by David Blixt
Unlacing his doublet, Cesco paused by Benedick's elbow. “Coming?”
Deep in banter, Benedick almost jumped off his bench. “Ah, no, lord.” He loosed a fake-sounding sneeze. “I think I'm coming down with something. The race this afternoon.”
Pulling a disgusted face, Cesco bowed sweetly to the lady and walked off, stripping as he went. Benedick raised his ruddy brows at Beatrice. “Lady, would you like to retire to the loggia and tell me more of what is wrong with me?”
“Are you truly not racing?”
Hearing a hint of disdain, he stood at once. “Of course I am.”
Her smile was, if anything, even more disdainful. “What about your cold?”
“A passing chill. No doubt from your presence.”
Beatrice pursed her lips. “No doubt. Very well. If you finish the race, I will tell you my life's story – provided you promise not to do the same. And not to interrupt.”
“I promise the one, but not the other.” Benedick grabbed her hand and impulsively kissed it, then turned and ran for the doors before she could speak.
The crowd outside was sparse, barely filling two-thirds of the Piazza dei Signori. Because the footrace didn't require ownership of a horse, it was usually the more contested event. This year, though, many men had decided to stay home. There was always next year.
Of those determined souls remaining – nearly two hundred – most had already doffed their clothes, it being far more comfortable to stand shivering in the rain than to feel soaked clothing against their skin.
Reaching Cesco at last, Pietro found himself the recipient of the young man's clothes. “Take these for me, Nuncle. Though I must call you Count Nuncle now.”
“That was stupid,” said Pietro.
“Was it?” Slapping his hands against his chest, Cesco hopped from foot to foot. “I thought it rather clever. Ah! The prodigal! Where have you been gadding?”
“Nowhere.” Arriving, Detto pulled off his hose and tossed them to a servant. “What's happened?”
“He's been goading Rienzi and Tiberio,” said Pietro quickly.
Detto winced. “Of course he has.”
“Are you mad?” demanded Pietro of Cesco.
Before Cesco could frame a biting reply, Detto shook his head. “He did it to focus their hatred on him, not her.”
Cesco made a gagging sound. “Is that the reason? I thought I was just an ass.”
“Both things can be true,” replied Detto. He looked ill.
Handing Cesco's clothes off to the servant, Pietro was about to say something more, but was cut off by a shouted command to follow the torches. The racers obeyed, Pietro trailing along after.
Around the back of the palace, under the cover of a pillared walkway, Cangrande struggled to make himself heard over the rain. “Each year I am pressed to make innovations in the Palio. Last year the contestants had to climb through six windows across the city. The year before, you were chased by the city's children carrying sticks to beat you with, and not allowed to retaliate.”
He inclined his head towards the naked Cesco, standing at the front of the crowd. “This being Ser Francesco's first year participating, I was determined to better myself. So this race contains not one new wrinkle, but three.” Wry cheers, groans, mocks. “As I recall from our first meeting, Francesco has an affinity for rooftops. That being the case, I've designed a route that will please him immensely. Starting and ending on the palace roof, the contestants must reach eight different points around the city without ever once setting foot on the earth below.”
Heads turned to look up at the wet clay tiles on the roofs above. Not a few racers wished they'd stayed home.
“Now, some roofs are too far away even for the nimblest of us to leap to. Wooden walkways have been put up, spanning the largest gaps. They're narrow, at most a foot wide. But don't follow them blindly – not all of them lead to the finish line!
“So much for the route. My second and third innovations were inspired by the weather. I cannot risk the lives of all my knights, soldiers, and bravest citizens. I have had the track reduced – you need to cover much less ground than I'd originally planned.” He grinned. “To compensate for this, the track is not marked. I wouldn't want this to be too easy! Instead of markers or torches, I have ordered clues placed around the city. It will require either brains enough to decypher them, or wit enough to follow someone who can. Of course, if you're following someone, you won't win, so use your heads! I can only plead with you all not to alter the clues when you find them, to give your fellow contestants a fair chance of winning.” Already there were suspicious glances. “In this race, speed is second to wit. You must find the final clue, then return to me in the palace with the message it bears.”
