The Master of Verona (39 page)

A fistfight on the floor of the Arena was unseemly. Yet in spite of the presence of both Carrara's uncle and their own fathers — not to mention the Veronese lord — this was exactly what Mariotto and Antony had in mind. They dropped from the back of the sweating horse and strode towards the kneeling Paduan, fists clenched.

Cangrande was no fool. Though it might prove amusing, it could become a political nightmare. The peace with Padua was fragile enough, and though he wanted it broken, this was not the way. So he swung his legs over the edge of the balcony and dropped. His knees barely buckled as he touched down. In a moment the Capitano was upright and moving forward, hands held wide. "A well run race!" By rights he should have been approaching Marsilio to congratulate him. Practicality dictated he intercept Mariotto and Antony instead. "It is your first winter with us, Antony. How does your Capuan blood like our cold air?"

"The air's fine, my lord!" spat Antony. "It's my blood that's hot! I want this bastard's head! I'm calling—"

"No!" said Mariotto abruptly. "I'm calling him—"

Both were attempting to issue a challenge. Cangrande beat them to it. "I'm calling him the victor."

"But my lord!"

"That son of a—!"

It was rare for the Scaliger to deliberately use his height to impress others. He did so now, stopping both them both in their tracks. "I'm also calling on him to dine with me this evening." He noticed two more riders entering the Arena. "It seems that this is one of those years where there are few victors."

"There was an accident." Marsilio managed to sound pained by the event.

If the duo had known what Pietro knew about the 'accident' they might have persuaded the Capitano that their challenge was necessary. As it was, they had only the deliberate cutting of Mariotto's saddle strap, which they began to describe with overlapping rage.

Marsilio interrupted them, tone airy. "If you have a problem, cavalieres, I will gladly face you in the Court of Swords. One or both, I care not at all. As the accused, I choose my weapon to be the longsword."

"Why not a crossbow?" Antony growled.

The smug look grew even more satisfied. "It is not my best weapon. If it were…" His right hand moved casually towards Mariotto.

The Scaliger cut off any retort. "There will be no challenges today. It is Sunday, and a day of Lent as well. You've run a good race and are here to speak of it. Others are not."

Carrara's uncle appeared, having taken the long way down. He strode over to face the young Veronese cavalieres, gripping his nephew's elbow as he bowed. His knuckles went white as his nephew's doublet, as did Marsilio's face. Il Grande and the Scaliger exchanged a few pleasant words, wherein the latter invited his Paduan guests to dine close to him at the table of honour. "But now your nephew must mount the victory horse in preparation for his ride around the city."

A groom was standing by with a pure white stallion saddled to carry the winner of the first Palio. Beside the magnificent snow-coloured animal stood a nag, his traditional companion. The nag was truly a sad beast, an ancient limping, farting animal with a sagging spine, sprained shoulder, swelled limbs, loose teeth, and sticky nose. That animal had no designated rider yet.

The crowd booed when the handsome winner in white started to mount the victor's steed. No fools, they had read the body language of the three knights who had finished the race. That the Capitano had interceded was a disappointment. They hadn't seen much of the race, and there was no better sport than watching one of the knightly caste engage another in a duel for God, Truth, and Justice. So they jeered.

Over the boos and catcalls Mari and Antony again tried to explain their wrongs. Listening, the Scaliger shrugged. "These things happen in the Palio each year. If I allowed personal retributions for anything less than a knife in the back I would be adjudicating duels all year round." He put an arm around each shoulder. "Be of good cheer, lads. In your first outing you tied for second. There will be many more in years to come — including the more important race this evening. Now go, greet your fathers."

More riders were emerging from the tunnel. Some waved halfheartedly to the audience. Most rode dejectedly towards the Scaliger to dismount and kneel, throwing angry glances at the winner as they did.

At the very rear of the pack rode Pietro Alaghieri. Having seen that all the wounded were being looked after, he'd ridden straight back to the Arena. He was the last to kneel, struggling to make the gesture smooth. Exhausted, his bad leg shook beneath him. Looking up he saw his brother and father watching him from the balcony. Mercurio barked.

