by David Blixt
She arrived at Pietro's side, and he made the clever bow he'd worked out using his crutch for balance. "Madonna."
"Ser Alaghieri," said Giovanna della Scala. "You know you are the most desired man here. All the ladies were asking after your prospects."
Pietro flushed. "Lady, such jokes are unkind."
"You think I'm joking? There are a half-dozen girls longing to know you better. And since you won't be running the foot Palio, you'll have them all to yourself for the better part of two hours while your fellows are freezing themselves to death. I plan to make it my business to introduce you to all of them. No, no protests. I am the hostess, it is your duty to honour me." She smiled at him and moved on to talk to another guest.
Pietro turned back to find Mariotto was gone.
Other wives were entering, though not Katerina, Pietro saw anxiously. Bailardino seemed in no way put out by his wife's absence. When there were enough women in the room that Pietro thought he could ask the question without undue suspicion, he approached Bailardino. "I don't see Donna Nogarola."
"Oh, she's a little uncomfortable these days," grinned the bearish man. "But she's happy enough to have a bun in the oven, so her bouts of sickness don't get her spirits down."
Pietro's blood froze. Nico da Lozzo's voice saved him from an embarrassing silence. "It's about time, you brute! What, don't you pay her enough attention?"
"I try, but she locks me out of the bedroom more nights than not!"
"So you take an axe and knock the hatch down!" cried Nico.
"And she takes the axe from me and buries it in my head for ruining her beautiful carved doors! No, I think we have her brother to thank for it." More hoots and hollers.
Glancing up from the drinking game he was teaching Marsilio da Carrara, Cangrande raised a curious eyebrow. "How so?"
Bailardino spread his hands. "It's that little brat of yours. I think he caused her womb to sit up and notice it was being supplanted by one of your bastards. So it got busy, and I got lucky. Crack, boom! She's pregnant!"
Not a few heads turned to see what Giovanna's reaction to this would be, but Cangrande's wife was paying no attention. A shame.
Pietro retreated to where his father was pretending to doze, his preferred defense in a raucous room. Poco had disappeared to watch the older men play at dice. Looking around, Pietro didn't see Mariotto. His eyes quickly traveled to where Antony sat with Gianozza. Seeing her, Pietro let out a breath he was unaware he was holding. Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?
Antony pointed a stubby finger towards Pietro. Gianozza rose to her feet, and Antony followed as she glided over the rushes to halt in front of Dante. Thinking the poet asleep, she addressed Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri, it is a pleasure. Signore Capulletto-"
"Antony," her betrothed hastened to correct her.
She smiled. "Antony tells me that your father is the poet Dante."
"Yes," was all Pietro could think to say. She was even lovelier up close. Her eyes were so blue they put her dress to shame.
"I quite enjoyed La Vita Nuova," she said.
"Have you read L'Inferno?"
"No." She shook her head sadly. "I haven't been able to find a copy."
"I'll get you one!" said Antony quickly. "As a wedding gift. Pietro, do you think your father will sign it for us?"
"My father loves signing his name to things." Pietro saw his father's face squeeze tighter. But since the old man was pretending to be asleep, he had to endure without interrupting. "I'll arrange a time for you both to meet with him and tell him just what you want written. Perhaps he'll even do a reading for you." His father's expression was a gift from God.
Pietro was startled to find himself kissed gently on each cheek. "Thank you! I simply adore the new style of poetry — il dolce stil nuovo." She closed her eyes and began to recite softly:
In the season when the world's in leaf and flower
the joy of all true lovers waxes strong:
in pairs they go to gardens at the hour
when little birds are singing their sweet song;
All gentle folk now come beneath love's power,
and the service of his love is each man's care,
while every maid in gladness spends her hours;
She blushed suddenly, as if caught doing something villainous. "I can't recall the rest."
"It's beautiful, though," said Antony. "Who wrote it?"
"I don't know. No one does. It's anonymous."
Pietro glanced at his father, half-intending to ruin his father's charade and ask who the author was. A curious expression on Dante's features stopped him. When he looked back up, Gianozza was smiling over Pietro's shoulder. She said, "Excuse me, Signore Alaghieri, Antony, but my uncle wishes me to meet someone." Sure enough, a glance revealed Il Grande beckoning the girl. She moved away, her skirts tickling the rushes at her feet.
Antony sighed. "She's beautiful, isn't she? Hey, where the devil did Mari get to? She wants to meet him. I've been telling her all about us — the Triumvirs!"
