The Master of Verona (30 page)

"Man! Monster, more like." Emboldened by the large man's stillness, one fellow stepped out of the crowd and reached up to yank off the concealing hood and scarf. His fingers had just closed on them when he uttered a choked sob and fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The crowd tensed, knives and clubs at the ready, but the large man's hands were still empty. He'd simply struck with his open palm.

But the crowd's eyes were not on his hands. The bold Venetian had dislodged the muffling hood and scarf, revealing skin that was dusky black, not ebony, marking him as Spanish. He was a Moor.

The flickering torchlight light caught the Moor's neck. Someone gasped. Criss-crossing it were lines of white and pink, raised above the level of his natural skin. The bands were linear, created by some man-made implement. Running the entire circle of his neck, a single blistered scar made a horrible kind of collar about the Moor's throat. In some places it was bubbled, in others it was worn. It was a very old burn scar, and it made the man who had survived it even more fearsome.

The aggressive Venetian retreated into the crowd, gasping and sputtering as his eyes streamed, obviously calling for vengeance but unable to make the words come out clear.

The Moor placed a hand on the hilt of his falchion. "We have done no harm. We defended ourselves. Let my master pass." His voice rasped as if the words were scraped by a rusty spoon from somewhere deep within.

The little man called Ignazzio crossed to the Moor's side. "Theodoro and I are stopping in Venice for the night only on our way to Vicenza. We have been the victims of a crime. We demand an audience with the authorities at once. Disperse and bother your wives, not us!"

The crowd was muttering again. Then, as if on cue, came the stomp and clink of official boots. The crowd parted for the two dozen men-at-arms. The man who led them was easily one of Venice's most recognized faces. Francesco Dandolo was a hero in the Serenissima and still young enough to have great days ahead.

The choking man had recovered enough to step in front of the approaching Dandolo. "Ambassador, this — creature just assaulted me! He…"

Dandolo pushed past him to give Ignazzio and the Moor a deeply respectful bow. "Ser Ignazzio, we have been waiting on you at the doge's palace this last half-hour. I heard of an altercation along your route. I hope you are not hurt."

"Theodoro is," said Ignazzio angrily. "We were attacked in our gondola — an ambush by professionals, no less — and now these fools are waylaying us!"

Dandolo gave the scene an appraising glance. Turning to the captain of the men-at-arms, he pointed into the bloody gondola. "Take the living to the gaol at once. Use whatever means necessary, but find out who put them up to it." He turned sharply and pointed to the aggressive Venetian still rubbing his throat. "Take him as well. Don't kill him but thrash him soundly." The man gasped, his watering eyes now wide with horror. Dandolo turned back to Ignazzio. "Unless his offence warrants worse?"

"No," said Ignazzio grimly. "He was abusive, but Venice has given us worse welcomes."

"Very well. Take them away." Dandolo looked at the Moor, busy replacing his scarf and hood. "Does your man need a doctor?"

Ignazzio turned to the Moor, who shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Then please," said Dandolo, bowing again, "allow me to escort you to the Doge personally. He is eager to consult with you."

Ignazzio followed Dandolo without sparing the crowd a single glance. The large Moor trailed a few paces behind. The mob took a collective step back. Some may have been discontented, but all were unified in their wonder. Who were these men to be treated so solicitously by Dandolo and the Doge?

One found his courage. Stepping out, he called to Dandolo's receding back, "Ambassador, who is this man? Where is he from?"

Over his shoulder Dandolo said, "Disperse, citizens, before you're unlucky enough to find out!"

Dawn was hours off and the night air was sharp, the remnants of the last snowfall hardening underfoot. The noise in the streets defied anyone to sleep, and Pietro didn't try. He lay in bed beside his brother, imagining the day to come.

When he'd first heard of the city of Verona, before he had ever heard the name Cangrande or the Greyhound, Pietro had heard tell of this day's event. The Palio. Arriving in Verona five weeks ago in the bitter January frost, he noticed at once that it was all anyone talked of. The betting was fierce, the speculation wild. Mariotto couldn't shut up about it. He had Antony and Pietro on the edge of their seats with excitement.

