The four men huddled around the flames found in its radiance a source of warmth and protection, and possibly a provisional Muse to aid their pastime of contemplation. Wrapped in a hybrid of traditional Greek and Roman rags, the men would have blended almost indistinguishably with one another had time not chiseled their features so distinctly. One of the men, shorter than his companions, kept to the rear of the group. He appeared to have deliberately stationed himself there, perhaps out of respect for the elders around him or perhaps from lack of confidence in his own worth. This is Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, known as Lucan, who stands behind Publius Ovidius Naso, or Ovid of Sulmona. Lucan in his youth had been first inspired to write by Ovid's lyrics. The heads of the teacher and his pupil were pointed downwards, towards one another in a rough triangle, engaged in a half-silent conversation not meant to be recorded.

The expression on the face of the man beside them, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, or Horace, seemed aloof, as if he were standing at a great distance from the others. But the satirist of Venosa, the very first host of Greek meter in Latin poetry, was in fact at the center of the circle, his arm looped protectively through that of the fourth man. This fourth, the only Greek of their company, was the oldest and most impressive of the great assemblage. With an appearance of height not attributable to size alone, his large head balanced below by a full, rich beard, this poet of epics towered over his companions, dangling a massive sword as if it were a twig. To an observer, Homer's placid expression would reflect neither melancholy nor joy, but simply that great act of faith we call waiting. And Homer waited, it seemed, more serenely than any other.

What an assembly! It is almost overwhelming to imagine the philosophical colloquy possible among these poets. Yet great Homer did not seem interested in conversation. He was wholly dedicated to this wait, though he could not see that which he was waiting for. The darkness of the woods would have barred his vision, had his blindness not done so long before. Still, Homer appeared to sense that, from the east, the fifth member of their group was emerging from a thicket of brush. Wearing a crown of laurels, Publius Virgilius Maro, Virgil of Mantua, made his way from the dark perimeter to join his fellow poets gathered at the fire. His face appeared pale and drawn at the thought of having been separated from his companions for so long. If he were to speak now, surely his voice would tremble. Virgil was returning from the start of a journey these other poets never experienced: and, as it happens, never will. As he anticipated new orders to depart, orders not to be disregarded, Virgil was more than happy to linger while it was permitted.

Waiting demurely behind Virgil stands a newcomer of serious deportment who, like his leader, shows a baroqueness in his skin and a largess in the quality of his dress hinting at Italian roots. Staying lock-step with the older poet, he boasts a stronger, more aquiline profile, a long, dark visage with large jaw, a projecting bottom lip, and a piercing gleam in his eye hinting at greater persistence than one might expect from a man of middle-age. Though Homer has never met this pilgrim, he senses at once that the wayfarer belongs with them, at least for the length of his stay. Homer extends a warm salute, an invitation to enjoy the warmth of their fire. Virgil smiles, probably never having considered what great Homer's reaction would be to this foundling, this Dante Alighieri of Florence, but surely having known all along that it could only be acceptance.

"Honor the great poet. His shade, which had departed, now returns!"

The fire's glow amplified the bleak surroundings with exaggerated strokes of bright color. The frame must be an original, Charles Eliot Norton thought, as the quotation was skillfully hand-carved into its fine grade wood, side-by-side in English and Italian.

"Honor the great poet, indeed," Longfellow said, reading the inscription over Norton's shoulder. "Dante should be spared such inaccuracies."

Norton nodded. "How could a reader of Dante think to picture Limbo in an actual forest?"

"Carelessness," Longfellow suggested. "A misreading of 'selva' in 'ma passavam la selva tuttavia, la selva, dico, di spiriti spessi.'"

"Certainly Dante enjoys describing Limbo in metaphoric terms, as a wood of souls," Norton added, "no doubt employing an echo of the dark wood where the pilgrim begins his journey - and forecasting the terrible forest of the Suicides. Who would believe the Poet would place his travelers in another wood of trees as early as the fourth canto? So be it," Norton concluded his criticism, as Longfellow had already moved on to examine a print of the Giotto portrait of Dante. This was the same reproduction that hung at the top of Longfellow's own stairwell, as well as in Norton's study, Lowell's library, Holmes's drawing room, Fields's parlor and, though the members of the Dante Club was not aware of it, in a back room of Ralph Waldo Emerson's Concord home.

Longfellow turned his attentions to the two mounted Retzsh drawings of Inferno situated on either side of the Giotto print, one picturing the Blasphemers trying to shield themselves from the shower of fire; the other showing the wretched Soothsayers, their heads twisted on backwards, tears of misery gliding down their naked shoulder blades.

Norton lowered his voice to a whisper as he caught up with the older poet further down the corridor: "I'm still not certain what he shall have to tell us. Perhaps this is fruitless!"

Longfellow's voice was always a discreet tone; he had no need for whispering. "If Dante has been spotted elsewhere about town while we have been sequestered behind my orange trees, my dear Norton, we must do our best to find out where."

Ticknor's niece returned to the hall. "Gentlemen? The Professor will be happy to receive you now."

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