by David Blixt
Trailing after the leading horses, Pietro was jeered by the farmers, though a few shouted encouragement. Turning at the dirty corner of the Via Santa Trinita, Pietro was only two lengths behind the small clump of leaders. He hoped he hadn't pressed his horse too hard doing so. There was still the second lap to go.
On the Via Cappucini they passed under another ancient arch, left again, and the Arena loomed before them. They rode towards it, careful on the cobblestones lest a horse slip and break a leg. Their slower pace brought them all neck and neck as they burst forth into the Plaza Bra. The seven horses thundered past the Arena in a line like something out of a painting or a plate in a German fechtbuch — a perfect row of horsemen galloping towards some unseen enemy.
Above, men were perched across the Arena top and in the arched alcoves. Several were knocked over the edge into space as their fellows pushed for a better view.
Pietro headed towards the Gavi Arch, old and crumbling. They had already passed under the plain white marble pillars once, and they did so again, turning to briefly traverse the Corso Mastino once more. Confused citizens stood in their way, almost getting trampled for their trouble. Their confusion stemmed from witnessing a whole stampede of horsemen racing the other way just two minutes before.
One man threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands. "Watch out!" Pietro cried as his horse jumped over him. The palfrey landed well, never breaking stride as he pressed on towards the river.
They were tracing the same path they had already taken along the river's edge. This time there was less joking rivalry and more aggression as they jostled and butted for position. Since they all now knew the course, each thought he could measure his mount's endurance for it. By now they'd all realized that they seven were alone. Only Pietro knew it was Marsilio's cleverness that had caused the others' erroneous detour.
Chance placed Pietro and Marsilio side by side at the back of the pack. "Neat trick with the flag!" If Carrara heard he didn't reply.
It wasn't Marsilio but a Veronese rider who raised the next obstacle. This cavaliere was by far the oldest of the racers still in contention, closer to forty than thirty. On the last pass he'd seen the stack of barrels by the waterfront. Lashing out with his foot, he dislodged one of the lower wooden containers, creating an avalanche of malmsey casks.
The other riders were too far along to be incommoded. It was only Marsilio and Pietro who had to contend with the barrels. They'd have to slow to navigate their way. Or else…
Marsilio's tall, beautiful, hot-blooded horse made the leap with ease.
Damn his eyes! Pietro's little palfrey was too short. It was sure to catch a hoof and send him toppling end over end. But he was going too fast to turn or halt! His breath caught, recalling the sound at Vicenza as the horses had toppled over each other. Under him the beast's hindquarters tensed. With a mighty heave they were airborne. Pietro's eyes clamped shut. The next thing he'd hear would be the crack of a rear hoof catching a barrel. Then there would be pavement and mud and the horrible crunch of his bones shattering.
The jolt sent a chill through him. The front hooves connected with the mud. And then nothing but the rhythm of the running horse. He heard the cheer from the crowd before he realized that his palfrey had made the leap. Opening his eyes, he patted the horse vigorously. "Good boy, Cunnus! Good boy!"
He was hardly out of step with Marsilio. Looking back in disbelief, the Paduan gave Pietro a mocking salute.
Pietro wanted to give the palfrey the praise it deserved, but the race wasn't over. Out of gratitude, he didn't use his spurs, just squeezing his thighs inward instead. The noble beast understood. Ducking its head low, the lathered mount chased after the figures hurtling towards San Zeno.
It was as they were coming up the slopes towards the church that Pietro hissed out a breath of awe. There was no flag! The flag had gone! All the riders checked, cursing. There was no flutter of crimson anywhere. Could it have fallen?
Pietro's eyes automatically sought out Marsilio. The Paduan was looking in as much confusion as the others.
"Do you see anything?" called Mariotto.
"Nothing!" Pietro called back, scanning the skyline. They'd ridden directly across the front of the church last time. There had been a series of flags, marking each turn in the piazza. But if not there, then where…
"There!" A wind was stirring a flag on the opposite corner, leading left down a narrow winding street.