"I don't know where he's gone," said Pietro, glancing towards the door.
"He does like her, doesn't he?"
"He called her a Julia."
"A what? A Giulia?"
"It's a reference to Julius Caesar's family. It was said that each Julia had the gift of making her man happy."
Antony heaved a sigh. "Then he does like her! Good. I was worried when he wandered off like that. But he's right, she certainly is a Giulia. I don't mind telling you now, I was a little worried."
Pietro laughed. "A little? You were afraid she'd be cross-eyed, buck-toothed, and drooling!"
"Shhhh! She might hear you!" Antony looked up to find Lord Carrara beckoning him as well. "Excuse me," he said, dashing off to his betrothed's side.
Pietro turned back to his father's reclined form. "Next time you see them you'd best have your quills ready."
Sotto voce, Dante said, "I should have drowned you at birth."
Outside the palace, the crowd was waiting for the feast to end, which would mark the start of the Foot Palio. They clustered in little clumps facing fires, sharing warmth. Among them but apart from one another, two cowled figures watched and waited.
Indoors, the festivities reached an irreligious pitch. Yet everyone was sober enough that when Cangrande's Grand Butler entered, all eyes trailed his wending path up to the top table. Tullio d'Isola whispered in Cangrande's ear, and the Scaliger stood up. "Would all the ladies please retire to my loggia, along with all of us too old or too inebriated to run." He glanced sideways to the prone figure of young Carrara, who was snoring loudly. The winner of the first race was in no shape to enter the second.
Clever Cangrande, thought Pietro. There'll be no accidental slips, no revenge from an overeager Veronese.
"How come all the women go to your room?" shouted Nico da Lozzo from down the boards.
Cangrande ignored him. "On the other hand, those men who think they are still able to stand, please move to the square outside! It is time for the foot Palio to begin!"
Rising, Antony carefully took Gianozza's hand in his and bowed again. This time, though, Pietro thought he saw the lips actually brush the tiny wrist. He couldn't hear what was said, but the cadence indicated more poetry. The young lady smiled, wished him a good race, then quickly joined her hostess as the women were driven from the hall by the sight of the men beginning to strip.
Strip they did, down to the raiment God made for them. That the Palio was happening this early in the year made no difference. The runners would have to endure the cold and the four inches of snow that had fallen since midday. Not rain, nor snow, nor flood could stop the foot Palio from being run.
Antony was red with anger that his fiancée had been exposed to so many disrobing males all at once. As soon as she passed out of sight, though, he began to tear at his own clothes. "Where the hell is Mari?"
Shrugging, Pietro leaned over to shake his father's shoulder. The poet pretended to wake up. "Is it tim
e?" he asked innocently. Then the shrewd marble eyes glanced about. "Where's Jacopo?"
Pietro's brother was indeed nowhere in sight. "He's probably set on entering. Should I stop him?"
Dante paused, thoughtful. "I suppose not. He's in a desperate rush to grow up. All we can do is let him go and hope he doesn't get himself killed." Dante grimaced. "Your mother would flay me alive."
Pietro's eyes settled on Carrara's unconscious form. "He'll be fine. Do you want to watch the start of the race, or go straight to the Scaliger's loggia?"
"Doesn't matter." The poet was focused on not being knocked aside by one of the many young men stretching their muscles around the hall. He sensed his son's inclination. "Let's watch the start, then go inside where it's warm."
In the naked throng pressing through the doors, Pietro finally caught sight of Mariotto. He was outside the hall, waiting in complete undress beside the front doors. Pietro waved. Mariotto nodded brusquely. When Antony appeared, Mari turned immediately to walk ahead out the main doors. Antony raced to catch up to him. "Where did you go?"
"I wanted to get ready for the race," said Mari plainly.
"I could have used your help. I'm really bad about poetry."
"Maybe you should try reading some."
Antony's grimace was amused. "She wants a copy of Pietro's pap's pap!" Antony paused, quite pleased, then continued. "I promised I'd get her one — do you have one? I'll pay you back! She's really not all bad, is she? I mean, I know she's a Carrara, but they can't all be Marsilios, can they?" Antony continued in this vein as they passed out through the doors into the Piazza della Signoria. As he talked, Mariotto's eyes set in a determined squint that would have made a stone griffin proud. Pietro watched them go.
"Did you like her poem?" a keen voice said in his ear.
Pietro dragged his attention back to his father. "What?"
