The Master of Verona (37 page)

But just then another racer spied it and shouted. Nico da Lozzo, Luigi Capecelatro, Pietro's friend from the tunnel — all saw it and cheered, delighted to suddenly advance to the lead. As one the forty-one riders turned their horses left, east down the Strade di Porta Palio, a route that would lead them back to the Corso Mastino.

Pietro was about to jerk his horse's reins left after the others when he happened to glance ahead. Mariotto and Antony and the rest of the former frontrunners were pushing hard as ever, not realizing they had missed the turn. Hadn't they heard the cheer?

Squinting, Pietro finally saw what they had seen already — far ahead, just as the city walls curved inward, there was a flutter of red. Another flag? How could that be? How could they turn here and at the next block as well?

Pietro had to make a choice. Swallowing hard, he ignored the nearer flag. Instead, he followed the six leaders. As he kept on south, he tried to put a finger on what was bothering him about that nearer flag.

He caught sight of Marsilio's bright white farsetto over the matching caparison of the horse. The colours jogged his memory. The Paduan had ridden within a handspan of the false flag. Another image flashed into Alaghieri's mind — Marsilio almost falling out of his seat at the beginning of the race. It had seemed an accident, but what if it hadn't been? Why else would he…

The starter's flag
. Carrara had lifted it from where the Grand Butler had thrown it down. That same flag now had forty-one men racing in the wrong direction.

Crafty Carrara. He's eliminated most of the competition.
It was a good ploy. If he hadn't been hedged, Pietro would have made the turn without hesitation. Now only he and the six ahead of him stood a chance of winning. By the time the others realized they had taken a wrong turn they'd be well into the eastern portion of the city, beyond hope of finding the trail again.

Pietro urged his horse on. With the field open around him he was able to close much of the gap between himself and the riders in the lead.

Mariotto and Antony were pushing each other joyfully, cursing and playing. At the start of the race, both had been grimly set on winning. But as they had passed San Zeno, Antony had been unable to resist reaching across and tugging Mari's saddle horn up into his friend's crotch. Mari's response was to grab an apple from an outstretched hand in the crowd, bite, and spit the chunks of it at Antony. These antics kept either one from pulling into a decisive lead. But they weren't even halfway through the course — this was the time for fun!

Mari pulled out his knife and flipped it into the air. Antony grabbed it and, unsheathing his own, tossed both back. A juggling match began, shimmering arcs of silver slicing the frosty air between them. The trick for the thrower was to flip in such a way that the other had to grab it by the blade. For the recipient, it was important to catch the blade without slicing through the glove.

"Be careful!" shouted Mari. "You might need that hand on your wedding night!"

"Shows what you know!" cried Antonio, snatching a blade from the air with three fingers. "You don't use your hands! Unless that's all you have!"

Mari gave Antony the fig.

Further back, Marsilio da Carrara spurred furiously on. He'd fallen back to drop the false flag and was now racing to catch up to Montecchio and Capecelatro. He had much to prove.

The luxury of his imprisonment had made it all the more humiliating. They had been well fed, wined and dined until all hours as if they were visiting royalty, not captives. Their rooms in the Vicentine palace had been sumptuous. Uncle Giacomo took it as a sign of respect. Marsilio had not seen it that way. It was disdainful — they should have been tortured, starved. That was Marsilio's own inclination towards 'guests' of Padua. Yet the Scaliger held nothing but contempt for them, and he showed it by pampering them.

The rain had been a tonic to Marsilio's soul. His homeland was safe from the ravages of the Veronese bastard. It was his shame that Nature, and not man, had been Padua's savior. And when his uncle had suggested meeting with the Scaliger to settle terms for peace, Marsilio had balked. If Il Grande had been any less persuasive or powerful a man, Marsilio would have voiced his outrage in public. As it was, he argued for hours in the privacy of their rooms. Uncle Giacomo had stressed the political advantage of arranging this peace now. "Padua will see us as saviors, and our family will rise to preeminence, as is our right."

Marsilio had countered bitterly that there was no need for peace, that with the rains blocking the roads and swelling Padua's defenses, their homeland could reform their army. Vicenza could still be theirs. Il Grande had actually laughed at his nephew. "Vicenza will never be ours, boy. Not after this defeat. Perhaps someday the Vicentines will be under Paduan rule, but not in our lifetimes. Besides," he'd added cruelly, "if we don't agree, we'll have to ruin ourselves by paying our ransom to Alaghieri. Unless you have a fortune stashed away somewhere?"

When the short traitor da Lozzo had opened the doors to escort them to the farcical meeting, Marsilio played his part. He'd watched as his uncle discussed terms with the Scaligeri minions over a game of dice — dice! And the result proved his uncle correct. Giacomo Il Grande was now the favored name on every lip, a sure bet for
Podestà
. Marsilio's own name was highly praised as well, receiving reflected glory for his uncle's deeds. It was somehow worse. His uncle was allowing him to reap the benefits of the peacemaking, implying Marsilio could never attain political heights on his own.

