by David Blixt
Pietro turned quickly back to Katerina, who was listening to the poetry with her eyes closed. She owned the Scaligeri love of language. Miraculously, Cesco had fallen asleep. Pietro decided he could depart for a little while without offence. "If you'll excuse me," he whispered to Katerina.
Her eyes opened. "I will, if you promise to return after the race and keep me company."
He promised willingly, then passed the sleeping bundle off to the nurse. As Pietro stood, his greyhound rose to follow. "Mercurio, stay." The dog obeyed, curling up beneath Cesco's dangling feet.
Pietro crutched through the crowd. Gianozza watched him approach and curtsied when he drew near. "Cavaliere." The ladies around her giggled.
"Ladies." Pietro nodded to them, then addressed Gianozza. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. My mind was elsewhere."
Some of the girls nearby tittered and made sly comments. Realizing how they were looking at him, Pietro blushed. Taking his arm, Gianozza moved him closer to the open window. "Is there no woman in your life, Ser Alaghieri?"
"Not — not that I could marry, no."
The girl cocked her head and said a little breathlessly, "Does that mean you love someone whom you cannot marry?"
Pietro could have cut out his treacherous tongue. "No, lady, that's not what I meant. Simply, I know few women of marriageable age."
"Mmm. It's a shame I don't have a little sister at home." She turned towards the dark night outside. Torches were burning atop a building off to the left, the grand domicile of Cangrande's cousin Federigo. A party was going on there as well, the guests no doubt enjoying their excellent view of the finishing line. A similar torch burned at Pietro's elbow, perched just on the exterior of the Scaliger palace to mark the finish line.
Gianozza gestured at the snow. "Do you think it is too cold for them?"
"Not at all, lady. In the race this afternoon I was surprised at how quickly I forgot the cold." He told her of the fur-lined cloak that was now trampled into the mud of the river.
"Perhaps a duck will make a nest of it?" she suggested.
"Cold comfort, lady. It was a very nice cloak."
"I'm sure it still is."
"I'm sorry. It's foolish, but I was brought up to — well, to be frugal."
"As was I. I expect that being married to Ser Capulletto will be a shocking change for a girl used to thrice-mended gowns. But your donation of the cloak was a fine Christian act. At this very moment you are being praised by the duck family for your generosity." She laughed, then leaned close. "Are you sad not be racing with them?"
The girl was certainly forthright! That wasn't something you got from looking at her. "Yes, I'm afraid I am a little jealous of Antony and Mari."
"You're honest," she noted with approval. "Signore Capulletto said you were very brave at Vicenza. You and Cavaliere Montecchio. Tell me — was he in some way displeased with me? He left shortly after I entered the hall downstairs. Is it anything that I did?"
Pietro did not want to answer. He certainly didn't want to tell her Mari's opinion of her match. "He had a great deal on his mind. Just before you arrived, his father had recounted the tale of his mother's death."
Gianozza's brow knit in concern. "May I ask you to tell me the story?"
"It is not my story to tell. You should ask him yourself." He asked a personal question of his own. "Are you and your uncle close?"
"Great-uncle," she corrected at once. "He's the lord of the family but I rarely saw him until I came of age."
Until you became useful. Peasants could marry for love, but not the nobility. To them, marriage was a contract between families, an effort to produce children and further familial designs. Love was for extramarital affairs. Even the Church, which had proclaimed marriage a sacrament only sixty years before, winked at this custom. Courtly love, the love that yearns, pines, and burns — this was reserved for the world outside of marriage. Isn't that backward?
For a long time now Pietro had felt his hackles rise whenever the subject was broached. Perhaps it was because of his mother, and the sad look on her face whenever she read her husband's works. Their families had arranged Dante's marriage to Gemma Donati, but the poet's heart belonged to another — Beatrice, the Bringer of Blessings. Dante had dedicated his life's work to her, all the while sharing his days and his bed with a woman who was merely his wife. Perhaps peasants had the better bargain.
Still, Gianozza was in no danger of being marginalized. Antony had clearly set his cap on winning her heart. Even if she could not return his love, she would always be adored.
