be perceived as challenging the Grand Inquisitor who had sent so many heretics to death?

Gui’s frown was strong as he spoke. “If there is any objection to be raised to this work, and indeed all of modern secular literature, it is that – far too much reliance and reference to the works of the ancients. If I had my way, all pagan writing done before the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ would be burned and erased from all history.”

Pietro chose not to rise to that extraordinary bait. It was Petrarch who objected. “Cardinal Gui, surely you don’t claim that there were no good men before Christ. Was it their fault that they had not yet received the gift of grace? Must we erase them only because they lived in a time before our Lord had come to save them?”

“You mistake me, young man. I do not object to the ancients because they are pagan. As you say, they could hardly help their sorry state. No, I worry because their words are too beautiful, too uplifting, too stirring to the heart.”

“How is that a flaw?” Petrarch was not the only one curious as to Gui’s reasoning.

The cardinal opened his hands in utter helplessness. “It makes us love this life too much. They had no notion of Heaven, as we have, so they quite naturally focused on their present, their temporal selves, their animal needs. We know better. If a man spends his days thinking of life here on Earth, then by process of exclusion he is not thinking of his salvation in the life to come.”

Suddenly Pietro wanted nothing more than to hear a theological debate between William of Occam and Cardinal Gui. Though he rather imagined that Gui would use his position of inquisitor to back up his arguments if he found himself out-reasoned.

Amused by his imagination, Pietro almost missed Gui’s next lance. “Now we come to the heart of the question. Ser Alaghieri – what is fraudulent advice, precisely? Does your father mean advice to commit fraud? Or advice falsely given? What is it the damnable Guido is damned for?”

Pietro’s best answer was the truth. “I’m afraid I cannot say. I never asked my father to explain that passage. My apologies.”

“Alas!” cried Gui. “But I confess I was merely curious. Both are worthy of damnation. I applaud your father’s perspicacity. Though not his choice of tongues. Writing in the vulgare! Tell me, did your father ever advocate a translation of Holy Scripture into the vulgar tongue?”

“He believed it should be translated into every tongue, the better to reach those who have not yet heard the miracle of Christ.”

Expecting a rebuke or a debate, Gui merely nodded. “A noble wish. Shall we move on?”

Obediently Pietro opened his own book and read aloud canto six of Purgatorio, which was not overtly contentious, as it excoriated Italy for internal feuds. But there was one verse that made Pietro wince inwardly as he read it:

 

Ah, you who should be firm in your devotion

and let Caesar occupy the saddle,

if you but heeded what God writes for you.

 

see how vicious is the beast not goaded

and corrected by the spurs,

ever since you took the bridle in your hands.

 

This could have been dangerous, as Dante was telling the clergy to stop meddling and let Caesar run things in Italy, meaning the Emperor. But when the canto was finished and other men were talking of this family faction or that, Gui let this pass by without comment.

Perhaps he’s just waiting for riper fruit. Well, time to offer it up.

Pietro reached for Paradiso, and his own damnation.