He waved towards servants setting out lengths of rope behind him. “The last innovation is a measure of both safety and challenge. Each man must take a partner. Using these coils behind me, every contestant must bind himself to his partner and remain bound for the entire course of the race. Anyone removing his tie or returning alone will be disqualified. This will let you help each other across the roofs, and also prevent anyone outstripping the slowest among you.
“I imagine this will take much longer than the usual Palio, so pace yourselves. Now, choose your partners and take up your cords!”
Like children picking team-mates for games of war, everyone leapt to take a partner. Again, as with children, friendship mattered most. The brothers Bonaventura were a pair, of course. Nico da Lozzo bound himself to Petruchio's old friend Hortensio. Bailardino partnered his younger son, Valentino, too young by age but a knight and therefore qualified to run. Cangrande's bastards Barto and Berto were a pair. To the surprise of many, Mastino partnered Marsilio da Carrara. His brother Alberto chose Jacopo Alaghieri, of course. Since Poco's brother wouldn't be running, Don Pedro of Aragon accepted the partnership of Signor Benedick of Padua.
“Being Paduan, do you know the city at all?” inquired Don Pedro.
Benedick indicated Cesco. “After running around chasing himself? I know it better than I do my own.”
Paride offered to partner Thibault, and Yuri naturally took Fabio to run with. At the last moment, Abramo Tiberio appeared, fearsome in his hairy nakedness. He tied himself to his wife's brother Adamo. Cesco's goads had worked. The men meant to prove themselves his betters.
No one had asked to partner either Cesco or Detto, as their choices were a foregone conclusion. Without even a look they picked up a single rope. Unlike most others, Cesco didn't bind his end around his wrist, but rather his waist, cinching it tight. Detto did the same. Seeing the sense in this, several men unbound themselves to follow suit.
An amusing twist to the partnering – no one wanted to tie themselves to either Capulletto or Montecchio. Benvenito had already partnered young Castelbarco, and Antony's brother-in-law had partnered Signor Placentio. All else were unwilling to risk offending one over the other. So at the end of the dividing, they stood there, naked, each alone, each with a length of rope in his hand.
Seeing this, Cangrande said, “Antonio, Mariotto, I know that for years it has been your fondest wish to see each other at a rope's end. Now is your chance!”
The crowd roared, then watched in anticipation. Montecchio's jaw worked back and forth while Capulletto's fists clenched and unclenched. Finally Montecchio dropped his rope and held out his hand. Capulletto rolled his eyes and, with an accusing look at many friends, whipped the rope's end up towards Mariotto's face. Mari caught it and gave his former friend a chilly smile. As they went about binding themselves to each other, wrist to wrist, they were greeted with an ironic cheer.
Aiello the Scot was present, and was about to partner one of his mercenary fellows when Cangrande intervened. Bringing forward the reluctant Benjamin Montagu, he said, “Antony and Mari are a revelation. Our friend here planned not to participate, for fear of his life. I hate to see him cheated of this sport, especially as he proved such a resourceful runner over the Alps. Si
nce I'd like to be certain he returns unharmed, I place him in your care, Signor Aiello.”
“Me?” demanded Aiello. “Why may I not partner Lord Capulletto, and let Lord Montecchio pair with his cousin?”
“Indeed,” echoed Antony, “that would be more—”
“No,” said Cangrande with finality. “With each man responsible for his partner, I can imagine no better way to ensure all men return in safety. Now come, young Benjamin, strip! The race awaits!” Montagu obeyed, causing Cangrande to marvel. “Ah! We have discovered where all your hair has gone! It traveled from your head to your chest. And nethers! Good lord, it's almost cheating – you'll be dressed in a wool coat while everyone else races nude!” A huge round of laughter. Montagu flushed in embarrassment.
All pairs set, Cangrande clapped his hands. “You must begin by climbing the palace walls, for this roof is both start and finish. On your way up you can puzzle out the first clue. Again in honour of my heir – and, by pure chance, my self – for your clues I have used the words of our mutual namesake, San Francesco. The first is this: 'Praise to thee, my Lord, for all thy creatures, Above all Brother Sun who brings us the day and lends us his light.'”
