The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  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 hea
vy 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 Adige'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 Adige 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.

  Slowly the lady rose and turned to face her tormentor. "I liked it, husband," she growled.

  "It was a beastly thing, wife! I'll not have my bride parading around on a holy day in such a mockery of decency." He belched, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

  "It was beautiful. And modest. And. I. Liked. It."

  "And I say, my sweet dearest one — It. Wasn't. Fit. For. You. If you want to go out, we'll have to find you something worthy of you."

  He'd taken a slight step to look over the rail after the gown and, like a well-trained soldier, she had countered his move. Now she faced him from her corner of the railing, a sly look crossing her face.

  "Fine," she said. Her hands flew to the laces of her gown, ripping the seams apart where the laces were too caked with mud to be removed. Stockings and slippers flew down into the crowd, followed by the cream under-garment she had been wearing. A hand went up to her hair and removed the pins that held it in place. As she tossed the pins aside a cascade of red hair fell about her shoulders. To the amazement and overwhelming approval of those below, she stood brazenly naked, hands on hips like her husband, making no concession to cold or modesty, though her pale body showed the cold in the most obvious way. "Well? Is this better?"

  The crowd was in a frenzy to get a better look at this mad young noblewoman. Yet she ignored them as thoroughly as she ignored the weather. Her focus was her mate. He had laid down a challenge. She had responded with one of her own. She seemed interested in, even eager for, his response.

  The bearded man had stood bemused through her disrobing. Any second now he would throw his robe over her shoulders and hustle her out of sight — the only decent thing to do! Yet he was just standing there, looking her right in the face without moving a muscle. She stared back at him. When he did nothing her chin rose in triumph.

  It was this that sparked her husband to action. Looking her up and down, he clapped his hands in approval. "An excellent solution, my love!" Leaping up onto the thin stone railing, he waved his hands for everyone's attention. "Let one and all bear witness!" His grin widened. "Bare witness. Ha! I have tried tailors up and down this land of ours, and I have found them all to be knaves! My wife has hit upon a home truth. From this day forward, no clothes are good enough to adorn her!"

  His wife looked up at him in shock. For the first time she seemed embarrassed, folding her arms across her chest. Or perhaps she was finally feeling the cold.

  He turned to the open doors. "Cousin Ferdinando, call forth my men! Grumio, call the horses! My bride and I will journey to the Scaliger's feast together — I mean, in the all-together!" A cheer from below, accompanied by offers of horses for the bride to straddle. Her husband pivoted on his precarious perch to face her. "Come, Kate. Let's to dinner!"

  "Husband," she said levelly, "where you are going, I cannot follow." With a tremendous heave she pushed with both hands.

  For a moment he was suspended above the street, his arms flapping wildly, his boots barely touching the stone railing. Then he toppled backward down two stories into the thronged masses below, roaring the whole way down.

  Without waiting to see if he landed safely she turned and walked back into the house. A frantic-looking servant nervously closed the double doors behind her.

/>   "You people are mad," said Carrara.

  "What the hell was that about?" Pietro exclaimed, eyes wide.

  Eyes streaming, Antony gasped for air, and any response Mari might have made was cut short by the arrival of Bonaventura. He had been caught by the crowd and was now being passed from hand to hand over everyone's heads. The man himself was crying with laughter. Upon passing the neck of Pietro's nag, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed at the pork. He missed, but immediately a dozen knives were back to cutting the poor shank of pig. People beseeched him to take some, and he did. "I'll give it all to my Kate — she hasn't eaten in some time! My servants are terrible cooks!" He grinned again as he was passed off to other hands, riding a human tide through the snow away from his own house.

  Probably for the best, thought Pietro. If that lunatic has a brain in his head, he'll never go home again. Not to a shrew like that.

  Constable Villafranca found the Capitano in the Scaligeri palace halls late that afternoon. The Scaliger had been to the site of the crash, only the first of several deaths today. There had been two brawls ending in murder, and several men had been injured in a goose-pull with one particularly ferocious goose who did not fancy being the object of sport. A full eighteen people had been fished out of the Adige, having been toppled in as the losers in quarterstaff matches.

  Cangrande kept himself apprised of all these events through his steward. The Constable found him giving orders to Tullio d'Isola for compensation for the dead and prizes for the living.

  "Capitano," said Villafranca softly. They had known each other a very long time, these two men. The form of address indicated the level of the privacy the discussion required.

  The Scaliger sent his Grand Butler off with instructions, then turned. "We only have a moment. If I disappear from the festivities for too long, someone will come looking."

  Nodding sharply, Villafranca said, "She's dead."

  If the Scaliger was surprised he didn't show it. "Not suicide, I take it?"

  "A wound in her chest, and — I don't quite know why, but her head…"