The Master of Verona

At the top of the stair there was another window, facing north. He could see the sliver of the moon, and it could see him. He crouched down, his back to the wall, and looked for the double doors.

There they were. The light from the partial moon just brushed their bottom edges. Inside he could hear the child. It was neither wailing nor giggling. More of a string of burbling noises. Ciolo thought the room must be small because he could hear an echo, as if the child's own voice was answering itself.

He waited, listening to the room beyond the doors. Was there a nurse waiting with the baby? Surely not. He'd be calmer. Or else she was asleep, dead to the world. And soon will be moreso. Smiling, Ciolo trained his eyes on the shaft of exposing moonlight. He needed complete darkness to open the door. He prayed to a merciful God to send a cloud, then on second thought redirected the entreaty to the Fiend.

Whoever heard his prayer, it was answered almost at once. The light crept away. Once it was dim, Ciolo moved swiftly. Lifting his knife, he grasped the handle to the child's room and pulled the door wide.

Blackness within. Ciolo stood to one side of the doorway, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the more complete darkness. Still the child burbled. Ciolo squinted at the corner the noise was coming from and thought he saw an outline. Reversing his dagger from point up to point down, a stabbing grip, he stepped fully into the gap, one hand on the door frame to guide him into the room. He was a professional. What did it matter that his victim was a child. He was certainly going to the Inferno already. One step. Two…

A sharp cracking noise made Ciolo wince. An instant later the breath exploded from his body. Confused, he found himself sprawled several feet back down the hallway. Something had hit him in the chest, hit him hard enough to stun him and knock him backwards. His free hand came up and found a thin line of wood protruding from his breastbone. His fingers brushed the fletched end absently. He whimpered, afraid to pull on the arrow's shaft.

A hinge creaked as the second door opened. A shuttered lantern was unveiled and the light approached him, growing brighter. To Ciolo's dazzled eyes it seemed to be borne in the hands of an angel. An angel all in white. The colour of mourning.

"Not dead, then?" asked the angel as she came to stand over him. "Good."

Ciolo sputtered, the blood on his lips leaving the taste of metal on his tongue. "Holy Madonna…"

"Shhh." The angel set aside both the lantern and the instrument of his demise, a small trigger-bow. Her right arm must have been hurt firing it, for she used her off hand to take the blade from his unresisting grasp.

Behind her was another shape, a young girl clutching a baby. The infant Ciolo had come here to murder. He didn't know if it was a boy or girl, it was too young to tell and he'd never asked. He wanted to ask now, but breathing was trouble enough. Still his mouth tried to form the words.

The woman shook her head. With a lilting accent Ciolo found beautiful, she said, "Tell me nothing except the name of the man who paid you."

"I–I don't…"

"Not a good answer, love."

"But — madonna forgive me, but — it was a woman."

The angel nodded but didn't smile. Ciolo wanted her to smile. He was dying. He wanted absolution — something. "Angel, forgive me."

"Ask forgiveness of God, man — not of me."

His own knife flashed left to right in her pale hand. He made the effort to close his eyes so as not to see his life's blood spill to the floor.

With a choked whimper, Ciolo lay still. The cloud above passed, revealing the stars once more.

I

The Arena

One

The Road to Verona

The Same Night

"Giotto's O."

In the middle of a dream in which no one would let him sleep, it seemed to Pietro that the words were deliberately meant to annoy him. Almost unwillingly he dreamed a paintbrush touching a rock, forming a perfect circle.

The painter used red. It looked like blood.

"Pietro, I'm speaking to you."

Blinking, Pietro sat up straight in the rattling coach. "Pardon, Father."

"Mmm. It's these blasted carriages. Too many comforts these days. Wouldn't have fallen asleep in a saddle."

It was dark with the curtains drawn, but Pietro easily imagined his father's long face grimacing. Fighting the urge to yawn, he said, "I wasn't asleep. I was thinking. What were you saying?"

"I was referencing Giotto's mythic O."

"Oh. Why?"

"Why? What is nobler than thinking of perfection? More than that, it is a metaphor. We end where we begin." This was followed by a considering pause.

Shifting, Pietro felt his brother's head on his shoulder. Irritiation rippled through him. Oh, Poco's allowed to sleep, but not me. Father needs an audience.

Expecting his father to try out some new flowery phrase, he was astonished to hear the old man say, "Yes, we end where we begin. I hope it's true. Perhaps then I will go home one day."