“Say it again!” called someone near the back. Cangrande repeated it twice more, enjoying the nearly two hundred brows furrowed in concentration. Then he took a torch, stepped out into the rain, and threw it high into the air. “GO!”
Every naked man scrambled for the walls of the palace. Detto followed Cesco's lead around the corner, where competition was less fierce. They were followed by a handful of others, including Benedick and Don Pedro, who had imitated Cesco's style of binding. Thus when they started their ascent, both arms were free to grasp the metal gate at the base of the wall.
These gates had metal bands encircling the Scaligeri crest, the simple ladder. Cesco stuck his foot in the ladder's highest rung and heaved himself up. “A scala for a Scala.”
As many contestants were discovering, it was much harder to climb quickly when bound to someone trying to climb in a different place, at a different pace. For those tied arm to arm, it was especially dangerous. Some would be in the midst of ascending when their partner lunged for a window or cornice, jerking the rope and pulling them right off the wall. Often they would collide with another pair, and another, and all together they would topple back to the ground. The rain was no help, either. In the rear of the Scaligeri palace, there were many falls and false starts among the hundred pairs.
The side gate was far easier to grip, and less crowded. Achieving the top, Cesco and Detto faced a brick wall. Balancing their toes on the knobs of the gate's posts, their fingers sought handholds. They weren't trying to climb upwards. Instead they went hand over hand sideways, along the south wall of the palace, to a faux bridge between the first Scaligeri palace and the newer one built by Cangrande.
A story lower than the roof, the decorative bridge bore jutting crenellations. Perfect for looping a rope over. Seeing what they were after, Benedick urged the Prince on.
Wedging himself into the corner between the palace wall and the bridge, Cesco flicked the slack of the rope upwards in an arc. The rain-soaked rope missed once, but Cesco got hit the crenellation on the second try. “Go!”
Immediately Detto pushed off the wall and started climbing the rope. Cesco did the same. A wrong tug from one would make the other lose his grip. But years of antics and capers gave them something akin to telepathy. They timed their hands to grab at the same moment, left then right, and together they reached the top as one.
A perilous three minutes later, Don Pedro and Benedick were at the top as well. It had taken Detto and Cesco half that long to reach the ledge eighteen feet overhead, and the roofline six feet above that. Red hair plastered to his skull, Benedick called up. “Hey! Give us poor foreigners a hint before you go!”
Cesco's head appeared, longish hair plastered across his eyes. “Brother Sun, he said. Have you seen the sun today?” Then he vanished.
Don Pedro looked blank. “Any idea?”
“Actually, yes,” answered the Paduan. “Come on.”
They were about to try the ascent to the ledge when a panicked shout from the railing drew their eyes. Bailardino and Valentino had attempted the same ascent, but since their weights were so different, Val had been pulled high while Bail had plummeted down. The Lord of Vicenza now hung suspended five feet over the street.
It might have been comical if his father's weight wasn't crushing Val against the crenellated rail. Val screamed as Bail yelled for help.
Pedro and Benedick backtracked across the narrow bridge, feet padding on the wet concrete. Bending low, the Spaniard eased the pressure on the twelve-year-old while the Paduan hauled on Bailardino's end of the rope. It was too slick, though, and kept slipping through his fingers.
A pair of thuds came from his left, and Cesco and Detto each grabbed at the rope in Benedick's fingers. Together they all heaved, and soon both father and son were on the narrow bridge, panting. Bail grasped Val close to him, stroking his soaked hair almost violently. Then he turned and crushed both Detto and Cesco with a bear-hug. “God bless you, boys! God bless!”
Cesco gasped something that sounded like, “So I'm forgiven?” but his air failed him.
Bail turned to thank Pedro and Benedick. There were murmurs and congratulations, when a cool voice said, “Ah, not to damage the moment, but we're losing the race.” Already on the ledge above, Cesco tugged Detto's end of the rope.