Pietro remembered the Scaliger's grin as he'd mentioned surprises. The route for the second leg of the race was different from the first! The Capitano's servants were in the crowd around them waiting for the participants to race by so they could move the flags. It was a whole new race.
All seven men hesitated as this sank in. It was another new knight in the purple and silver who turned his horse and whipped it forward. The others instantly followed, riding two-abreast down this narrow lane.
"Wonderful!" Mari yelled.
"I love that man!" Antony called into the air.
"Move your podex!" Pietro used his elbow in as friendly way as he could.
"Move yours!" Antony's gloved fist flew at his shoulder, but Pietro was gone, moving up the line to second place. Behind him he could hear Mariotto and Antony slapping at each other. To their rear was Marsilio da Carrara in his white farsetto — the pride of Padua, fifth in line among the remaining seven knights.
Pietro could see the next flag far ahead. Instead of turning right onto the Strade di San Bernardino, as they had before, the flag's position called for them to make a left on the Strade di Porta Palio. Pietro doubted they would travel far before turning right again. Otherwise they would ride the way the misled horsemen had and find themselves down the Corso Mastino, in the marketplace by the Scaligeri palace.
For the first time Pietro imagined winning. If a sharp right turn was coming directly after the next left, it made sense for him to be on the right-hand side. He would lose a little ground on the left turn, but if he hung in, he could be the first to make the right turn he expected would follow. He might even be able to block the others from making the same turn until they were past, forcing them to stop and retrace their steps. If that happened, his lead would be almost impossible to beat.
He edged the palfrey right. The crowd was running alongside to watch the final lap and cheer for anyone who looked handsome on horseback. Pietro hoped he cut a dashing figure, though he rather doubted it. Mud from the riverbank jump had spattered his breeches, his fur was gone, and he was unable to stand in the stirrups the way other knights did.
Behind him Mariotto said something that sounded like thunder. "Hear that?"
Pietro did hear it, but excitement made him ignore it. "Come on, Cunnus. Get ready, boy!"
He had an instant of warning as he neared the intersection, seeing heads turn in the crowd. People moved away, looking east and pointing. One man started to wave his hands at the riders to stop. He was pulled aside by friends, yanking him back in time to save his life.
The thunder. Too late, Pietro realized what it was. The horsemen duped by Carrara had finally realized their mistake and reversed their direction up the Corso Mastino where it became the Strade di Porta Palio. Chance brought them to this intersection at the same moment the leaders were trying to cross it.
The knight in front of Pietro was about to break the plane of the building and cross the street. Pietro tried to shout a warning, but it was too late. The instant the knight burst out on the street he was struck broadside by another horse. The horse began to fall sideways, steam from its last breath escaping from its nostrils.
If that had been all, the knight might have lived. But two more sets of riders rode over him, mauling him with punishing blows. Then five more horsemen, pulling frantically back on their reins, reached the wreckage and became a part of it. The new knight fell under his horse as it was pitched onto its side and then trampled. Crimson darker than the flag above speckled his Tyrian purple.
Horses kept st
reaming past the mouth of the alley, and Pietro was still racing for them. He yanked frantically on his reins as a sound rose between the four and five-story buildings that ringed the intersection. It was a horrible noise, thick and wet, a cacophony of limbs twisting, shattering, disintegrating. In the chill air the noise had a bizarre resonance. Horses screamed. Men yelled. Forty-one riders collided, brought from full gallop to dead stop by the living barrier across their path.
Pietro's horse wasn't checking fast enough. He was about to be thrown into that swirling mass of flailing hooves. Just a length behind the lead rider, he was along the right-hand side of the street. Desperately he steered left, still heaving on the reins. As momentum carried him out of the sheltering alley Pietro changed direction again, steering right to join the flowing river of men and beasts. He jostled hard in self-defence to avoid being rammed into a wall. The horses around him were frightened. They had heard the screams of their kindred. It was all the remaining riders could do to keep them from rearing.
