In the rooms that belonged to her father and brothers, Antonia was busily bestowing her luggage. The bulk of it would go in the room next door, currently occupied by Dante. Upon returning from the Domus Nuova next door, Dante had announced his intention to write. "My dear, I am overwhelmed to see you, but the Muse is upon me. If you can wait, we shall do all our talking once your brother returns."
"Of course, Father. Nothing is more important than writing." Then, because she couldn't not, she asked, "Is it Purgatorio?"
Dante nodded gravely. "I am one third of the way through the sixth canto — the move and my duties to my new host have kept me from my quills."
"But Father," interjected Jacopo, who'd been waiting for them, "shouldn't we be doing something? I mean, Pietro just fought a duel!"
"And what, little Jacopo, do you think we should be doing?" asked the poet.
"Maybe I could go out and hire some bodyguards — or some thugs," he added eagerly, "to beat up Marsilio!"
Dante's face became flinty. "Though your sense of injustice does you some small credit, you can't possibly imagine that I want our family entangled in a feud of our own. There is quite enough of that idiocy rampaging through the world. Even Cangrande cannot halt it. Pfah!" The poet threw up his hands in disgust. "It will be our ruin! O, Italy, enslaved to a brothel of reasonless passions!"
Antonia rushed into her father's study and started lighting lamps. "Father, sit down. Put this to good use. Jacopo, if you're determined to do something, be useful and have some water heated for Pietro — he'll want to wash when he gets back." Taking her father by the hand, she led him to the table littered with his scratchings. Not knowing what his habits were, she simply laid out a the quill and headed for the door.
"But Father!" protested Poco from just inside the study door. "Carrara's had it out for Pietro since Vicenza!"
"Jacopo, Father's busy!"
"Don't tell me what to do, Imperia!"
"Don't call me that, Poco!"
"Oh, I can't write at all!" shouted Dante.
Antonia rounded on her brother. "You see?"
"Shut up, Imperia!"
Antonia slammed the door on him. "I'm sorry, Father. I'll make sure he's quiet."
From the table Dante waved his left hand in the air in frustration. "It isn't just Jacopo, it's the whole situation! I almost watched my only — I almost said my only remaining son, and that's not true. But Pietro is my heir and I almost watched him die tonight. And for what? I am as angry as I am proud. He's developing a strong need to see justice done, and I'm afraid of what that will do to him in this unjust world! Cangrande understands — oh, why could he not be emperor? Meanwhile the church consents — consents! — to trial by combat! How the Lord can approve such an infamy, I'll never understand!" He shook his head. "I cannot continue in this frame of mind. Virgil just met Sordello, and they are supposed to speak of poetry, then go to the Valley of the Princes. No, I'm too angry to write!" He threw his quill aside.
"Nonsense," soothed his daughter, lifting the quill and tucking it back into his fingers. "You've written me often saying the work you're proudest of was never planned, but extempore. If the wind is blowing you towards invective, use it. You can always remove it later on, but if you are moved, it would be a shame to lose what your muse gives you."
Dante nodded, slowly at first, then with more determination. "Quite. I'll make ears ring from coast to coast — and I'll let these feuders know how they spoil our fine land!" He lifted the quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write in that cramped hand that Antonia knew so well. 'Ahi serva Italia, di dolore ostello…'
She watched for a few seconds, then slipped out of the study and took a deep breath. It's good I came. He does need me. Another daughter might have been hurt that her long-removed father had not sat down with her to effect a proper reunion. But not Antonia, who had the rare experience of a dream-come-true being better than the dream itself.
Poco was gone, though probably not to have a bath warmed. Antonia spoke to a servant and ordered it done. Unable to start unpacking until her father was finished writing, she sat on the edge of a bed and reflected upon the day.
Absurdly, she found herself thinking of the short loud fellow, Bonaventura's cousin. Ferdinando? What kind of name was that? She spent a surprising amount of time thinking over the retorts she should have used during the duel.
She was still reimagining the verbal conflict when she heard the outer door open. Dante's manservant greeted someone, and a moment later Pietro emerged from the passageway and into the main chamber, his young greyhound by his side. Pietro gave her a tired smile. "Welcome to Verona."
Not knowing what to answer, she stood. "Are you all right? Is the Capitano very angry?"
A strange expression passed over Pietro's face. There was sadness around his eyes, but also a strange excitement. "Come here, let me look at you. Good God, you're all grown up."
She studied him in return. He very different from the bookish boy who'd left Gemma's house three years before. He was wearing his hair shorter and there was stubble on his chin, though it was brown, not black like their father's. It was his eyes that were most altered. Bright, yet concerned, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
Suddenly moved, she rushed over and hugged him close. Gasping a bit, he hugged her tight for a moment, then patted her on the back. "I'm fine, really. Or I was."
"We're all so proud of you," she said, stepping back. Then added, "But Father also says he's, well…"
"Angry? I don't doubt it. Where is he? And where's Poco? I expected them to be waiting to pounce."
"Father's writing, Jacopo's off somewhere."
"Looking to avenge my honour, right? Just what we need."
"I think he's feeling the need to step out of his big brother's shadow."
Pietro appeared surprised. "I've never had a particularly large shadow. Father's is much more impressive."
"That depends on who you talk to. I imagine all the girls of the city think you walk on water tonight."
"That's Jacopo's area of expertise." Pietro sat down on a bed. "Well, he won't have to worry about my shadow for much longer. I'm going away."
Antonia blinked as if he'd just grown a second head. "What?"
"I'm going away," he repeated simply.
"But I just got here. You just got here!"
Pietro patted the bed beside him and she sat down. "It's something I have to do. The Scaliger is like Father. Proud and angry both."
"For fighting the Paduan?"
"Yes. He could have had the same end result without my risking my life. And I also made him look foolish in front of the Signoria. Oh, he didn't say so, but I know it. I didn't intend to, but I chipped away at his power a little tonight. This is a story with legs. Having me at court will be an embarrassment for the next little while. And I'm going to be persona non grata with the Paduans. With the peace newly established, I can't stay here."
The reasons all made sense, but Pietro made it sound rehearsed. "There's something you're not saying."
Pietro frowned, which crinkled the corners of his eyes. "No. That's everything."
"But he's not exiling you? Your knighthood isn't revoked?"
"Nothing like that. It will just be better for him if I go away for a while. And better for father! With my embarrassing Cangrande in front of the Paduans and the Signoria, I could create a problem for the family."
That Antonia grasped immediately. It made sense to her in the way nothing else could. "I'll be sorry to see you go."
"I'll be sorry to leave. I love it here. And I'll miss my chance to see you deal with publishers! I hear you scare the living daylights out of them."