The girl was gazing at the snow that rose and fell in short gusts of wind blowing outside. "My family comes from a small hamlet to the southeast of Padua — Bovolento. My father was Signore Jacopino della Bella. I doubt you've heard of him. He died last year."
"Of what?"
"The gout." She said this last sadly, her eyes welling with tears.
"I'm so sorry," said Pietro, hoping to forestall any crying. "So you're not properly a Carrara?"
The girl sniffed, blinked. "My mother is Il Grande's niece."
"Oh."
The conversation ground to a halt. Pietro didn't know what to make of the girl. Something about her made him incredibly uncomfortable. As if he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what.
The wind outside picked up, throwing snowflakes into their eyes like tiny daggers of ice. To escape it they turned inward towards the festive throng. Music played. Deeming the hour right, Manuel, Cangrande's fool, had produced his lute and pipe. He managed to play both at once, a lively tune that men and women clapped along with. Among them, capering on his thick legs, was ruddy-faced Ludovico Capulletto. The middle-aged man hopped to and fro in opposition to the notes. Lord Montecchio was laughing in spite of himself, and many others leapt up to join the sportive Capuan.
"I'm afraid he's got it too," said Gianozza.
"What's that?"
Nodding at Capulletto, she said, "You see how he's favoring his right foot? Each step is painful. That's the beginning of the gout. No wonder he's trying to marry all his family off so young."
"Who else is there for him to betrothe? Antony is his only unmarried son."
"There is a grandson."
"Really? I didn't know he had a grandson."
"Well, there's no reason you should," said Gianozza. "He hasn't been born yet."
"You mean Luigi's baby?" Pietro's voice was louder than he'd intended. "He's engaged his unborn grandson? To whom?"
"A daughter of the Guarini family. She's about one now, I think. So they'll be of an age."
"That's ludicrous!"
"It's — unusual. As I understand it, part of the reason Signore Capulletto chose Verona was his strong ties to the Guarini. They've been partners in many business deals. Not," she added hastily, "that he's in trade any longer. He employs others to run those parts of his affairs these days." The girl's hands balled up into little fists. "Oh, I'm making a terrible fool of myself!"
Pietro ignored the distressed damsel in her tone. "How do they know the child will even be a boy?"
"All the midwives have said so. It's low, they tell the mother. That means it will be a boy. They've even named it."
"What name?"
"Theobaldo, I believe."
Pietro tried to imagine being betrothed from the womb. "Poor Theobaldo."
"Well, the alliance keeps his family on strong terms with theirs. It's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Breaking Ser Capulletto's engagement to me and betrothing him to the Guarini child instead."
The image of Antony carrying his infant bride towards the altar made Pietro laugh aloud, and he turned back towards the biting snow from the window to hide his face as he pictured Antony slipping a wedding band on the baby's tiny little finger.
Gianozza was giggling too, and the other young girls moved closer to find out what was so funny. But just then a cheer rose up from outside. It was impossible to see be
yond a few feet, but occasionally a gust of wind would open a patch of clear air before them. As the crowd at his back jostled Pietro towards the open air, he was pressed close against Gianozza. She smelled of orange blossoms, and the nearby torch marking the finish line lit her features as she scanned the street below them. She is lovely.
Gianozza pointed down into the snow-laden alley. "Look! Here they come!"
TWENTY-TWO
At the end of the alley blurry figures hurtled into view, shoving and pushing and tripping each other. A few in the back were limping heavily, and no one was running as quickly as he had at the race's start. Foot by dogged foot, they pressed on towards the Scaligeri palace.
On the balcony of Federigo della Scala's home across the way there was cheering and the waving of torches. "Stop waving those torches, you idiots!" shouted a man at Pietro's shoulder, but either they didn't hear or didn't care. Attracted by the cheers and the waving firebrands, several racers began to climb the wrong balcony in their blind desperation to finish. They were halfway up when they realized their mistake. Some dropped back to the earth to try again. Some found themselves bodily lifted up onto the open-air balcony and feted by a congenial host determined to ply them with drink and pry a story or two out of them.
