by David Blixt
On Mariotto's other side sat the Montecchi patriarch. Mariotto's father was chatting with a large, ruddy-faced man with thick broken veins across his face. Unlike Lord Montecchio, who was dressed in sumptuous but understated clothes, this man wore a wild compilation of layers, brocade, lace, and fur all fighting for dominance. The cacophony of colours and textures fought to swallow the man, but to his credit they failed. He was impressive both for his girth and for the gleam of intensity in his eyes — eyes that looked strangely familiar. The man threw back his head in a loud laugh, and Pietro suddenly realized, It's Antony, twenty or thirty years down the road.
This observation was borne out when a sandy-blonde head capped with purple leaned into view to converse excitedly with Mariotto. Noticing Pietro looking at them, Antony waved and said something to Mari, who turned and winked. Pietro waved in return, pointing to his cap. Mariotto pointed to his own and grinned.
When Antony leaned back, Pietro caught a glimpse of another Capecelatro. This tight-lipped figure had to be Antony's older brother. He did not wear the purple, and Pietro wondered how jealous he must be to be forced to watch as his little brother was knighted by the lord of their new home.
Next to the Capecelatro heir sat a veiled woman who was at least eight months pregnant. Pietro assumed this to be Antonio's sister-in-law. So the Capecelatro family was about to produce another generation. The woman pulled back her veils for a breath of unfiltered air, and Pietro was shocked at how fair she was. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. She seemed not to have eyebrows at all, her hair was so light. She was everything a classical beauty should be, yet her face was pinched and uncomfortable.
The balcony contained other faces: the unwelcome Abbot of San Zeno, along with the Scaliger's personal priest and the new Franciscan bishop, appropriately called Francis. Seated between the abbot and the bishop was a Dominican abbot, who tried to bridge the gap between the two men.
Behind them was a young fellow in a Franciscan cowl doing service to his master as a page would to a knight. The young monk was in the spring of his orders, his tonsure new and carefully tended. His eyes were light grey, the colour of a cloudy sky, his hair a raw black. He had a long, solid chin and was quite comely. Pietro wondered why such a handsome man would take the cloth so young in life — though clerical celibacy was the base of a hundred jokes. There was a priest who lived with six girls…
Dante was staring at his son. "What are you smiling at?"
"The play, father," said Pietro quickly.
An arched eyebrow. "The play is over."
"Oh."
Jugglers came next, followed by acrobats and trick riders. As the sun mounted, so did the anticipation. The first Palio would take place just after noon, just after the ceremony of knighthood. Other than himself, Mari, and Antony, Pietro counted twelve more men in the purple and silver scattered though the nearby crowd, shifting excitedly in their seats.
Pietro realized he'd missed an announcement from the heralds. He turned to his brother. "What did they say?"
Jacopo was busy waving to some girl, her father staring angrily over her shoulder. Pietro's answer came from in front of them, as Lord Castelbarco turned in his seat. "The next performer is the oracle."
"An oracle?"
"It's tradition," affirmed Nico da Lozzo, the Paduan turncoat who was now one of Cangrande's trusted lords. "It's the most delicious of the warm-up acts. The oracle always predicts doom and destruction, with just a hint of hope."
"It's disgusting," said Dante sternly. "The art of prognostication is not for entertainment."
"What other use is there?" asked Nico lightly. "You can't live your life according to prophecy. Look at the prophets of history — always vague. No matter what happens, they can claim the credit for it. But it's great for stirring up a dull crowd! Set them up for you new cavalieres to knock down. Make the crowd gasp and pray to avert some doom, then reveal the new knights, the only ones who can save them." Looking up past Pietro, Nico's eyes fell on the abbots and the new Franciscan bishop. "Of course, the Church has to put its seal of approval on the enterprise long in advance."
Pietro's brow furrowed. "You mean what the oracle says is decided ahead of time?"
The former Paduan rolled his eyes. "Of course! You can't let her make it up on the spot! What if she predicts a plague, or a poor harvest? No, it's usually a victorious war and the death of Verona's enemies. Oh, look! Here she comes!"
