Three

 

Avignon, France

11 April 1326

 

        

The cold body lay on the marble altar as none other than Cardinal Orsini performed the funerary rites.

“Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine; In memoria æterna erit justus, ab auditione mala non timebit.”

The church was not as crowded as it might have been. But most of those present mourned honestly enough, appreciative of the august personage delivering the final mass. Unlike a peasant death peopled with the unwashed and unlettered, this funeral mass was attended of men who knew Latin as well as their own tongues, and the mental translation was instantaneous: ‘Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. He shall be justified in everlasting memory, and shall not fear evil reports.’

That last was doubtful, for he’d lived a life of devoted, if single-minded, honesty. Such men were never without their detractors.

“Absolve, Domine…” continued the Latin drone. “Forgive, O Lord, the soul of your faithful departed servant, Pietro, from all the chains of his sins and may he deserve to avoid the judgment of revenge by your fostering grace, and enjoy the everlasting blessedness of light.”

The literati, in honour of father and son alike, were here in force. Most were clerks and men in minor orders – Avignon was an industry town, and that industry was religion. Hardly a man of birth and ambition escaped it as a calling. Yet there were many who read things other than religious documents. Foremost of these was poetry. This was France.

“Day of wrath, a day that the world will dissolve in ashes, as foretold by David and the Sibyl…” The cardinal’s voice became more animated, almost eager. The end of the world was, to him, a glorious prospect these days. He seemed to envy the corpse, so peaceful under his shroud.

Wind stirred, plucking at the gauze shroud that lay over the body on the altar. Father and son had looked much alike in life, and the corpse showed still the echoes of kinship – the nose, the lips, the high forehead. Comely, stately, grave. Well, that was fitting.

“Lord Jesus Christ, King of glory, free the souls of all the faithful departed from infernal punishment and the deep pit. Free them from the mouth of the lion; do not let Tartarus swallow them, nor let them fall into darkness; but may the sign-bearer, Saint Michael, lead them into the holy light which you promised to Abraham and his seed…”

Listening from the steps outside, Pietro Alaghieri bent his head in prayer. Barred from entering, he was still devout. Indeed, his excommunication had only proven how devout he was, and how obedient. He obeyed every injunction, suffered every slight, and still rose barefoot to pray in the middle of the night. He had not known how precious was his faith until it was denied him.

A light misting of rain fell. The wind that blew the drizzle sideways into his eyes was by now familiar. It was the Mistral, blowing off the Alp-fed Rhône and chilling everyone who dared to brave it. Pietro had heard that it never truly disappeared, not even in summer. He prayed he wouldn’t be here long enough to find out.

Pietro tightened his cloak, a voluminous piece of clothing with a heavy hood to hide as well as protect his face. If apprehended here, it would damage his suit.

Fortunately there was little danger. All around him men hid their faces, though not for concealment. The Mistral carried a foul smell, a miasma of feculent odor coming from the Palais des Papes down the road.

It was rumoured that the papal palace itself had the most modern of facilities, a whole tower whose lower two floors were made entirely of latrines. The stone seats emptied into a pit that was flushed into the river by a diverted underground stream. It had been designed so the palace was upwind of the pit.

Unfortunately the same could not be said for the city. It was horrible to think he’d been here long enough to get used to the smell. For four months Pietro had resided in the meanest hovel, the only place that would open its doors to him, while he petitioned the powerful Colonna family, papal gate-keepers, to give him an audience. Despite having known the son of the great Stefano Colonna from law school in Bologna, Pietro had found himself politely but firmly rebuffed. As yet he didn’t know if it was for himself, his father, or the man he represented.

The funeral over, the mourners began to rise. Pietro left his place by the church doors, walking swiftly across the street. There were a good number of papal guards emerging from the basilica. Or rather, mercenaries kept in the Pope’s employ. They were obviously not here to honour the dead but to herd the living – two men were in their midst, looking around them as if they had not seen the open air in a great while. They were not restrained, but the implication was clear. These men were not free to go where they pleased.

Well-dressed elderly men emerged, mostly clergy. It made sense, as the deceased had been a papal clerk. Hearing the eulogy, Pietro had felt a little strange. The man bore his name, and this could easily have been his life. It was the vocation Pietro had been destined for, until illness had claimed the life of his elder brother and thrust him into the uncomfortable role of heir to his poetical father. There had followed knighthood and the Law – and the wonderful, terrifying boy he’d fostered as his own. When Pietro prayed, it was mostly for Cesco.