And now they were here, in this vaunted cesspool for some irreligious festival. Told it was his
duty
to show the new amity, Marsilio had resisted coming, even to the point of faking a fever. Until he remembered the famous Palio. A chance to show these trumped-up, Frenchified, German-loving, boot-licking, quasi-Italians what they lacked.

Now his path was blocked by the shenanigans of the pretty stripling he'd tried to skewer and the oaf that had saved him. Carrara had not forgotten them, nor the shame of the mocking he'd been subjected to. He'd sat digging his nails into his palms as these two and that damned Alaghieri were knighted before his very eyes for deeds done against his homeland.

Unable to resist, Marsilio urged his courser between the impromptu juggling act. Plucking one of the knives from the air, he called out, "Catch me if you can, children!" He listened to their curses behind him as he tucked the silver dagger into his boot.

Carrara had to bank left with the curve of the walls. These fortifications were clearly new, built in Cangrande's plan to expand Verona's defenses, enclosing the farms that fed the city.

From one of the farm's trees hung another crimson flag. The crowd of farmers and their families cheered deafeningly as the lead riders turned east, back towards the heart of the city.

Trailing after the leading horses, Pietro was jeered by the farmers, though a few shouted encouragement. Turning at the dirty corner of the Via Santa Trinita, Pietro was only two lengths behind the small clump of leaders. He hoped he hadn't pressed his horse too hard doing so. There was still the second lap to go.

On the Via Cappucini they passed under another ancient arch, left again, and the Arena loomed before them. They rode towards it, careful on the cobblestones lest a horse slip and break a leg. Their slower pace brought them all neck and neck as they burst forth into the Plaza Bra. The seven horses thundered past the Arena in a line like something out of a painting or a plate in a German
fechtbuch
— a perfect row of horsemen galloping towards some unseen enemy.

Above, men were perched across the Arena top and in the arched alcoves. Several were knocked over the edge into space as their fellows pushed for a better view.

Pietro headed towards the Gavi Arch, old and crumbling. They had already passed under the plain white marble pillars once, and they did so again, turning to briefly traverse the Corso Mastino once more. Confused citizens stood in their way, almost getting trampled for their trouble. Their confusion stemmed from witnessing a whole stampede of horsemen racing the other way just two minutes before.

One man threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands. "Watch out!" Pietro cried as his horse jumped over him. The palfrey landed well, never breaking stride as he pressed on towards the river.

They were tracing the same path they had already taken along the river's edge. This time there was less joking rivalry and more aggression as they jostled and butted for position. Since they all now knew the course, each thought he could measure his mount's endurance for it. By now they'd all realized that they seven were alone. Only Pietro knew it was Marsilio's cleverness that had caused the others' erroneous detour.

Chance placed Pietro and Marsilio side by side at the back of the pack. "Neat trick with the flag!" If Carrara heard he didn't reply.

It wasn't Marsilio but a Veronese rider who raised the next obstacle. This cavaliere was by far the oldest of the racers still in contention, closer to forty than thirty. On the last pass he'd seen the stack of barrels by the waterfront. Lashing out with his foot, he dislodged one of the lower wooden containers, creating an avalanche of malmsey casks.

The other riders were too far along to be incommoded. It was only Marsilio and Pietro who had to contend with the barrels. They'd have to slow to navigate their way. Or else…

Marsilio's tall, beautiful, hot-blooded horse made the leap with ease.

Damn his eyes!
Pietro's little palfrey was too short. It was sure to catch a hoof and send him toppling end over end. But he was going too fast to turn or halt! His breath caught, recalling the sound at Vicenza as the horses had toppled over each other. Under him the beast's hindquarters tensed. With a mighty heave they were airborne. Pietro's eyes clamped shut. The next thing he'd hear would be the crack of a rear hoof catching a barrel. Then there would be pavement and mud and the horrible crunch of his bones shattering.

The jolt sent a chill through him. The front hooves connected with the mud. And then nothing but the rhythm of the running horse. He heard the cheer from the crowd before he realized that his palfrey had made the leap. Opening his eyes, he patted the horse vigorously. "Good boy, Cunnus! Good boy!"

He was hardly out of step with Marsilio. Looking back in disbelief, the Paduan gave Pietro a mocking salute.

Pietro wanted to give the palfrey the praise it deserved, but the race wasn't over. Out of gratitude, he didn't use his spurs, just squeezing his thighs inward instead. The noble beast understood. Ducking its head low, the lathered mount chased after the figures hurtling towards San Zeno.

It was as they were coming up the slopes towards the church that Pietro hissed out a breath of awe. There was no flag! The flag had gone! All the riders checked, cursing. There was no flutter of crimson anywhere. Could it have fallen?

Pietro's eyes automatically sought out Marsilio. The Paduan was looking in as much confusion as the others.

"Do you see anything?" called Mariotto.

"Nothing!" Pietro called back, scanning the skyline. They'd ridden directly across the front of the church last time. There had been a series of flags, marking each turn in the piazza. But if not there, then where…