The quality of the crowd's noise changed as the oracle shuffled out. She was a tiny thing. In defiance of the chilled air she wore no robe, no fur, only a shapeless gown of pale blue. Her body was so thin as to be shapeless too — no hips, no breasts, nothing to disturb the line of the gown. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, thin and almost nonexistent. Pietro would have mistaken her for a boy if Nico hadn't already indicated her gender.
The complete lack of form to the body or the clothes only brought more strongly to the fore the oracle's most striking feature — her hair. Long and black as a raven's, it reached all the way to her ankles. Entirely without curl, it shimmered in the February sun.
She stopped just beneath the Scaliger's balcony. Without raising her head she bowed to the lord of Verona. The Scaliger bowed in return, then remained standing high above her as she lifted her head past him to the sky, eyes shut in concentration. Her body swayed, head dipping left, then down to her chest. She repeated this move three times before the swaying stopped.
A sudden shudder made the crowd gasp as the grey eyes opened to stare at the Scaliger. Slowly, in a soft voice that somehow carried throughout the Arena, the oracle addressed Verona's lord:
"Can Francesco della Scala! Verona will reach its greatest heights under your rule! Your fame will be great while you live. Though forgotten in two generations by the world outside our walls, it shall never cease to be spoken in the city of your birth. You are the flower of Verona's pride."
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.
"Only once will you fail in battle, and that day shall be far from your last in the field. Only once will you fail in friendship, though that will be a far greater stain on your name than the defeat in war. You shall survive both of these to be the victor of all that is your right."
On the balcony Il Grande raised an eyebrow at that last phrase.
"Yet while you live the seeds will be sown for the destruction of this fair city."
This was more like it! Doom and gloom! Thrilling, the crowd pressed forward to hear more.
"It will not be wars that destroy this fair city, but hates! Yet the hates will be born of love. Three great loves shall bring Verona low. They will also seal its fame. Two of these loves will be consummated in marriage. One will not. The love that is denied will shape the man to come. It will be his duty to save Verona. He will destroy it instead. His is a twisted path. The stars are against him, yet in spite of all, they love him. He will renew lost arts, and will be the great unsung hero of both Verona and mankind. The heavens weep for him."
The murmurs were rising, and the question was repeated from lip to lip. None raised their voice, but they all urged Cangrande to ask what was on everyone's mind.
He did. "Who?"
"Look to your cousins," was the hollow reply.
Cangrande's wife frowned. So did Katerina. Bailardino looked puzzled. The crowd cast quick glances at Mastino and Alberto. Glances, too, were sent towards young Cecchino and his pregnant bride of five months. All of these were 'cousins,' but only in the broader sense, for Cangrande owned no true cousins.
The Scaliger stared at the oracle with an expression as fixed as the low stone wall his fingers were gripping. "Tell us more!"
"Two of these great loves will occur within your lifetime. One will be born this very year, one within a year of your death. The last — the last will come in its own time. All three loves will be united in the last, and though it will diminish the city in power, it will raise it in fame. Verona will always be remembered for love."
The eyes closed. The head drooped. The long hair swept over the face, obscuring it from view.
The Capitano did not wait. He took a purse from his belt and threw it down into the pit. It clattered at the oracle's feet.
The crowd roared to life, a thousand voices chattering at once. Hadn't she said their city would be famous? And the Capitano would win everything he dreamed of! Terrific stuff!
But what about the darkness? People whispered, nudging their neighbours, looking at the children on the balcony near the Scaliger. Which of them would be that unsung hero of Verona? Certainly not that Alberto. He had none of his grandfather's daring or piety. And that Cecchino was a wastrel. But there, looking down on the oracle as she was led away, there was little Mastino. Gossip said he was a wild one — hadn't she said a twisted path? Oh, he was the one to watch.
Pietro saw the realization pass over the six-year-old. The boy straightened, basking in the attention. Pietro could see his pleasure and, beneath it, a hunger for more.
Nico had said that the oracle's words were written ahead of time — she was supposed to have been another part of the pageant, like the actors and the jugglers. But something in the air told Pietro she had departed from her script.
