by David Blixt
Mari looked murderous. "We're supposed to uphold our honour."
"Then think of the dishonour your family will suffer if you don't get knighted today. Antony, if you're mad at anyone, be mad at me. But apologize to Mariotto so we can get on with this." Already the other prospective knights were being summoned to the tunnel that led to the Arena floor.
Antony looked sullen. "I'm sorry, Mari."
Mariotto waited a beat before answering. "I should have let you get skewered."
"I should have let you get shot."
"You fell."
"So I did."
"I'm going to kill you in the Palio, you know."
"You'll die trying."
Mariotto raised the small silver dagger in his hand. "Don't forget, I've got a dagger with your name on it."
"So do I," Capecelatro said, lifting his own knife. And just like that, it was over.
Pietro put up his hands. "Remember, both of you, that my name's on one of these knives. Don't get any ideas."
"Pietro, you really need to stop worrying," said Mari as they fell in behind the line of young cavalieres at the tunnel's mouth.
"Yeah." Antony grinned. "You could start going prematurely grey."
"At least it won't be from my wife nagging me."
"A hit!" cried Mari.
Even Antony laughed as they rested in the shadow of the tunnel. "Keeps me from a life in church, though. Did you see that poor sod waiting on Guelco and the abbot?"
Pietro recalled the young monk with the new tonsure. "I did, in fact. I'm surprised he isn't married."
"Probably likes the boys," said Antony, scandalizing his friends. "But thank God, I've avoided the cloisters. Now I only have to weather a wife!"
"It won't be too bad, Antony," observed Mariotto.
"How do you know?"
"I don't. I was just trying to make you feel better."
"Why don't you ask your daddy to make you a match," suggested Antony sweetly. "Then we can both put our heads into the noose together."
"Not me," said Mariotto, puffing out his chest. "Footloose and fancy-free. When I marry, I want to have lived a little."
"Oh, thank you!" snarled Antony, rolling his eyes back in his head.
"Shhhh!" Pietro pointed. The steward was signaling that it was time to ride out into the Arena. He began to give them their instructions. The three young men in back shifted on their horses and straightened their farsettos as they listened.
"Pietro," whispered Antony urgently. "Seriously, dine near our table tonight. I don't want to meet her alone. Mari will be there."
"I will," Pietro whispered back.
Then they were riding out to huge applause under the noonday sun.
All fifteen new knights looked exquisite in their identical uniforms. The only difference among them was that no two bore the same feather in their cap. Here there was a peacock plume, there the pinfeather from a duck.
Entering from the west, directly opposite the Scaliger's balcony, they rode around the pit twice, then made for the center where they dismounted and knelt. A struggle for Pietro.
With solemn voice Cangrande read off the names of the chosen. When he came to the names of the Triumvirs he had to stop, so deafening was the applause. Then the Capitano called everyone into prayer, after which he gave all of them the charge of the Code of knighthood. He listed first the three ideals — Justice, Right, Piety — and then the four houses — the house of the Church, the house of the Widow, the house of the Orphan, and the house of the Oppressed — they must defend as cavalieri.
Bishop Francis came forward to recite the ten commandments of chivalry:
Thou shalt believe all that the Church teaches, and shalt observe all its directions.
Thou shalt defend the Church.
Thou shalt respect all weaknesses, and shalt constitute thyself the defender of them.
Thou shalt love the country in the which thou wast born.
Thou shalt not recoil before thine enemy.
Thou shalt make war against the Infidel without cessation, and without mercy.
Thou shalt perform scrupulously thy feudal duties, if they be not contrary to the laws of God.
Thou shalt never lie, and shall remain faithful to thy pledged word.
Thou shalt be generous, and give largess to everyone.
Thou shalt be everywhere and always the champion of the Right and the Good against Injustice and Evil.
"Now," commanded the bishop, "I call upon each of you in turn to proclaim two of the tenets in the Code of knighthood. Ser Bellinzona, you may begin."