Cardinal Orsini swept from the basilica with a brisk step, his practical manner bespeaking more important duties. Next came Cardinal Sciarrillo Colonna, with whom Pietro had been desperately trying to get an appointment. A more crass man might have seized this chance to plead his case. Pietro remained where he was.

In Colonna’s wake came the chief mourners, family of the deceased. First through the doors was the one Pietro knew least, the late man’s daughter Lucia. She was a vision, all bedecked in ribbons and frills. The white of mourning couldn’t disguise her voluptuous figure. Nor did she want it to.

She came on the arm of her younger brother, who was well fleshed and dressed in the latest French style. Pietro recalled his own flights of sartorial fancy at that age, a habit his father had deplored and discouraged. Perhaps Gherardo would outgrow it as well. But it would take time – a long time, if his elder brother was any example.

And here he came, the son and heir. He had gone the distance in his attire. Instead of a rented or borrowed white robe, he sported a finely tailored white doublet of the most modern style, with matching hose and hat. Only his curled shoes were black, but to offset the effect on the eye his hat bore a black feather, and his outer cape was of the darkest black as well. It was as if he had stepped from a chessboard into society.

Indeed, Francesco Petrarca practically glowed as he left his father behind forever. It was as if the death of Ser Pietro Petracco had released a brake, and both sons now resembled a pair of runaway carts, associating with a racy crowd of thinkers, poets, and philosophers that their stern and serious father had always condemned. It had been a tempestuous relationship, Petracco utterly unable to comprehend his son, and vice versa. He’d even burned his son’s books to discourage reading poetry.

Petracco, Petrarca, Petrarch. Names were malleable, as Pietro Alaghieri well knew. His own family name had suffered every variation under his father’s pen, marching in step with each change of fortune. Even his father’s Christian name of Durante had been shortened, and at the end of his life the poet’s signature had read Dantes Alaghieri.

A few years ago Pietro had been obliged to sign Alighieri to a legal document while executing his father’s will in Florence. But Alighieri was the Florentine spelling, and while ever Pietro lived in exile from that city he would follow his father’s example and eschew their customs. Instead he used a much older version of the name, one that stemmed from their ancestor Alaghiero.

Petrarch had done something similar, though for the reverse reason. Rather than honour his late father, the twenty-one year old had wanted to distinguish himself as something other than a loyal son. As early as ten years before, the son had begun using a different name to distinguish himself from everything his father held dear.

Lost in thoughts of names and fathers, Pietro didn’t realize he was staring until Petrarch met his gaze. Quickly Pietro ducked his head, but too late, the other man was already crossing the damp and slippery street, hand outstretched. “Hell-boy! Hell-boy, is that you? This is a delightful surprise!”

Pietro winced even as he laughed. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But I simply cannot resist!” cried Petrarch, no evidence of mourning in his delighted mien as he clasped Pietro warmly by the arm. “Especially when it makes you turn red enough to justify the title! But perhaps I should try something more formal for the Knight of Hell. Ser Alaghieri, the ignoble Hellequin. Or should it be Rubicante, for the crimson cheeks?”

Petrarch was amusing himself by playing off a famous passage from the great epic written by Pietro’s father. Pietro said, “I thought you hadn’t read it.”

“I’m resisting, it’s true. But one can’t escape the juicier bits. People feel the need to retell, recite, regurgitate it until one must clap hands over one’s ears and sing la-la-la! And still some of it sinks in! In fact, there is a better title for you. Since you serve the Greyhound, shall I call you Cagnazzo, the low hound?”

Cagnazzo was the name of one of ten demons tricked by a mortal. Pietro’s retort invoked another. “If you do, I’ll call you Alichino in return.”

He meant it as ‘the allurer.’ But Alichino also meant ‘droop-winged,’ and Pietro regretted the phrase the moment it passed the hedge of his teeth. Francesco Petrarca was a comely young man, handsome in every respect save two – his eyes, and his chin. Not that there was anything wrong with the orbs themselves. Neither milky nor crossed, they were a perfect if watery blue. But the skin under them bagged and sagged heavily, endowing him with a permanently imploring look, rather like those dogs that have too much skin for their faces. The problem with Petrarch’s chin was simpler – he didn’t have one. His mouth seemed to run straight down to his neck.