One of the onrushing knights leapt from his saddle and landed sideways across the tail of Pietro's palfrey. Pietro shot out a hand and hauled him up. It was Pietro's friend from the tunnel. "My thanks," he murmured, clinging to Pietro's shoulder as he looked back at the carnage.
"Are you hurt?" shouted Pietro.
"Dear God!" cried the man, unhearing.
All around there were screams under the clatter of hooves. Pietro gagged as the smell of blood assaulted his nose. On a battlefield it was one thing to taste the metallic tang in the air. It was quite another on a holy day, surrounded by friends and allies. But he was being swept along, his horse instinctively pushing to get clear from the horror. In a moment he was out of the press, the rescued man hanging on behind the saddle.
Pietro lifted his head to the open sky above, his whole body trembling. I'm alive. Jesucristo, I'm alive.
His next thought was of the race. Could it still go on? He glanced back. The horses were steadying. There was the gap in the alley, crowded by horsemen trying to clear themselves off the corpses of the fallen men and beasts.
Suddenly he saw Carrara trying to thread his horse through the carnage. After causing this, the bastard was trying to win! Pietro couldn't allow that.
He tried to turn his horse but was too far away to reach the alley. He saw Mari and Antony just behind Carrara and said a quick prayer for their victory. "See that cunnus loses, boys."
Pietro's horse lifted its head. "Not talking to you," soothed Pietro, rubbing the palfrey's neck. "We're done."
Pietro missed the scene in the alley moments before when Marsilio had kicked his way past Antony and Mari, who had both stopped short at the mouth of the alley. "Move, dullards!"
"Bastard," growled Mariotto. "After this he's still thinking about winning?"
Antony smiled, his hands open. "Well, are we going to let him?"
Mari shot his friend a searching look, then smiled back. Together they edged their mounts away from the pulped carcasses and into the street.
Antony now caught sight of his elder brother in the milling masses. Luigi called out to him to stop. Antony hunched his shoulders. Though not far apart in age, they'd never been close. Perhaps it was because of young Antony's ambitions. By rights, the second son should have been studying for the priesthood or law, as Pietro had done before becoming Dante's heir. Instead Antony trained for war as an elder boy would and took great interest in the family commenda — legal and illegal both. To achieve this, he'd created a strong bond with their father. They laughed and drank together, much to old Capecelatro's doctor's dismay. It helped when Antony could make himself stand out through some event or other. It was why he'd agreed to marry the Carrara brat. The knighthood was a blessing to him in a way it could never be to Mariotto or Pietro. For he was determined not to let the order of his birth deny him his rightful place.
Aware of all this, Luigi hated Antony for it. Now he called out, "Antonio! Come here!"
Luigi didn't look hurt, so Antony turned a deaf ear as he and Mari entered the far alley that led to victory. Behind them was another young noble, not clad in the purple of the day. The older knight who had released the barrels was fourth. Last, because of the hard jostling in the street, was a furious Marsilio da Carrara.
The remaining racers thundered down the open alley. The Via Scalzi was at an odd angle to the street they'd entered from, slanting southwest. It then curved east. The five horsemen chased each other around the curve fairly uneventfully. The tremendous speed of Marsilio's courser was countered by the greater weight of the other horses as they banged against each other. He passed the fortyish Veronese, whose horse was close to exhausted. Nothing could urge it on. He'd run a good race, but for him it was over. He dropped back a length, letting those in close contention fight for the last few strides.
The curve led them back towards the Arena. Antonio and Mariotto were joint leaders and had it in mind to block out the others behind them. One of them was going to win. It was just a question of which.
Carrara had other ideas. He shot past the rider in third place whose horse was blown and lagging. The street finished its curve. Only two more blocks and they would emerge into the Plaza Bra. Far ahead flew the flag signaling the turn that would take them into the Arena itself.
Mari and Antony radiated excitement. In only a minute more one of them would be victorious. Neither noticed Carrara until he pressed his courser between their two horses just as they emerged into the Plaza.