Oh God. No one had told Pietro about this! Let's see. There are thirty-six tenets in the Code. Which should I choose? His choices mattered a great deal, for they would characterize his life as a knight from this day forward.
On the far end the man named Bellinzona raised his head and proclaimed, "Live for freedom, justice, and all that is good! Never attack from behind!" There was applause.
The next declared, "Administer Justice! Die with Valour and Honour!"
Bastard took three! Dying with Valour and dying with Honour are separate! Pietro resisted the urge to administer a little justice of his own.
"Destroy evil in all of its forms! Respect women!"
Two more good ones gone. Pietro was almost at the end of the line, with only Mariotto and Antony coming after him. Though he could repeat tenets used by other knights, it would be frowned upon. He had to find two of his own — but which two were obscure enough that no one in front of his would take them? He hardly wanted his life as a knight to be defined as "Avoid torture" or "Exhibit manners."
"Never attack an unarmed foe! Fight with Honour!"
Obvious. I knew they'd be snapped up right away.
"Always keep one's word of honour! Avoid cheating!"
I can't believe someone used the cheating line. He must be more panicked than I am.
"Exhibit self-control! Fight for the ideals of Capitano, country, and chivalry!"
Clever, swapping out king for Capitano.
"Exhibit Courage in word and deed! Be polite and attentive!"
There's a rather noncombative oath. Pietro listened as the list went on from knight to knight down the line towards him. Since many of the tenets overlapped, there were many references to Honour, Courage, Freedom, and Justice. One fellow, clearly desperate, used the torture line, which got a loud jeer from the crowd.
Pietro was planning on two that he thought were rather obscure — Always maintain one's principles, and Avenge the wronged. He was lucky to have thought of those two, because he couldn't remember any others that were yet unused.
Just as he was running over the words again in his mind, he heard the knight two places down from them proclaim them both! Oh fut! He had to find two more, but he hadn't been listening. Which ones have been used?
The knight beside him proclaimed, "Live to serve God, Capitano, and country and all they hold dear!" It was clever, the way he pushed two tenets into one fine sentiment.
It was Pietro's turn. He took a breath, raised his head, and let loose with the first two that came to mind.
"Live a life that is worthy of respect and honour! Protect the innocent!"
Cheers, not jeers. He sighed and lowered his chin as Mariotto looked up.
"Never abandon a friend, ally, or noble cause! Avoid deception!" More cheering, even though avoiding deception was awfully close to avoiding cheating.
Antony whispered, "Had to take the friendship one, didn't you?" He lifted his own head as Mari, grinning, dropped his. The big Capuan exclaimed, "Never use a weapon or stratagem on an opponent not equal to the attack! Respect authority!"
Mari snickered. "Respect authority?"
"Shut up, witless," hissed Antony. "I didn't mean you."
"Be quiet, the pair of you!" Pietro was pressing his lips tight together so as not to laugh. "Cangrande's talking again!"
The Scaliger was gesturing for silence. When the applause ended he put on a grave f
ace. "There is more to being a knight than skill at arms and wit. To become a knight is to take upon you the responsibility of being God's sword of justice here on earth. A knight does not enrich himself. He does not, as many today do, seek fame," here the Scaliger couldn't help smiling slightly, "or dress in the finest apparel." His angel's eyes returned to their most serious. "A knight rights wrongs. A knight protects the innocent. A knight listens to the words of the Lord. Do you understand this?"
"We do," proclaimed the assembled youths.
"Then take the communion I offer you, and be one with the Lord!"
As Cangrande finished speaking the charge, several priests and monks appeared. Pietro heard the chiming of the bells — it was exactly noon on the first Sunday of Lent. The prayers the priests spoke as they gave the fifteen of them communion also gave absolution to the citizens for not attending church on this holy day, using the creation of the knights as a special dispensation.