Indeed, voices could be heard on the rooftop ahead. The first of those ascending the backside of the palace had achieved the top, and they heard Capulletto's voice shouting in triumph.
“Go on ahead! We'll be along!” Turning to Val, Bail said, “Want to go on, son?”
“Yes!” Val ceased rubbing his ribs and ran for the wall. Pedro cupped his hands for him, but Val hesitated. “I don't need help!” he protested. His father cleared his throat, and Val added, “my lord,” in an attempt to remain polite.
“When you and your father get to the top, pull us up,” said Don Pedro. “Then we'll be even.”
Accepting the arrangement, Val called for his father to hurry up. Benedick watched them climb and sighed. Being a truly noble fellow, Don Pedro had decided to stay with the Nogarolese to look after father and son. That meant Benedick would, too. It wasn't a bad thing – it would gain him respect in many quarters – but it wasn't like winning the race.
No, Cesco and Detto would do that, he was sure of it. So instead of forcing the climb, he made a joke, then another. The Prince grinned at him, and together they watched Bail push Val up to the ledge. By the time the quartet reached the roof, they were still ahead of two thirds of the contestants.
But Cesco and Detto were long gone.
♦ ◊ ♦
MONTECCHIO AND CAPULLETTO traversed one of the thin wooden walkways the Scaliger had mentioned. Less than a foot wide, it forced them to edge along sideways.
“Try not to fall,” said Antony.
“I'm not the one who weighs fifteen stone,” retorted Mariotto, eyes on the drop below, nearly invisible in the rain.
“Twelve stone,” grunted Antony. The rain made the temporary bridge quite slippery, so he slid his feet rather than stepped.
“I think the heirs are ahead of us.”
“I told you that was a wrong turn!”
“We'd be in the lead if you moved faster!”
“We'd be pulped on the pavement if we moved as fast as you want!”
“I never knew you to lack courage. Well, once,” Mari amended.
Without thinking Antony shoved Mari in the back. It was a little shove, so minor that it would have hardly offended the most sensitive honour.
But it was enough. Losing his balance, Mari started to fall off the left side of the bridge. His flailing right arm went back and caught Antony in the chest, sending him over the bridge's right side just as Mari toppled over the left.
Falling, both had the foresight to grasp the rop
e with their free hands, so neither dislocated a shoulder. Nevertheless it was a wrenching stop, made worse by slamming into each other as they came down, bouncing off each other only to bang again, trying desperately to twist so their exposed genitals didn't meet.
After a few moments they came to rest, each hanging by one arm, both suspended two stories above the rain-soaked street.
“Great, Antony!” snarled Mariotto. “Goddamn great! O, well done!”
“Your fault!” retorted Antony.
“For telling the truth?”
“How now? You think I'm cowardly? I'll fight you here and now!” Releasing the rope, Antony swung a wild punch at Mariotto's head. Evading, Mari swung a punch of his own, sending them both spinning and bumping as they shouted at each other.
Their shouts were answered. Hearing voices above them, both men instantly halted their attacks. Mari grabbed Antony's shoulder at the same moment Antony grasped Mari's suspended arm. Clinging to each other, swaying in midair in the downpour, they listened.
“Watch your step,” said Nico da Lozzo. “There's something across the bridge here.”
“Thanks,” replied Hortensio. “As if it isn't hard enough, someone laid a caltrop?”
Both holding their breath, Mari and Antony silently thanked God that the rain hid them from view. When the voices were gone, they looked at each other.
“We've got to get out of here,” said Mariotto in the same instant Antony said, “We've got to go.”
Mari resisted the grin bubbling beneath the surface of his lips, but when Antony loosed a half-stifled laugh it was over. Arms aching, they both started roaring, and were still howling in mid-air when the next group passed over the bridge.
“Who's down there?” called someone.
“Just us!” cried Mariotto.
“Nobody important!” mewed Antony.
“Do you need help?”
“No!” they shouted together, and fell about laughing again. The pair on the bridge shrugged and moved off.
Mari asked, “How do we do this?”
“Can you swing that way?” suggested Antony. “If we can reach that building over there…”