The reference to drooping anything brought Petrarch’s mind straight around to his eyes, and at once he tensed his cheeks as if to tighten his skin. Pietro hurriedly added, “I came to pay my respects, as best as I can.”

“I wish I’d known, I would have insisted you come in. O, the scandal!”

Pietro ignored this. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“I’m not,” said Petrarch simply. He’d penned an ode to his mother when she had died six years before. Pietro remembered reading it and thinking it was very good. But there was clearly not going to be a companion piece eulogizing his father.

Petrarch’s face lit with a sudden idea. “Come home with us to Carpentras! William and Bonagratia have been given leave to join our midday meal while they prepare the vault for the final interment. They’ll be glad of the company – as will I!”

“Francesco…” began Pietro in a half-hearted protest.

“Petrarch,” corrected the twenty-two year old. “You have enough Francescos in your life.”

I know which I would be rid of. Yet Pietro was grateful for the invitation. Four months of almost absolute solitude had worn on him more than he would have dreamed. So he allowed himself to be guided over to the men under the papal guard.

Ignoring the mercenaries, Petrarch presented Pietro to his guests. “Ser Alaghieri, allow me to introduce William of Occam and Bonagratia of Bergamo. Gentlemen, this is Pietro Alaghieri, knight of Verona, student of law, and woeful excommunicant.”

Occam cocked his head. “Really? You must tell us how you have fared.”

“Yes,” agreed Bonagratia wryly. “Since we are surely soon to join you outside of God’s grace.”

Pietro had heard of them, of course. It would be difficult to find two more famous friars. Both were members of the Frati Minori, known as the Franciscans for their adherence to San Francesco’s beliefs. Thrown together by circumstance, both had been papal ‘guests’ in Avignon for nearly two years, awaiting trials for very different offences – trials that seemed destined to never occur. Too dangerous to condemn, too dangerous to release, permanent detention was the Pope’s solution, stifling the dangerous challenge they posed without making martyrs of them.

Petrarch’s introductions reached his family. “You remember my sister Lucia. And this, of course, is my brother Gherardo.”

“Well met!” said Gherardo, clasping Pietro’s hand. They had all known each other at university. “Come, shall we go? Dinner is waiting.”

“Ser Alaghieri,” said Lucia, sidling up against him, “will you give me your arm? The streets are so treacherous.” She tucked her arm in his, pulling his bicep close to her ribs.

Feeling the bodice holding her bosom in place, Pietro tried not to flush. “Of course. An honour.” He caught a dark look in Petrarch’s eye, but the glower was not aimed at him.

Fighting the wind through the streets, Petrarch ranged himself at Pietro’s right side. “You’ve come from Verona, yes? Have you seen Mariotto? Is he still besotted?”

Their mutual friend Mariotto Montecchio had spent two years in Avignon attending the Pope to curry favour for the Scaliger, and during that time young Petrarch had befriended him. In answer to the question, Pietro nodded. “They have a son called Romeo.”

“And the rivalry?”

“Simmering, but not boiling. They don’t like each other, but there’s not much call for them to meet outside of the city council.”

“Good. Mari often bemoaned that whole business – though he didn’t regret it.”

Gherardo shook his head. “Fancy stealing your best mate’s girl. Why lose a friend for une femme? Where’s the sense in it?”

“It sounds romantic to me,” observed Lucia, pulling so tightly on Pietro’s arm he almost stumbled. Fortunately they were walking very slowly. Though Pietro owned an old wound just above his right knee that occasionally hindered him, it was not Pietro but Petrarch who held them back with a ginger gait. At first Pietro thought his friend was limping, then realized that the long curling shoes were impeding his friend’s progress.

Apparently Occam had noticed as well. “Why not buy proper shoes?”

“I am a living example of form over substance,” replied Petrarch lightly. “It is better to look good than to feel good.”

“Impractical, idiotic, and impertinent,” said Occam with a shake of his head.

“You should be a Bishop,” laughed Bonagratia.

“That would make his father proud,” said Occam.

“Meaning I utterly refuse,” said Petrarch, mincing along.

The six of them had to squeeze into the carriage, with the mercenary guards mounting horses to ride alongside. For most of the ride out of the city Lucia prattled on and on, dominating Pietro’s attention. She asked questions that she never allowed him to answer, flitting from one topic to the next like a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. Twice she touched on the subject of Pietro’s wealth, remarking that as the heir to the most famous poet in the world and also a knight with a fine stipend from his lord, he must be quite rich.