His return to Verona had happily thrown Pietro in with his two friends again. Since it was a poor season for hunting, Pietro's bad leg didn't hamper them as they settled into a raucous routine of storytelling, mock duels with woolly clubs, and surreptitious drinking. As they navigated the streets they earned the nickname "The Triumvirs" from a proud and welcoming city. The Triumphant Trio that had helped Cangrande rescue Vicenza. Antony had even paid to have a song written, and Pietro laughed whenever he heard it. It was terrible.

Through it all, Mari kept talking about the Palio. Dating back to Roman times, it marked the city's great victory over a monster whose bone still hung in the alleyway called Via dei Sagari. Held the first Sunday of Lent, the revelry served to take the citizens' minds off their fasting and the sumptuary concessions. Traditionally it was celebrated with parades and dancing, feasting and drinking, all manner of spectacle could be seen — pig wrestling, knife fighting, bear-baiting, duels, magicians, oracles, jugglers, gymnasts, fire-eaters.

Best of all was the Palio, the famous twin races of Verona. The first Palio would be run at midday on horseback though the streets. Wild and reckless, it was but a prologue to the midnight race through the city's eastern streets across the Adige and back. The route was hand-picked by the Capitano and run by the light of the stars. Many participants fell to grisly injury and even death. The citizens not participating came every year to cheer as the competitors ran, not merely barefoot, but entirely naked.

A native, Mari was going to race for the first time this year. Antony declared his intent to run. They hadn't been able to think about anything else for weeks. Pietro, who wasn't racing for obvious reasons, teased them both by making bets on one or another of them, settling on both of them to come in second place.

The celebration came early this year, February Sixteenth, right upon the heels of the New Year's games. Verona was one of the few cities that still celebrated the Roman New Year, January First. The rest of Europe chose to celebrate Easter as the start of the year, that being, they said, the month God created the earth. Greeks were even stranger, choosing September as the month to begin their calendar. Thus while most of the world was still in the year 1314, Verona had already turned the page to 1315.

Inside the city walls, the streets were all but impassable. Spectators, gamblers, merchants, peasants, petitioners — all had traveled for days to vie for what lodging they could find. The decent rooms were already rented out triple or quadruple capacity. Pietro knew how lucky he was to be housed with his father and brother in the Domus Bladorum, the former home of the della Scala family. Many visitors, even noble ones, were forced to sleep on dirty floors, or else in stables, where the beds were somewhat more comfortable.

But fully half the people in the city were not sleeping. Other attractions called — treats and spectacles and mythical beasts, lights and sounds and smells. At some point each visitor stood in the Piazza della Signoria hopeful for a sign of the Capitano at work or play. Even viewed from without, the Scaligeri palaces were full of life. Cangrande's staff was well used to working through the night when the Capitano was in residence. There was always an event to be planned, arriving or departing guests to be catered to, or the detritus of feasts or minor festivals to be cleared away. To provide these services, the Scaliger employed a bevy of men and women. All had their own duties and fiefs within the household. Having watched them prepare for today, though, Pietro truly pitied them.

Shivering now in his bed, he listened to the catcalls outside, the cheerful jeering of borrowers and lenders. Money would be spent lavishly today. Not on clothes, nor food nor wine nor music, but on alms and charity. Many of Verona's lesser citizens would put themselves hopelessly in debt, yet consider it money well spent. Pietro himself had been given a modest sum by his father to donate to San Zeno, along with a remark about "ostentatious piety."

A polite tapping on the door of his family's suite made Pietro sit up, making sure not to jostle his brother. Before retiring, they'd dragged the frame of their bed closer to the huge brazier that warmed the chamber. They could have more easily moved the brazier, but the metal dish was placed to warm their father. To tamper with it would have risked a fate worse than freezing.

Curled at the brazier's foot was the pup Mercurio, a gift from Cangrande. The young lean head was up, tail slapping the cold tiles. Hanging from the collar around his neck was the inspiration for the dog's name — the old Roman coin Pietro had stumbled across during his midnight adventure with the Scaliger.

The tapping on the door was persistent. As the dog rose with an answering growl, Pietro shot a hand from under the covers and gripped Mercurio's collar. Where was his father's manservant?