"Give up, boys!" called Carrara.
As one Mari and Antony pulled their leather reins inward, cutting off the Paduan before his courser's nose reached the level of their saddles. Carrara let the Capuan butt into him. This sent him bouncing into Mariotto's left flank. He let himself rock a little in the saddle, leaning far right. Something in his hand flicked to the underbelly of Mariotto's horse. Montecchio saw the silver glimmer just before he started slipping sideways. The Paduan had slit the straps of his saddle. "Antony!"
Antonio saw his friend's arms flail even as Marsilio plunged between them into the lead. Confused at the shift of weight, Mari's horse began to veer off. Mari threw his weight right to counterbalance the slipping saddle, but he was about to lose the struggle and fall.
Antony stretched out a hand. Mari grasped it and fairly leapt onto the back of Antony's horse. Even before he was settled he cried out, "Catch that bastard!"
Too late. It had only taken four seconds for Mari to transfer himself from his horse to Antony's, but already Carrara's lead was too great. They rode into the Arena just behind him and saw the crowd leap to its feet and fill the air with petals of winter flowers.
A length of red silk floated to the ground, released from the Capitano's fingers. Dismounting, Marsilio lifted the red cloth to his shoulder for all could see. Then he knelt, bowing his head very slightly. Raising his head he met the Scaliger's eyes. His lips moved, the pride of a city and a people summed up in a single word:
"Patavinitas."
Eighteen
In a darkened passage under the Arena a stout man strode with purpose. His name was Massimiliano da Villafranca, his office Constable of Verona. He was pushing his way past barrels and servants with determination. The moment the Palio had begun, Cangrande had pulled his constable aside and ordered him to bring the oracle to the Tribunale for questioning. Massimiliano thought he knew why. That prophecy had been unusual. Someone was delivering a message to the Greyhound via an unique medium. Villafranca was a soldier and not skilled at palace intrigue, so he had no idea which of the Greyhound's enemies had arranged this, or why. But he was eager to find out.
Ducking past the men running to view the horse Palio, bobbing around the torches hung on brackets in the walls, the Constable approached a curtained doorway. He noticed the torches were recently extinguished. Still smoking, having been doused in water. A distinct metallic smell assaulted his nose.
Smell and taste are closely related. It was the recollected taste that told him what it wa
s.
"Hello?" he called softly. No answer. Lifting a dead torch from its bracket, he marched back down the hall and relit it from one of the active flames. It took time, but the Constable was in no hurry. When he returned, the torch's illumination reflected on a pool outside the curtained doorway. Thicker than water, and darker.
The Constable pushed the curtain aside and stood in the doorway staring down at the oracle. She was sitting upright against the wall of the small chamber. Her dark hair, so long and lustrous, was matted to the body, soaked in her own blood. Mercifully, her face was hidden in those long tresses — or so Villafranca at first thought. Upon examining closer, however, he found that her head had been twisted back to front, so now her eyes gazed behind her.
The Scaliger would have no more answers from the oracle.
A fistfight on the floor of the Arena was unseemly. Yet in spite of the presence of both Carrara's uncle and their own fathers — not to mention the Veronese lord — this was exactly what Mariotto and Antony had in mind. They dropped from the back of the sweating horse and strode towards the kneeling Paduan, fists clenched.
Cangrande was no fool. Though it might prove amusing, it could become a political nightmare. The peace with Padua was fragile enough, and though he wanted it broken, this was not the way. So he swung his legs over the edge of the balcony and dropped. His knees barely buckled as he touched down. In a moment the Capitano was upright and moving forward, hands held wide. "A well run race!" By rights he should have been approaching Marsilio to congratulate him. Practicality dictated he intercept Mariotto and Antony instead. "It is your first winter with us, Antony. How does your Capuan blood like our cold air?"
"The air's fine, my lord!" spat Antony. "It's my blood that's hot! I want this bastard's head! I'm calling-"
"No!" said Mariotto abruptly. "I'm calling him-"