Pietro demurred. Money was an uncomfortable topic. He was indeed becoming rather affluent – bankers were the only men who never seemed to notice his excommunicant status. And lately he’d been spending lavishly, with fresh bedding each day and plenty of light around him at all time. After a month in a dark, dank Venetian cell, he was fond of the comforts of life. But he never forgot the impoverished days of his youth, nor how swiftly his father’s fortune had been confiscated after the exile from Florence. Thankfully, Lucia wasn’t quite gauche enough to ask him his worth outright.

Casting about for something to discuss, Pietro decided to harass Petrarch. “Tell me again, why won’t you read the Commedia?”

“For fear of its influence. I intend to be the greatest writer of my age, as your father was for his. But I want to do something new! Find something that has never been done before!”

“Good luck in that,” said Occam, seated opposite them. “The Lord God created all there is in the first week of creation. Therefore, logically, there is nothing new under the sun.”

“Or what is new is the work of the Devil,” added Bonagratia.

Occam shook his head. “There is no creation without God. Lucifer is out of God’s view, no longer connected to the divine. Ergo, the Devil cannot create. He can only twist what exists to his purposes.”

Little more than an hour later they reached the hamlet of Carpentras and the small but well-appointed house that had belonged to Petrarch’s father. Their mercenary escort took up a post beside the doors as the guests were ushered in by a single servant.

Bonagratia turned to one of his guards. “Wouldn’t you rather be within doors? It would be more comfortable.” The man declined, but the friar persisted. “Shall I have them send some food out?”

“Thank you kindly,” said the soldier, trying to keep back his grin. Clearly the mercenaries thought well of their two prisoners.

Following the troupe up the stairs to the living spaces higher in the house, Pietro was unavoidably reminded of his childhood home – the austere, cramped tower, his mother’s fierce domination of the servants, his father’s absence. So long ago.

Lucia tugged on Pietro’s arm. “A real knight! You must sit with me. Such a pleasure. Avignon is stuffed with clerks and clerics. You’re not married, are you, Ser Alaghieri?”

“Ahh – no, no I’m not.”

“Pity,” said Lucia with the ghost of a wink. “I hear married men make the best—”

“Lucia!” Petrarch’s voice was the crack of a whip. “Why not go check the kitchen, make sure supper will be ready.”

Rebellion simmered in Lucia’s eyes. But she left the room, moving with an uncanny gait that brought attention to her hips.

The five men sat down to table, Petrarch at the head, Pietro on his right, with Gherardo on Pietro’s other side. Both Occam and Bonagratia threw back their cowls, showing carefully tended tonsures – though in Occam’s case there wasn’t much tending needed.

Bonagratia was the taller of the pair, and since most of that height was in his torso he towered over his neighbour at table. Though probably closer to fifty than forty, his genial eyes were those of a youth.

The dominating presence was Occam. It wasn’t for looks – his wide hooked nose was far too large for his face, while his chin tapered to an almost comical point and his ears were pointed at the lobes. Taken together, his whole face seemed to point down. His mouth was incongruously small, and when he spoke it hardly opened at all, creating the illusion of a mask with intelligent and fiery eyes peering out from beneath.

Prayers said, Pietro settled in at the table with ease and pleasure, once again in the company of brilliant men. Evidently Bonagratia felt a similar relief. “O, this is pleasant. Despite the sad occasion, it is a treat to be eating different food, seeing different faces.”

“So what news in the world, Ser Alaghieri?” Before Pietro could respond, Petrarch turned to the two friars. “Pietro is the most well-informed man I’ve ever met. Always up to the moment on the happenings of foreign courts and sub rosa dealings. It made him the treasure of Bologna.”

Bonagratia tore a hunk of bread. “Is that how you know each other? From university?”

“We go back much further than that. Ser Alaghieri the heretic and I lead parallel lives. Both sons of Florentine exiles, both students of law. Both have lost our fathers. But mine is a far happier lot. Pietro is my shadow-self.”

Pietro’s answer was a little more helpful. “Our fathers knew each other. Both were members of Florence’s Bianchi faction, and were exiled for it. When the Bianchi were gathering troops to raid the city, my father advocated diplomacy instead of violence. Ser Petracco joined him. They were ignored, and when the battle turned into a disastrous rout, they were blamed.”

