Read The Master of Verona for Free Online

women had emerged and draped themselves over the railings, their garments falling revealingly open. One girl waved at Pietro and flashed something pink from beneath her bodice. Pietro blushed and waved shyly back. I shouldn't be shocked , he thought. This is the market plaza, after all.
    Grinning, Mariotto said, "I could arrange an introduction."
    Pietro avoided that. "In Florence they're forced to wear tiny bells."
    "You don't say."
    "Yes. There's an old joke about churches and prostitutes — the bells call a man to repent what the bells call a man to do." This earned the first genuine laugh from his newfound friend.
    Montecchio never stopped talking as he led a merry chase down the long street. Figuring that Pietro would soon be sent to hunt for tools linked to his father's profession, he made sure to point out where to find the best wax for sealing, the best cut quills.
    They reached milliner row, close to an ancient tufa wall which stood in stark contrast to the rose marble and red brick all around them. These were the old walls, built by the Romans or their forebears — no one knew for certain, as the first true inhabitants of Verona were lost to memory. Regardless, the walls existed, enclosing the oldest and richest part of the city. What good they would be if attacked, Pietro wasn't sure.
    Twenty minutes later he was once more appropriately, if ostentatiously, hatted. He'd settled on a puffed-out burgundy affair sporting a thin green feather just above the left ear — the Ghibelline ear. Feeling rakish, he followed Mariotto to a string of cobblers where he ordered sandals to be ready for the poet the following day.
    The sun was directly overhead, which meant the bridal dinner was nigh. Mariotto unfettered his infectious grin. "We'd better get back. My father asked me to be amusing for Maestro Alighieri's children."
    "Alaghieri."
    "That's what I said." He clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "To tell you the truth, I was dreading it. Thank you for being nothing like what I imagined the son of a poet to be."
    Again Pietro smiled because he was supposed to. Inside his skin he shuddered. That's the question, isn't it? What is the son of a poet — of any great man — if not less than. Inferior. Useless.
    To cheer himself up, Pietro looked for a way to repay Mariotto's kindness. Being lost and alone in a new city was nothing unusual for him. Having a friend was. When they were five minutes from the palace, traversing the Plaza delle Erbe once more, he spotted the perfect gift. "Wait here!" Dashing off through the crowd only to reappear a few moments later, he gave an elaborate bow, twirling his new hat between his fingers in a flourish. "For you, signore. "
    With his free hand Pietro offered a pair of fine corded leather straps. From one end of each hung a solid silver vervel for engraving the owner's name.
    Montecchio's eyes lit up. "Jesses! Oh no, really, Alighieri, it's too much." Now it was his turn to protest feebly.
    Pietro was helpless to stop his embarrassingly lopsided smile. "Your hawk should be as well dressed as you are."
    Mariotto admired the small tokens. "Tomorrow we'll go riding along the A dige and see if the fellow will fly at all."
    Pietro nodded. "I'd like that." If father will let me.
    A bell began to ring to the south, then another to the east, and Mariotto's eyes grew wide. "We're late!"

Three

    The Benedictine bells were just finishing the call to Sext when two panting teens raced up the inner stairs of the great Scaliger palace in Verona. Attaining the top, they skidded to a halt at a demure distance from the open double doors. Listening, they heard arguing and laughter echoing down the hall. They grinned at each other in relief. They were not too late.
    An understeward came bustling forward. "Master Montecchio, welcome. Your father and brother are already within." He glanced at the other young man with an inquiring inclination of his head.
    "This is my friend, Pietro Alighieri," said