Two figures in the snow approached the correct wall. They knew which was the loggia of the Scaligeri palace because they'd leapt from there five months before. Mariotto's dark hair was damp with melted snow and bore a crown of icy-white around the fringe. By his side ran the newly christened Antony Capulletto, whose hair was shorter, making the snow invisible. In the torchlight both their bodies glistened with snowmelt and sweat.
Pietro said, "Perhaps you should retire until the race is finished. It won't be long."
"I can endure the sight of a naked man," said Gianozza, her face turning red even as she smiled.
"I'm sure. But I doubt they can take being seen."
"Oh! Of course!" Taking pity, she stepped back to the far end of the loggia where most women had gathered.
Pietro turned back to the railing and called out encouragement. "Come on, you two! Get up here and have a drink!" He doubted they could hear him. In the street, on the loggia, on the balcony opposite, every man was shouting. Behind Pietro the jester Manuel was piping away like a madman, his tune high-pitched and frantic, an apt counterpoint to the action below.
At street level, Antony and Mari were both struggling to find a handhold on the icy walls. Antony got a firm grip on a post extending outward from the stable. A moment later Mariotto leapt into the air and clutched at a sconce above his head. Both got their feet under them and started the climb. Other men were beneath them now, trying to either mimic their actions or else dislodge them and bring them crashing back to earth.
Mari and Antony ascended, their fingers probing the wall for the next handhold. Finding one, Antony pulled himself higher, only to slip. He found himself dangling one-handed, his feet swinging free while he scrabbled at the wall for another grip.
Less than four feet away Mariotto found a place for some toes to grip, enabling him to stand as his hands quested. He looked to his right and saw Capulletto almost level with him. From above, Pietro glimpsed Antony's grin as he twisted around to face Mariotto. The Capuan kicked out at someone beneath him, knocking the fellow sideways off the wall and into the crowd. At the same time he stretched out a hand to Mari.
Pietro saw a momentary hesitation. Then Mariotto extended his own hand. The duo's fingers met and closed about each other, and Mari pulled Antony up to the next handhold. They climbed together, racing for the top. One of them was certain to win. A bare twenty feet below the window, Antony's joyous voice rang loud enough to hear over the cacophony. He had found a place to set his feet, leaving both hands free. This was even more dangerous. Leaning in towards the wall, without anything for his hands to grip, he could topple backward into the struggling mass of naked men beneath him.
Mariotto was higher on the wall, poised to clamber over the rail of the balcony and emerge victorious. If Antony was going to win he had to make a tremendous final effort. He balled himself up, tucking his knees under his chin, and launched himself up towards the balcony's railing.
His elated expression was instantly replaced by a sickening look of fear as Antony's angle of ascent changed. His chin banged against the railing of the loggia and his hands slipped off it. Pietro lunged forward to grasp Antony's wrists, but the cold wet hands fell away from his fingers.
Mari's hands appeared that very second. He was standing on the outer lip of the balcony, having heaved up from firmer footing.
"Mari!" yelled Antony, real fear in his voice, arms grasping at air.
Busy climbing over the rail, Mariotto didn't turn.
Pietro watched Antony fall, limbs flailing. There was a sickening crunch as he bounced off the wall, then a great thud as he landed among the breathless runners on the ground. Some had the sense to try to catch him. Others who hadn't seen him tumbling towards them were unwitting cushions. Then he was on the ground, holding his leg and shouting words it was best his fiancée not hear.
Pietro gave Mariotto a relieved smile. "He's hurt, but he'll live."
Leaning over to look down, Mariotto was ashen-faced. A blanket materialized around him and he was led swiftly away as more runners began to emerge. Pietro remained to help up the others who successfully completed the climb. Servants brought forward cloaks and socks. Bricks were already warm on the fires. The smell of mulled wine grew as vast tubs were brought out. Everything was ready to remedy the ills of the racers, who cheerfully huddled under blankets and gulped down drink so hot it scalded their tongues.