Occam’s eyes narrowed. “What was the rationale for such a claim?”

Gherardo answered, sounding rightfully bitter. “They were accused of sabotaging the enterprise. Of dulling the spirits of the men before the battle, of not supporting the soldiers.”

“I imagine the souls of the soldiers look more kindly on them than upon the men who sent them to their deaths,” observed Bonagratia.

“Well they’re all united now, and I wish them joy of each other’s company.” Petrarch’s tone was a little too jovial for Pietro’s taste. He did not consider the loss of his own father a boon. But he did not say so, allowing Petrarch to continue the narrative. “Unlike Dante, my father was offered the chance to return. He could either pay a fine the size of his whole fortune, or cut off his right hand. He chose exile.”

Pietro chuckled. “Florence. My father was offered amnesty, if he paid a fine and walked naked on his knees through the city carrying a candle.”

“I can’t imagine why he refused. So both our fathers were stripped of status and wealth. Dante went first to – where?”

“Verona,” said Pietro. “Then Bologna for a time. Then Paris, Lucca, back to Verona, and finally Ravenna.”

“Meanwhile my father went to Arezzo, then Pisa, then finally in 1310 he came to Avignon and set up as a holy scribe.” Petrarch shivered. “He meant the same fate for me and Gherardo. Ecclesiastic lawyers. Brr!”

“What would you rather be?” asked Occam. “A poet?”

“Actually, yes. Father loathed the idea. No matter how I pointed to Maestro Dante as an example, Father insisted it was no life for a son of his.”

There was real venom in the memory. Before his old friend could out and out slander the deceased, Pietro said, “Whereas my father would have liked nothing more than for me or Jacopo to follow in his footsteps. But I have no skill with verse – believe me, I’ve tried. So it’s law for me. I actually enjoy it,” he added, as if ashamed.

“And that’s where we really got to know Pietro,” said Gherardo, bolting down his food to finish his brother’s tale. “Pietro, did you hear? Mundinus is dead.”

“No!” Mondino de’ Luzzi, more simply known as Mundinus, was reputed to be the greatest doctor of the age. Certainly he was the most scandalous. Pietro had been present for the public human dissection that had so shocked the city of Bologna ten years before.

That brought Petrarch out of his angry reverie. “Yes, and we’ve been debating – do you think they’ll actually dissect him?”

Pietro drew back a little in revulsion. “Why would they?”

“It was in his will!” explained Petrarch with relish. “He insisted on his corpse being used for his students to… you know. He said he owed them one final lesson.”

“Ghoulish.” Bonagratia crossed himself. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

Occam didn’t look as though he thought it ghoulish, but he let the subject pass. “Ser Alaghieri, didn’t you accompany your father to Paris?”

“I joined him there just before he left to follow Heinrich back to Rome.” He fell silent at the memory of the failed Holy Roman Emperor, whom his father had adored. Pietro often wondered if Dante would have loved Cangrande so completely had Heinrich lived.

“I was in Paris before my ‘invitation’ here.” They spoke for a time of Paris, and Occam explained that he had come to lecture at the university there much the same way Pietro’s father had fifteen years before. “While I was at Oxford the doctors debated if they should issue Dante an invitation to lecture for us instead. It was a lively back and forth, but eventually the offer was made. As I recall, he declined.”

Pietro laughed. “I’m surprised he went as far as Paris! He only accepted because he was interested in finishing both Dei Vulgari Eloquenta and Il Convivio.”

“Why not just sit and write them out?”

Unlike Petrarch, Pietro enjoyed talking about his father. He explained that both works had been started as lectures at the University of Bologna. The great poet had been impoverished by his exile and had needed to earn some kind of living. “He required an audience. He liked to think on his feet.”

“It’s still talked about,” added Petrarch. “He was apparently quite the entertainer.”

“When he chose be,” admitted Pietro. “As he got older he preferred to cultivate an air of refinement and – what’s the phrase I’m looking for? Placid disdain.”

“I wish I’d come when you invited me, I might have met him. How titanic that would have been! Ah, the next course. Everyone, please enjoy. At least we may agree this soup belongs to us,” added Petrarch lightly.

Bonagratia rolled his eyes. His papal imprisonment stemmed from his Order’s claim that Christ had owned no property, had shared everything in common with the apostles. But not all Franciscans agreed on this point, and many brothers had left the Order while chanting, My soup is mine!