As if in answer, Pietro heard the door being unbarred. There was whispering between Dante's steward and whomever it was. Then the slow, measured steps of the poet, grumbling as he went to satisfy his curiosity. There was more discussion, then Dante's footsteps again but much faster. Suddenly Pietro felt his father's hand on his shoulder. "Pietro. Pietro!"

Along with his father, light was coming into the room. Pietro blinked dumbly. "What's wrong?" There were five men coming in, all bearing lanterns. Dante was standing beside the bed, a thick blanket pulled over his nightshirt and sleeping robe. The comatose Jacopo continued to snore.

"They're from
il patrono
," said Dante. Sure enough, the lead figure wore a medallion with the seal of the ladder. Pietro recognized Cangrande's Grand Butler, Tullio d'Isola.

Mercurio scampered back and forth between Dante and the visitor. D'Isola presented a sealed roll of parchment to the poet, then reached down a hand to pat the young greyhound. Having a good rapport with hounds was an important part of Tullio's office.

"I can't see as well as I used to," replied Dante, taking the scroll and passing it to his son. "Could you assist me, please?"

That aroused Pietro's suspicions. Dante never admitted his eye trouble in front of anyone, even servants. No, there was some other reason for making his son read the scroll. Taking the rolled sheet and breaking the seal, Pietro read by lantern light:

On this day February 9 in the Year of Our Lord 1315

the Eldest Living Son of the Noble House of Alaghieri

Baptized in the name of Christ's Apostle Peter,

will before the whole Assembled Nobility of the Ancient Country of Verona

be made a Cavaliere under the Authority of the Great Lord of that City,

the Imperial Vicar, Can Francesco della Scala.

"What does it say?" asked the father who already knew.

"I — I'm to be knighted! Today!" Eyes wide, he looked up, first at his beaming father, then at the Grand Butler. He'd had hopes, of course, but as the days grew closer to the festival it had seemed he was to be passed over. He'd reconciled himself to the disappointment, which was perhaps why he protested. "But — it's too late! There have to be days of fasting — confession, prayer!"

Dante smiled. "It
is
Lent. You've been praying and fasting already. I imagine you'll be allowed to confess this morning before the festivities begin."

Pietro rose, reaching out to grasp the crutch that had over the past five months become an extension of his being. He thanked the Grand Butler, and Tullio said several kind words in return before stepping back before a veritable parade of servants bearing gifts.

Jacopo awakened when the first chest crashed home at the foot of their bed. He sat up in a groggy haze as it was opened to reveal a complete suit of armour and all the small arms appropriate to knighthood. Pietro paid particular attention to the sword, a single-handed double-edged blade that was almost the twin to the Scaliger's own. "From his own swordsmith," d'Isola informed Pietro.

Next came the chest of clothes that would be Pietro's uniform for the day. Jacopo gasped at the suit of purple and silver before realizing there was no matching suit for him. "You mean I'm not being knighted too?" Nearly four years Pietro's junior, he again started the refrain he had been singing ever since October. "Why didn't you take me with you? You hate me!" With that dramatic pronouncement, Poco ran from the room. Dante and Mercurio both sniffed, united in their disdain.

Cangrande's gifts were more than generous. In addition to the armour and clothes there were two cloaks lined with fur, one of rabbit and one of wolf. There was also a trunk full of the utility needs of a knight, from grinding-stones right down to socks and candle wax. All expensive, all for him.

Trapped at one side of the last trunk, wrapped in linen, was a small bundle. Pietro lifted it gingerly. Unwrapping it, he found a book. He angled the embroidered leather cover to the light. It was the Book of Sidrach, hand-copied in beautiful Latin script. Pietro lifted the cover to peer inside. In the frontispiece there was an inscription:

A Man may control his Actions, if not his Stars — Cg.

"Wise words," said Dante, leaning over his shoulder. "A private message?"

"Just a conversation we once had," said Pietro, closing the cover. The book was a popular tome of universal knowledge, from court etiquette to deadly poisons. His father had often decried such collections, but Pietro was sure they would both read it cover to cover, Dante claiming he was merely looking for mistakes.