Tullio d'Isola came forward with a length of green silk, and also the rooster and the pair of gloves for whoever lost. Cangrande decided not wait for the loser. Pietro watched as the green ribbon was bestowed on young Montecchio, then pushed his way through to congratulate his friend. "How are you feeling?"
"F-f-frozen," said Mariotto, teeth chattering. "F-feels like a thousand n-n-needles in my feet. Ant-tony's n-nn-not hurt b-bad?"
"I don't know how bad it is," said Pietro. "Do you want to go find him?"
"We s-s-should, shouldn't we?"
"I think you should get warm, champion. I'll find Capecelatro."
"C-C-Capulletto."
"Right, I forgot." Crutch in hand, Pietro exited the loggia and plucked the sleeve of a servant. "Do you know where they took the injured runners?"
"I believe they're in the salon, ser."
"My thanks." Downstairs, Pietro opened several doors until he found the salon. Here the rushes were pungent, soaked by snow-covered boots tramping in and out. Candles lit, torches lined the walls. The men here were not particularly ill-tempered, just annoyed by their injuries. The Scaliger's personal doctor, Aventino Fracastoro, was here, as well as the ever-faithful warrior of wounds, Giuseppe Morsicato. The latter nodded to Pietro even as he massaged life back into someone's foot.
A cheerful Antony was stretched out on a long bench, wrapped in heavy blankets. His left leg stuck straight out in front of him, wooden splints embracing it. "P-P-Pietro! How is Gian-n-nozza? Is ss-she worried?"
Pietro felt guilty for not even imaging she might be. "I'm sure she is. Mariotto and I were. How bad is it?"
Antony groaned. "Broken! Badly, they say. Fracastoro put the splint on to keep me from moving it, but they still have to get everything back in place. I won't be riding for months!" He made a disgusted face. "And I was so close!"
"I saw you jump. What happened?"
"Hit my shin on something and lost my balance. I fell on Bailardino!" he added sheepishly.
Good. Pietro chided himself even as he thought it.
Antony looked imploringly at his friend. "I don't want Gianozza to see me like this. Could you and Mari entertain her tonight, in my stead?"
Pietro ignored the pricking sensation in his left thumb. It is not premonition, he told himself. It's just the cold. "I've promised Donna Katerina I wou
ld visit her, but perhaps Signorina della Bella will join us."
"Make sure Mari's there, too. I want them to be friends!"
"I will," said Pietro. "I promise."
Outside the palace, a group of inebriates leaned against a frescoed section of wall. Suddenly one jerked himself upright. "Jesus!"
"What's the matter with you?"
"I swear to God, the wall moved!"
"He's drunk!"
"So? It doesn't make me a liar!"
"Oh! Look at this one, who can move the walls of the palace!"
"No, really it gave a little…"
"He's fat enough to make it fall over!"
"Who said that!? Which of you drunks said it?"
"We may be drunk, doesn't make us liars!"
"Damn your hides! I'm the very image of fitness! Watch this!" He was cheered on as he performed a disastrous handstand.
"Go to it, Hercules!" Roaring and egging him on, no one gave the moving wall another thought.
It took half an hour for Mari to return to the loggia, resplendent in fresh clothes. Pietro was waiting by the door when he arrived. "How do I look?"
Gone was the new knight's garb, replaced by his own colours of blue and white, a touch of pink in the lining, the green ribbon across his shoulder marking him as the night's victor. Mariotto smelled of orange peel and mint, his dark hair was groomed, and his face was freshly shaven. Pietro, having neither bathed nor changed, felt shabby in comparison.
"You look better than Antony. He's—"
"Thanks!" Mariotto breezed past him into the crowd of guests. Pietro followed, looking around. Dante had retired, but Jacopo hobbled over to Pietro, walking on the outsides of feet that were clearly split and bleeding into their bandages. "Did you see me? Did you see me climb over the rail? I made it! And I was right there in the middle of the pack, not last like you!"
"O, thank you very much!" Pietro's determination to stay with Mariotto overpowered the impulse to throttle his brother.