Occam ignored this sally. “Ser Alaghieri, our friend says you keep an ear to the ground. We hear woefully little news of the world. Tell me, is it true that the Duke of Austria has finally been released?”

“So I hear,” said Pietro.

“More than released,” said Gherardo, still sopping his bread and devouring it. “Made co-ruler of Germany!”

This was the piece of news that had all of Europe chattering. Until recently there had been two claimants to the imperial throne – Ludwig the Bavarian and Frederick III of Austria. For nine years both had struggled for supremacy, a duel that ended with Frederick’s imprisonment. But news had come that Frederick had renounced his claim in return for his freedom and a high position in Ludwig’s court. It was a small enough concession, as it left the Bavarian as the undisputed head of the Holy Roman Empire.

“A Christian act on the part of Ludwig,” observed Bonagratia. “Having beaten Frederick for the throne, he could have kept his rival in prison forever. Instead he is a ruler once more, though his curtailed authority is limited to Austria alone.”

“Your master must be living in anguish,” observed Petrarch to Pietro. “He backed the wrong horse.”

It was true that Cangrande had supported Frederick, though Pietro suspected it was only a ploy to extend the confusion over the succession. A strong emperor was not in Verona’s best interests. “I’m not certain he even cares. There are more pressing matters for him closer to home.”

“His heir, perhaps?” Like everyone else, Petrarch had recently learned that the child raised in Pietro’s house as his orphaned nephew was in actuality the bastard heir to the great Greyhound of Verona.

Pietro was reluctant to discuss Cesco. “That, too. But things are not going well for the Ghibellines. After the two significant victories at the end of last year, the Florentines bolstered their armies by submitting themselves to Carlo di Calabria, son of Roberto di Napoli.”

“The appointment of a strong cardinal in Lombardy won’t be a help, either,” said Petrarch. “In fact, I hear the Guelphs are feeling feisty enough to send envoys to Verona in the hope of detaching the Scaliger from the Emperor. What will he do?”

“He’ll listen – and be seen to listen.”

Bonagratia wiped up the last of his soup with a hunk of charred bread. “Speaking of Lombard politics, what’s happening in Padua? The little we hear is very confused.”

This was a tender spot for Pietro. Though no one knew it, he had been a part of last year’s uprising. Disguised in borrowed armour, Pietro had fought to unseat his old foe Marsilio da Carrara from the leadership of Padua. The attack had failed, thanks to Cangrande’s devious games, and now Pietro’s life was in jeopardy. It was one of the levers the Scaliger used to make Pietro do his bidding. If Cangrande let it slip that Pietro had been there, the young knight would find himself under a death sentence from three distinct nations – Florence, Venice, and Padua. But whereas the former two were content to deny Pietro access to their lands, Pietro had no illusions about Carrara’s revenge. Being an excommunicant, Pietro had no recourse, could seek no sanctuary. Any man was free to offer Pietro insult or violence without peril to his soul. There were many men who would welcome a ransom from Padua and approval from the church for killing a heretic. One more reason he had to succeed in his mission here.

Petrarch knew none of this, of course. He was merely referring to the most recent upheaval. This past February, just months after the failed uprising of Paolo Dente, Paduan exiles again tried to retake their city. They failed as well, mainly due to the lack of support they received from the lord of Verona, who turned a mysteriously deaf ear to their pleas. Some of the rebel leaders were captured, but few lived to see their trials.

Pietro said only that he had heard the same as everyone – Padua was in a state of chaos, with no firm hand on the reins. After that, the conversation wandered to another land in chaos, England, and the fears of many that the French would make an attempt at claiming the throne.

“Rubbish,” said Occam stoutly. “Even if the Queen is French, the king has an heir.”

“Who is in Paris,” said Petrarch slyly, tweaking the Englishman’s nose.

Occam seemed to have perfected the habit of ignoring his host. “Speaking of Paris - Ser Alaghieri, while you were there, did you ever hear a lecturer by the name of Eckhart?”

“The Dominican philosopher? I heard of him. Why?”

“He seems likely to join us. The Archbishop of Cologne has recently charged Brother Eckhart with heresy.”

Patting his stomach, Bonagratia nodded. “We’re in excellent company.”

“Has your confinement been difficult?” asked Pietro. “Are you often allowed into the city?”

Occam shrugged. “Ours is a rather loose house-arrest. We are allowed visitors at the monastery, and on such occasions as this we are permitted to venture into the city. The guards are more to prevent us passing papers to our adherents than to keep us from escaping. They confiscate our letters, read our correspondence.”