Poco nudged him. "What's wrong with your dog?"
Pietro glanced down to Mercurio. Until now he'd been in a fine mood, lapping Pietro's hand happily. Suddenly the greyhound was shaking, traces of froth and drool around his mouth. His eyes, angled up to the open sky, were strangely opaque.
"Mercurio? Hey, boy." Voice urgent, Pietro rubbed Mercurio's ear. "What's the matter?"
Eyes blinking, Mercurio turned its head and laid his chin on Pietro's right thigh. The hound always arranged himself on Pietro's wounded side, the better to protect it. Pietro used both hands to lift the dog's face and nuzzle it with his own. "You all right, boy?"
There was a plucking at his sleeve, and the Grand Butler was saying, "It is time, my lord."
Lord? Dear God, he means me! Pietro turned to his father. "Could you keep an eye on Mercurio?"
Dante nodded, reaching out a hand to brush the Mercurio's snout, a game the poet and the hound had developed. The dog ducked and swiveled his head over the extended hand, waiting for Dante's second try. Dante glanced at Pietro. "Go on. We're fine."
Rising, Pietro leaned on his crutch and hobbled after the rest of the prospective knights as they passed under the seats on their way down to the Arena floor. It was good to be out of the chilled air for the moment. The braziers on the balcony had helped, but the cold air threatened to freeze the blood in a man's veins.
Or perhaps it was the oracle's eyes.
Sixteen
As Pietro followed the steward's lead, Antony and Mari fell in beside him. "Let's get this over with," said Antony, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "I want to get to the race."
Mariotto hit his friend on the arm. "Just like you to think of the greatest day of your life as nothing but the race. We're to be knighted!"
Antony said, "You're running, aren't you, Pietro?"
Pietro almost answered in the negative. Then he remembered Bailardino's comment about riding. No, he couldn't compete in a midnight footrace. But that didn't stop him from riding his new palfrey in the noon stampede. He nodded. "I think I will!"
"Good!" Antony clapped a hand on Pietro's back, hard. "Mari and I have a bet on who will win."
"There's no chance you'll win, oaf, unless you fall off your horse onto me again," replied Mariotto.
"Would you listen to him? I save his life — "
"You fell! You said so yourself!"
"I saved your life!"
"I saved yours!"
"Pfah! You should have that Morsicato look at your head, pretty boy. Phantom knights with spears!"
"Phantom crossbows is more like it — "
"Girls, girls," laughed Pietro. "You're both pretty." Which turned them both to attacking him.
There was more good-natured scuffling as they walked down a ramp and under the outer ring of the Arena's lower level. All around them were remnants of past times: grooves in the marble floor worn by centuries of traffic; the rough sockets in the walls where, after Rome's fall, citizens suspended timbers to create homes out of the Arena walls; and here and there a touch of the original paint still lingered, reminding everyone that the Roman Empire had been a startlingly garish place.
"Say," said Mari suddenly, "look what Antony and I have!" He drew a long silver dagger from its sheath at his back. "Show him yours, you big lout! Or have you lost it already?"
"I have mine right here," retorted Antony, tossing his dagger up by Mariotto's head.
Mari's gloved hand plucked the blade from the air. "Nice."
"Daggers?" Pietro wondered why he didn't get a silver dagger in his box of weapons. Or had he overlooked it?
"Something Mari and I had made," said Capecelatro. "We got one for you, too. A gift." He handed over a third matching weapon, which Pietro accepted joyfully.
Mari pointed to his own. "Look, on one side it says 'The Triumvirate,' and on the other a name engraved on it." Sure enough, Pietro saw Mariotto etched with acid into the finely wrought silver of one, Antonio in the other. The one in his hand read Pietro.
He looked up into their expectant faces. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you can juggle!" Antony and Mari started tossing their knives back and forth with practiced ease, causing people around them to duck and curse. Pietro tossed his up into the mix and nearly sliced his free hand open as he caught the one that flicked back at him.
"We were thinking of working up an act for the next festival," said Mariotto. "You should join up — we'd be famous!"
"Yes, the three-fingered trio," laughed Pietro, ducking. "Watch out!"