Pietro took the bread and drank the wine, thinking not of God but of how he could possibly endure kneeling any longer. His right leg was trembling, and in spite of the chilling cold he could feel sweat dappling his forehead. He was just thinking, Ceremony be hanged, I'm going to sit down, when he saw the Scaliger signaling them to rise.
"I bestow on each and every one of you the highest honour Verona can bestow — I proclaim you Cavalieri del Mastino!"
The new Knights of the Mastiff, Verona's private order of chivalry, stood basking in cheers. Antony raised his hands above his head in sign of victory. Mariotto blew kisses and waved, flashing his brilliant smile. Other new knights danced and cavorted around the inside of the Arena.
Pietro was grinning, tears in his eyes. He had seen, up on the balcony, his reserved father stand and shout with the rest. The poet's hand went up to his eye, as if to wipe away a tear. That put the seal on the proudest day of Pietro's life.
But it wasn't over. Outside the Arena there was cheering as well.
For now that the ceremony of knighthood was over, the Palio could begin.
Sitting in a shaded corner in a tavern along the route of the Palio, two men conferred. One, a remarkable figure, attempted to disguise himself from prying eyes by keeping well out of the light. The other, more average, was dressed in a clothes a bit too fine for the usual patron of such an establishment. Between them sat a hunk of cheese and some spirits, so far untouched.
The shadowed man stopped listening long enough to say, "That's a poor jest."
"It's no jest."
"The Scaligeri palace." The voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Right under the Greyhound's nose, yes."
"You're mad. I've been in Vicenza this last month and more, I've seen how he's watched. Day and night. In fact," the speaker leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eye, "I overheard their instructions, from the lady herself. She said there had already been an attempt. What haven't I been told?"
The average-looking man frowned in what might have been genuine puzzlement. "What attempt?"
"She didn't say much, but it happened in Padua. I swear, if I've been lied to-"
"I know nothing about Padua. Look, friend, I only bear the message. So either listen or walk." He waited, scrabbling off a corner from the block of cheese on the table. "Try some. No? Fine. Then let's get to it. They're running the horse race as we speak. Tonight is the footrace, yes? While that's going on, there's going to be a horde of people in the palace, there always is. You are to wait until the race is over and the winner is being feted. Then you make your move."
"The boy will be there?"
"I have it on the best authority that he will."
"And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in, much less get out? With a child, no less."
A diagram was slid across the scarred table. "Alberto della Scala was a cautious man. What the people giveth, the people taketh away. And he learned a lot from the death of his brother. One lesson was always have an escape route." A finger landed on a cross in the diagram. "There is a passage here, leading both to the feasting hall on the ground floor, and up to Cangrande's salon above it. It opens onto the street, here at the side, see? It's carefully painted in fresco, the seams are invisible unless you know to look."
"And this secret side door, it will be open?"
"It will."
"Who is going to open it for me?"
"You don't need to know that. Just be there before the second race starts. While the Scaliger is distracting everyone by starting the race, you can slip in. No one will see you."
A hand darted out to grasp the planner's wrist. "Tell me why I should trust you. It may be well worn, but your accent — "
"— is not your concern. Nor the name of my employer. Your needs are aligned with ours for this fraction of time. Do not expect to see me ever again. Remove your hand and go."
Their eyes held, and slowly physical contact was ended. The diagram was tucked away and the men parted, one eager to disappear into the crowd outside, the other content to watch him go.
A nearby door opened and another man sidled up to the bench and sat. "He seems a pleasant type. Can he do it?"
"We'll see. He's certainly determined enough." They each quaffed a drink. "What about that other piece of business?"
"Done and done. The future is behind her now."
"Good." They finished their spirits and stood, leaving the tavern to watch the race before returning to the palace for an evening that promised even greater excitement.
Seventeen
Even with the capable Tullio d'Isola organizing affairs, it was closer to one than to twelve before all the prospective contestants were mounted and ready on the Arena floor. Flasks passed from hand to hand to keep off the cold, jokes were told, surreptitious sabotage attempted on saddles and reins. But now, at last, all was set, awaiting the Scaliger's command to begin.