“Mine too,” said Pietro. “Though they’re more subtle about it. But the seals show clear signs of tampering.”

Occam laid down his bread and spoon, his bowl still quite full. The rich fare of Petrarch’s table was too much for his Franciscan belly. “You know you weren’t condemned for yourself.” His Latin held more than a tinge of French, and a guttural sound underneath. Could that be English? “No, you are the victim of their unreasonable ire at your famous father.”

“I know.” The injustice of it kept Pietro’s answer short.

Occam swept on. “A victim of circumstance, of poor timing. They could not attack the great Dante Alighieri while he was alive, because they were rightly afraid of his pen. Florence, one of the greatest cities in the world, will never erase the blot he put on their name. And Boniface, Clement, Philip the Fair – they will be remembered through your father’s eyes. Pope John is not such a fool to call down the wrath of poets on his head. And to defame such an illustrious man after his death looks what it is, spiteful and cowardly. In you, they have the perfect vessel for their revenge.”

“Can that be the only reason?” demanded Bonagratia. “What was it you did? What was the pretext?”

“I failed to collect an unfair tithe levied on the people of Ravenna.”

“But that’s absurd!” cried Bonagratia. “There are dozens of men who have refunded the tithes from their parishes without punishment. Oh, they are called onto the carpet, to be sure. But excommunication! Ridiculous!”

“Is that the only cause?” asked Occam.

“As far as I know,” said Pietro. “They didn’t cite any other reason in the proclamation.”

Occam’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Nothing about your master?”

“No. Though I had my knighthood from him, at that time it was generally thought we were estranged, the better to protect his heir. Though now we are lumped together as one.” Which was no accident, of course. Cangrande had forced Pietro to represent them both here in Avignon.

“Disgusting!” cried Bonagratia. “Sacrilegious! I tell you, money will be the end of the Church!”

Occam chuckled. “Heretic.”

Bonagratia shook his head. “His Holiness must see reason!”

“That’s demanding a miracle. Ser Alaghieri, what do you mean to do? Why have you come?”

Though prisoners, these were famous holy men. Could they help? Pietro laid out his case. “I’m here with a double petition. To intercede on behalf of the Scaliger, and to have my own excommunication removed. I would appreciate any advice you can give me to achieve both ends.”

“Of course,” said Bonagratia feelingly. “My first advice is prepare to be patient. Nothing in Avignon moves with speed.”

Occam shook his head. “It won’t help your case to be seen with us. I am heretical for my interpretation of Scripture favouring a separation of powers, temporal and spiritual. That puts your master on my side. Brother Bonagratia here is feared because of his vocal support of ecclesiastic poverty – the very thing you seem to be condemned for. In each of us, you have both your causes defined. And we are in prison. It does not bode well for your chances.” He paused, considering. “Have you thought that you might achieve one of your aims at the cost of the other. You could gain your own reinstatement, but fail your master. Or worse, the reverse. Your mission seems at cross-purposes with itself.”

Pietro had indeed considered that. His face must have proclaimed as much, for Petrarch suddenly began to laugh and clap his hands. “I have it, I have it! I’ll be your advocate!”

“What?” said Pietro, startled.

“Yes! With the aid of these great minds,” said Petrarch, waving his hand at his two clerical guests, “I shall present your case, leaving you free to argue for your master. O, what a sensation it will cause! And in the meantime, you shall live here!”

“No,” said Pietro firmly. “I cannot blight your—”

“My good standing will aid you much more than your odiousness will stain me. The Colonna family has a high opinion of me. I dress the same way they do, and I can recite a verse as quick as you please. And the Colonna are the key-bearers to the Pope! No – I insist! I shall represent you, be your advocate, while you ply your trade for your master!”

“Excellent!” cried Bonagratia.

“A sound plan,” said Occam.

Reluctantly, Pietro consented. Even as he did, it was on the tip of Pietro’s tongue to say, Cangrande is not my master.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Late that afternoon, while the bereaved family attended Petracco’s interment at the grave dug in Carpentras, Pietro returned to his inadequate quarters to pack. Giving orders for his belongings to be transferred, he discovered a letter had been delivered. The seal showed obvious signs of tampering, and Pietro suspected that by now a copy of the contents were being pored over. He smiled, certain that the papal cryptographers would have no success. Everyone from bankers to papal legates wrote in code, and no doubt John had many skilled cypher clerks in his employ. But the day they were able to break this code was the day Pietro learned to breathe water.