"Did you listen to that oracle?" asked Antony, catching a knife and waving it back and forth mystically as he crossed his eyes and began to moan. "Loooovvve! All of you will die for loooooove!"
Mariotto snickered. "Wait a minute — she didn't say it was the love of a man for a woman. Perhaps it will be love of battle that will destroy the city!"
"Or of poetry," growled Antony.
"Or of wine," observed Pietro.
"Well then I'm safe," sighed Antony happily. "I prefer beer."
"You would!" snorted Mari. "You're probably really a German. The whole Capua story is a lie."
"That's right," nodded Antony. "Spying for the Empire, here to report on who's fit for battle. I've told them that of the whole Montecchi clan, only Monsignor Gargano Montecchio is fit for duty."
They were trailing the crowd of new knights around the outer ring of the Arena, below the vaulted arches that held the seats. Mari said, "I have a pretty fierce aunt in a convent in Treviso. Perhaps your father would fancy her," he added to Pietro. "Her name is Beatrice."
"Ouch! One is enough, thank you." He explained that his sister would soon be joining them in Verona. "The old man calls her Beatrice."
"Maybe your father and Mari's will arrange a match," muttered Antony.
Pietro was shocked. "What?"
"Don't mind him," chuckled Mariotto breezily. "He's only cross because he meets his bride today."
"Don't remind me!" shouted Antony.
"Bride?" said Pietro, eyes wide.
Mariotto glanced down at the dagger in his hand. "Hey, oaf — you've got mine."
"And I'm going to keep it," muttered Antony, slicing the air. "If you bring her up again, I'll give it back to you up to the hilt!"
Grin widening, Pietro repeated, "Bride?"
"Yes, yes!" proclaimed the Capuan hotly. "My father's arranged a marriage for me. I meet her today."
Mariotto was positively joyful. "There will even be a formal betrothal on Wednesday. And a solemn supper, and a clasping of hands, and a — "
"And a dead Montecchio for dessert," growled Antony.
Reaching the exterior of the Arena, they circled around to where their horses waited, the giant destriers. Their saddles
were all equipped with swords and bucklers. Apparently they were to ride out in full glory.
As he was being helped into his saddle Pietro said, "So who is she? Some old widow?" The look that earned him was deadly.
"Better," Mariotto told him brightly. "She's Paduan."
"No!" said Pietro incredulously.
"Not only a Paduan," beamed Mari as he mounted. "She's a Carrara!"
That took a little of the joy out of Pietro's smile. "What?"
"That bastard's cousin," moaned Antony. "My father went to the Capitano and they decided it would be a fine way to signal the peace. Cangrande has no relatives of marriageable age, so he agreed to present me to the Carrarese."
"That's — quite a match." Pietro didn't know much about Antony's family, but such a union was certainly above their station. It was a signal honour the Capitano was bestowing on the Capecelatro family. Just how much money does Antony's father have?
Hearing Pietro's thoughts, Antony bristled. "Oh, she's not too good for me. Don't worry your snobbish little head off."
Pietro frowned. "I didn't say-"
"No, you didn't! No one does. But I see it in your eyes. You too, Mari!" He swung a fist that barely missed Mariotto. "Everyone wonders why we left Capua, how we made our money. How does anyone make it? Just because we came to ours lately, we get snubbed! We run commendi now! We just provide capital! How did your ancestors get their wealth, Montecchio? Hmm? Are you so proud of the horse thieves in your family stable?"
A coarse and boorish thing to say, worse because it was true. For all their lands and respectability today, the Montecchi fortune had been founded by a branch of the family famous for stealing horses. Even the family motto, Montibus in claris semper vivida fides, had derived from that practice. Faith is always vigorous in the clear mountains — well, it would be if you were praying to avoid capture, riding stolen horses to some hiding place.
Around them the other soon-to-be-knights shifted, watching with eagerness. Mariotto's voice was level. "Take that back."
Antony was uncowed. "Make me."
Mariotto was about to launch a punch at Antonio's head when Pietro walked his horse between them, holding up his crutch. "Umm — I don't think this is how knights are supposed to behave."