Pietro had traded his destrier for his palfrey. Warhorses were forbidden entry — a beast bred and trained to trample, bite, and kick would give unfair advantage. Thinking he'd have to dash to the Scaliger stables to fetch it, Pietro was surprised to see a squire racing forward with the thin brown horse already saddled, new spurs dangling. They were knight's spurs, recognizable by their length. Since a mounted soldier rode tall, legs locked, the long necks allowed the rowels to reach the horse's flanks. He fitted them on as the squire led his destrier away. "Hey! What's his name?!" But the squire was already gone.
Pietro shifted the caparison under him. A knight's horse was often covered with a large cloth with the ornamental designs corresponding to the knight's heraldic patterns. It served as a form of identification in battle and on parade. There were several fancy devices in the press. Others were bare under the saddle. Pietro's borrowed caparison bore the Scaligeri ladder. Pietro wondered what he could add to the boring old Alaghieri family crest to spice it up some. Perhaps a sword.
Other young men had forgone the ceremony and the blessing to fetch their own horses from nearby stables. Stallions, mares, and palfreys all came trotting into the center of the Arena, which served as both the start and finish line. Young and old alike were breathless with excitement.
On the balcony, Cangrande watched the preparations with real longing in his eyes. He had been the victor of every Palio, horse and foot, from age thirteen until his brother's illness. As ruler, it was unfair for him to participate. His only consolation was that now it fell to him to design the route. The course was different each year. Servants had been out during the morning hours frantically hanging banners at street corners. Those at the forefront of the race would have to have their wits about them or else they would lose the track, be either disqualified or hopelessly left behind.
On the Arena floor, Pietro mounted, whispering names in his palfrey's ear. "Zeus? Apollo?" The beast hardly noticed him. "Frederick? Peppin?" Nothing.
Familiar faces emerged from the mob. Nico da Lozzo was there, trying to strike up a conversation with Antony's dour elder brother. Good luck with that, thought Pietro. The fellow h
adn't even congratulated his brother on being knighted. Pietro stopped feeling bad for forgetting his name.
Forty-seven men were participating this year. Some were youths hoping to make a name for themselves. Others were men well into their forties who had participated in the Palio every year since coming of age, determined to do so until they won or died. Every man clutched his reins and breathed in the harsh winter air. Pietro was grateful that, unlike the footrace tonight, this race was run fully clothed.
"Brutus? Cassius? Hades. Pluto. Mars?"
Suddenly a dark-haired knight on horseback emerged from a tunnel, dressed in a starched white farsetto and brilliant red hose — the colours of Padua. Under the white doublet he wore a tunic closed at the throat that was as red as his hose. The fellow's only concession to the cold was a black woolen scarf wrapped around his throat, its ends jammed into the collar of the white leather doublet. Though white was the colour of mourning, he cut so fine a figure that the crowd oohed as he came into view and others riders moved aside to make a path.
The horse under the rider was not a palfrey. Few men could afford the upkeep of more than two horses, and most of a knight's money went towards the upkeep of his destrier, followed by his riding horse. But this horse was a courser, a strong, lean horse made for racing. This one probably had 'hot' blood in its veins, bred from Arabian or Turkish stock. There were five or six coursers in the Arena, but none so magnificent.
Astride this magnificent piece of horseflesh sat Marsilio da Carrara, bolt upright. Beneath the saddle, the caparison was starched a stainless, expensive white. With his blinding hues, Carrara stood out white as snow against the furs and the cloaks around him.
"Showy son of a bitch," muttered Mariotto.
"Hope that thing bolts right out from under him," spat Antony.
Pietro felt Carrara's eyes sweep over to him. Forcing himself to ignore the Paduan's noxious presence, Pietro continued whispering names in his mount's ear. "Caesar? Augustus. Nero!" Not a twitch.