There was a sound reason for Petrarch’s praise of Pietro’s knowledge of current events. Pietro’s home in Ravenna had been the clearinghouse of all intelligence and gossip that could possibly be of use to Verona. Though his present circumstances kept him from continuing in such employment, he still received dispatches from Tharwat and other, unknown correspondents who kept him abreast of the latest world events.

Breaking the seal, Pietro saw this was not an intelligence letter. Heart beating faster, Pietro recognized the cramped hand of Cesco. His last note had relayed all that had happened in Caprino, and the wound Cangrande had received. This note was brief, but still breathed the boy’s unique style, picking up as though their conversation had been interrupted:

 

For the last month my training has, of necessity, been farmed out to other men – Castelbarco, Nogarola, Bonaventura, Montecchio, Capulletto, da Lozzo, dell’Angelo. Cangrande’s wound is healing very slowly, but he’s been diligent in arranging a system that would keep me walking the knife’s edge. Charming, no?

Meanwhile, our Moorish friend has been unusually busy making charts for each member of the Anziani. I’m sure you can guess who created that commission. Morsicato tried to take his place, leaving poor Esta’s side long enough to follow me on one of my hawkings.

But the Scaliger is wise to our tricks now, and the doctor has discovered the consequences of slipping me food. I disappeared for five days, first up in the Alps with Alberto Nogarola, then three days and nights toiling in his ‘secret’ forge on the river. It’s an amazing piece of engineering. I learned a great deal, despite the burns. The blacksmith and his boy were grateful for the help, and told me all they could of metalwork.

By the time my sojourn ended, my limbs had turned to liquid and I’d lost a little more weight, but I was still willing to accept another offering. Morsicato took one look at me and refused. I think I saw tears in his eyes. So the Scaliger has won that turn.

By the bye, the Scaliger was not with me in Caprino, so there was no further attempt by the youthful hunter. A shame, as I thought we had a good rapport.

Antonia is well, and Jacopo seems in good spirits. As ever, he is in the throes of some illicit affair with some lesser-born female. It seems your brother has received your share of the famous Alaghieri libido – didn’t your father have an affair when he was first in Verona? That is the rumour. It’s amusing to think that you, too, have little bastard siblings running about. Though I doubt Grandfather Dante’s libido could ever have matched Cangrande’s.

Speaking of your brother, the other night I heard him declare his intent to return to Florence – he’s found someone willing to pay his fine, and they’re waiving the other stipulations. They seem very eager to have someone called Alighieri back within their walls. ‘Godi, Fiorenza, poi che se’ sì grande..!’

But why, you ask, is he returning to the pestilent paradise that birthed him? He’s talking of following Antonia’s footsteps and taking at least minor orders. Can you imagine? Though he is determined to remain in Verona until the tourney at the start of July.

I’m sure there is more news, but I cannot think of it. I am bone weary – I suppose ‘dog tired’ would be more appropriate. But without him hounding me, my hawking is a little relented. I will survive, no matter what you may hear. Enjoy your stay in Avignon, by all means. Do not come back. We do not need you.

 

That last was a stab in Pietro’s heart, for he could hear Cesco’s voice saying the words, hear the irony, the plea, the resistance to admitting he was alone and helpless. If he’d demanded Pietro’s return, Pietro would have left in a moment, despite the risk. The indictment without the plea cut far deeper.

Pietro took a moment to mourn for the doctor and his wife – Esta had been unwell ever since their return from Ravenna, preventing the doctor from re-establishing his practice. Pietro thought of how Morsicato had quizzed him about Mundinus and his dissections. Notes for a long anticipated treatise on anatomy were said to exist, but Pietro doubted anything would come of it. Too gruesome a field of study. Yet he decided to write to his Bolognese friends and have copies of the notes sent to Morsicato. It might serve to distract him from his ailing wife.

Even with Morsicato’s most-understandable preoccupation, Cesco still had both Tharwat and Pietro’s sister, Antonia, to rely upon in extremity. Whatever roadblock the Scaliger threw in their path, Pietro was certain they would allow no harm to come to their charge. As long as that was true, Pietro felt secure enough to stay and make the Pope aware of the Scaliger’s demands.

As well as one of his own devising.