The Master of Verona by David Blixt Read Free Book Online Page A

"Ah, Constanza!" sighed Cecchino, earning a chorus of catcalls. Pietro and Mariotto joined in.
    "I should be so lucky," groused a man in his twenties, muscular and broad-shouldered, handsomely bearded. Absentmindedly tricking with a scrap of rope, he smiled even as he complained, "I'll never get married!"
    The groom cried, "Of course you won't, Bonaventura! You've managed to get on the wrong side of every father in Verona!"
    "I know it!" growled the grouser, hunching forward, the rope suddenly lifeless.
    Someone else joined in. "Ever since your father — God rest his blessed soul — kicked off, you've been on a rampage! Wine, women, and song!
    "Not too many songs, I think," said Cecchino. "Mainly wine and women."
    "Don't forget his hundred falcons!"
    The fellow called Bonaventura groaned. "If I don't marry soon, I won't have any money left!"
    Cecchino shrugged. "Well, you better start looking outside Verona's walls."
    "There's a world outside Verona's walls?"
    "You best hope so. If not, you'll die a bachelor." The groom's eyes were taking on the sly look drunks get. "Maybe we'll win this war with Padua soon. Then you can go there and steal a wealthy Paduan heiress."
    The rope began to dance again as Bonaventura grew thoughtful. "A Paduan heiress..."
    "Oh, yeah, the women there have the biggest..." Cecchino sighed. "But I'm married now! Ah, Costanza!" The jeers began anew.
    A hand descended on Mariotto's shoulder. "Son. A moment." Pietro looked over to see a man with Mariotto's good looks, weathered and grown more patrician and grave. It was a proud face, and a handsome one, but sad.
    Drawing his son aside, Lord Montecchio spoke softly to Mariotto in a manner that young Alaghieri knew all too well. Pietro decided perhaps he ought to join his father's conversation. Just to be safe.
    As he shuffled back through the circle of adults he could hear the abbot speaking vehemently. They had evidently abandoned the topic of the papacy, for the object of the abbot's ire was now Dante himself.
    "There cannot be more than one Heaven! Even the pagan heretic Aristotle affirms that this cannot be so. The very first lines of his ninth chapter on the heavens states it irrefutably."
    "Thank you." The poet's lugubrious lips formed a sinister, lopsided smile that Pietro knew well. Dante Alaghieri did not suffer fools gladly. "You have just made my point. There cannot be more than one Heaven, you say. But you then refer to the plurality — the heavens. How are we to reconcile this?"
    The abbot, who bore a vague resemblance to the Scaliger, sputtered. "A figure of speech — the heavens refer to the skies, not the greater Heaven above!"
    The little man with the bells spoke. "I am surprised, lord Abbot, that you are so public with your confessions."
    "What?"
    The little man flipped over to stand on his head. "Reading the Greek is heresy, and punishable by death. You must have friends in high places." The abbot blushed. "But I will join you on the pyre, for I too have read his works — worse, I've read The Destruction. As I recall, dear Abbot, Aristotle had a numerical fixation not unlike our infernal friend's here. But whereas Monsignore ," he nodded to Dante, "obsesses in noveni , the Greek was more economical. Did he not say there were three 'heavens?'"
    "Bait someone else, jester," replied the abbot. "He was acknowledging the common uses of the word. Aristotle then goes on to insist that there is only one Heaven, for nothing can exist outside of Heaven."
    Cangrande sat eagerly forward, perfect teeth flashing. "Now I'm ashamed I haven't read Aristotle. Does that mean we are now in Heaven? Doesn't seem we have much to look forward to." The low ripple of amusement in the crowd was mostly genuine. The Scaliger ran a hand over the shoulders of a hound, his eyes narrowed. "I am interested, though, in the idea of three in one. Was it an early prophecy of the Trinity? Should we count Aristotle among the Prophets?"
    The abbot snorted. "No doubt Maestro