The Capitano had an odd expression on his face, encompassing compassion, amusement, and sorrow. "You live, Pietro? My sister will be gratified. Now, straighten your doublet. You've another ride to make."

"I — what? A ride?" At this moment he never wanted to be on horseback again.

Cangrande indicated the empty tunnel. "You are the last one in, I'm afraid. New knight or no, you appear to be the loser. There's a horse waiting for you." The Capitano pointed at the nag that stood beside Marsilio's beautiful white stallion. A huge leg of salt pork hung from the nag's neck.

Aided by several steward, Ser Pietro Alaghieri found himself settled in the nag's saddle. A young groom took possession of Pietro's palfrey, patting it in a friendly way. "Hello, Canis. There's a good lad."

Pietro leaned down from the nag's saddle. "What did you call him?"

"Canis, ser. He's named for the Capitano's own horse, who was his father."

"Canis?" asked Pietro. "As in dog?"

"Yes. Why?" The poor stable boy stood amazed as Pietro laughed and laughed.

At the Capitano's signal, both the boy leading Marsilio's fine beast and the old crone tugging on Pietro's ugly one started moving. They led the two mounts in a slow circle around the Arena as flowers were strewn across their path. Pietro saw blurred faces as the spectators leapt up and down in their seats. He heard wry cheers for Carrara. He also distinctly heard jibes aimed at him. His face burned crimson. He wondered what Donna Katerina would think and reddened further. Catching sight of Mariotto and Antony, restored to the balcony, he thought they looked rather downcast.
What do they have to be upset about?
But at least they seemed not to take pleasure in his humiliation. Pietro watched Antony argue with his brother Luigi while Mariotto sat sullenly by his father's side. Then the nag turned and he lost sight of them.

They repeated this circular parade three times, Marsilio waving and shaking his clenched hands above his head. At the end of the third lap the boy and the crone led them out of the Arena and into the city streets. The crowd inside groaned its disappointment as the mob outside roared its approval.

"Quite a reception," observed Marsilio over his shoulder.

"Did you mean for it to happen?" blurted Pietro. He hadn't meant to ask. He hadn't wanted to speak at all.

"What? You mean the accident?" In answer, the Paduan shrugged elaborately, then glanced at Pietro's steed. "Nice horse." Marsilio turned back to the adulation of the crowd. Pietro gave him the fig.

"Don't you pay him no mind," said the old woman holding the nag's lead. "This here's a noble's horse! Yessir, a noble's! The Capitano borrowed it from Ser Bonaventura himself, he who's as noble as a noble, and mad to boot. Just ask his wife!"

For the next hour Pietro rode the nag through Verona. Carrara was marked as the pride of Mercury by the red ribbon across his chest, Pietro as the slowest knight in Verona by the leg of pork at his nag's neck.

Slowly the humiliation wore off. There was a celebratory feeling in the air, and even the loser could not help basking a little in its glow. None of the jeers were personal, nor were they heartfelt. He soon found it in him to call back insults and raise his fist and play the part he had been assigned — by the stars, by Fate, or just by luck.

There was a part of the ceremony no one had warned him of. Citizens brandishing knives rushed forward to carve a slice of the pork from its bone. Dogs chased after his horse, requiring several hands to fend them off. Every now and then the hacked pork leg was replaced by a fresh one by the crone. No one but the dogs seemed to be eating the salted flesh (it was Lent, after all), but everyone wanted their piece. Perhaps it was meant to be lucky.

They passed through several large city squares. In each one there were caged or tethered animals that had appeared like magic at dawn's first light. The more inebriated of the crowd took their sliver of salted pork and taunted the animals with them. These men were sometimes bodily lifted by Cangrande's men and thrown towards the animals they were offending. Only when they had been frightened sober were they rescued.

Snow started to fall lightly, dancing through the air around the vast crowds. The terrific cold caused Pietro to miss his fur shoulder-cloak. Up on horseback he was more exposed to the bitter winds whipping around the corners. Little mists breathed in and out over the throng. Pietro wished he were among them just for the warmth. But not for their smell. The nag smelled bad enough.

He was so focused on keeping warm he hadn't noticed his way was blocked. Two youths in heavy cloaks brandished a single knife between them. "I'll hold the horse!" called one. "You get it!" They grabbed at the nag's bit and bridle and neatly sliced large portions of the pig's flesh. The dagger they used was silver.

Pietro snorted. "Take what you like, Mari, I'm too tired."

Mari threw back his hood to reveal his grin. Antony got the sliver of pork off the bone and ripped a bite out of it, forgetting it was a time for fasting. "Pleh!" he said, spitting it out. "Too much salt!"

"Most people don't actually eat it," Mariotto told him. "They hang it from their door to ward off evil spirits."

"Does it work?"

"Mainly it collects dogs."

As they fell in on foot either side of Pietro's steed, he grinned. "Glad to see you."

"We're glad to see
you
," said Antony gruffly. "You weren't hurt?"

"No." The nag wasn't tall, and Pietro was barely a head higher than the bulky form of his friend. "You got through all right?"

"Yeah, we did," scowled the Capuan.

"Until that son of a bitch sliced my saddle to ribbons," said Mariotto, voice matching Antony's expression. Marsilio was busily waving, laconic smirk in place.

They related their near victory. Pietro was outraged. In turn he told them of the Paduan's trick.

"That bastard!" cried Antony. "I'd like to carve a piece of him, rather than the pork."

Mariotto slapped his hands together. "Let's trip his horse and strangle him with that silk ribbon."

Carrara glanced back, a look of delight on his face. "Boys, I think this belongs to you!" Mariotto caught the knife while Antony gave Carrara the fig. The Paduan simply waved in return.

They were moving among expensive mansions and palaces nestled into the top of the
A
dige's curve. Just to their north was the roof of the Duomo. Adjoining it was San Giovanni in Fonte, with its famous octagonal design.

Between these churches and the parade were several streets of private dwellings. These were recent constructions, the rise of the merchant class having created a new center of wealth inside the city. Those common citizens who had lived and worked near the
A
dige were now shuffled off to ever-expanding suburbs as the city center grew into a collection of homes for the prosperous. Pietro had seen the same phenomenon in Florence. Every prominent
signore
owned an estate in the country, but in recent years no one could do without a home in the city itself. In Verona this northern bend of the river had become the fashionable place to settle. Small private homes had been leveled to make way for grand three or four-story mansions with balconies, window gardens, and grand carved statuary. The Montecchi family owned a fine house near here.

Suddenly a man burst out onto one of the balconies high above. He was in his twenties, muscular and broad-shouldered. Pietro recognized him at once — this was the fellow who had bemoaned his chances of a wife back in September. Bonaventura, friend to Cecchino della Scala. The handsome beard he had sported then was now bushy and ill-kempt. Holiday ribbons hung extravagantly from his open doublet, over which he wore a long houserobe of the finest brocaded heavy red linen. But the linens were covered in meat and malmsey stains. His hat was askew. Under his hat a mass of dark curly hair was matted to his neck as if it were high summer. In spite of the cold the shirt under his doublet was open almost to the navel. Indeed, sweat was pouring past his eyes. The interior of the house must have had a hundred fires burning.

In his hands he clutched what looked like the remains of a lady's gown. It had been lovely once — lavender in colour, with a silver underdress and a delicate lace pattern woven into it. But as it dangled in his grip one could see an arm had been torn from it, and a huge rent was visible in the bodice.

Running to the edge of the balcony, he pitched the gown over the rail to the crowd below. "Not good enough!!"

Just as the ruined gown left his fingers a woman came shrieking out though the doors behind him, grasping at it as it fell. She was dressed in another fine gown, probably her Sunday best. This cream-coloured garment, though, had seen worse wear than the one now floating among the snowflakes. Spattered with mud past the waist, the brocade had begun to unstitch itself to hang limply at her breast and waist. The woman's hair was in as bad a shape, falling out of a roughly pinned bun. There were small orange blossoms scattered willy-nilly through her auburn hair.

She flung herself out after the flying gown with no thought to her safety. The man caught her about the waist to save her from diving into the sea of people below who now stopped to watch this extraordinary scene.

"Let go!" she cried, using her elbows and her heels to strike at the man behind her.

"As you wish," he replied happily. He released his grip and she slammed into the balcony's stone railing. The crowd flinched.