"The girl. Did you like her poem?" Dante reached up to adjust his long cap, jostled in the crush. "I enjoyed her recitation. She has a fine sense of the dramatic."
"I was going to ask you about it," said Pietro. "I didn't recognize it."
"Ah, but I did. Isn't it strange that she quoted it so perfectly, then all at once forgot the words?"
"Who wrote it?"
"Oh, it was anonymous just as she said, but that's because it was written by a woman. I happen to know which woman, in fact." His twinkling eyes told Pietro that the poetess' identity was going to remain a secret. "But it's the lines she left out that fascinate me."
They emerged last out into the square. Pietro was getting used to being at the back of the crowd. Beneath their feet the snow crunched. It was falling harder than ever, yet the crowd outside was as large as any that day.
"The animals are gone," observed Dante, mischievously changing topics.
"Probably to make room for the racers."
"Look," said the poet, pointing. "I was mistaken. One leopard remains."
It was true. A single leopard was visible on the steps to the Giurisconsulti, chained to a post. "I wonder why," said Pietro.
"Oh, I think keeping it there day and night from here to eternity is a brilliant notion. Only a just lawyer will risk being mauled just to pursue a case. And we both know such a thing doesn't exist."
Pietro laughed. "He looks to be in a foul temper."
"Wouldn't you be, kept out in the cold all day? Look at him pace to keep warm. Those runners ought to be doing the same."
"They'd better keep away from him." There was a pause, then Pietro gave in. "What were the missing lines?"
Grinning, Dante opened his mouth only to be interrupted by the Capitano's voice. "No speeches! I don't want to keep you standing still for long!" He was a dark shape in the falling snow, lit from behind by the steward holding torches. "Follow the torches, and try not to frighten the womenfolk."
Amid the laughter, all eyes scanned for the first torch. It hung on a corner of the walls of Santa Maria Antica.
"The finishing line is my loggia, so keep your hands nimble enough to climb! When I give the signal, start running!"
Open to all comers, there were noticeably fewer knights participating in this trial, though if this was due to modesty, drunkenness, or weather Pietro didn't know. The numbers were swelled by the common citizens. Excluded from the first Palio because they owned no horses, they could still rely upon their legs to carry them through the second. Several of the watchers in the crowd, on impulse, tore off their clothes and joined in.
Pietro had difficulty seeing in the falling snow. He thought he spied Antony and Mariotto taking their places in the line. Poco was probably among the three hundred men in the crowd. Pietro wished he could be, too. But a man had to know his limitations. Pietro could not run. Hell, after the horse Palio I can hardly walk! Instead he stood beside his father, leaning thankfully on the crutch. His other hand held Mercurio's leash. Otherwise the dog might run the race for him.
Cangrande dropped a flaming torch into the snow. With a gust of excited breath that smoked the air the runners started, slipping and falling in the initial steps. There were shouts of encouragement and curses, hands grappling at ankles as the fallen tried to trip the upright. One fellow was thrown towards the angry leopard. He barely rolled away as a huge paw slashed at his head.
As the racers disappeared in the curtains of snow, Pietro gestured towards the open doors. "Let's get warm." Beard frosted with snow, Dante nodded vigorously. They climbed the slippery steps back to where braziers burned and hot spiced wine flowed. "Come on, Mercurio," said Pietro, urging the dog inside.
As Pietro waited in the doorway for the hound to pass, he glanced back. Alone in the center of the square stood the Capitano, head back. Snow fell on his face, into his mouth. His eyes were open, looking into the sky that was obliterated in a sea of white on the darkness. Tonight there were a million-million stars, all falling earthward to melt and disappear into every living thing they touched.
A rough elbow in Pietro's side abruptly ended his study of the lord of Verona. A huge man in hooded robes cut across his path. "Excuse me," came a voice from within the folds of the cloak. It was a painful voice to hear, rasping as if it had to scrape its way out of the man's throat. The words were strangely accented. He wore what looked to be a thin cottony material that wrapped Eastern-style around his midsection. His hood was up, but above the wide scarf wrapped around his face the skin was dark as soot, eyes black as night. It was the face of a Moor.
The creature moved off into the crowd, leaving Pietro wondering. Moors were not uncommon here in Verona, but they were mostly servants or slaves. Few were free men.
Dante was inside already, halfway up the wide stairs leading to the rear loggia. Dismissing the startling figure, Pietro gritted his teeth and started the long ascent.
Moments later a panel slid shut on the noise of the street and a hooded figure dusted the snow from his shoulders before beginning his own climb. He left the secret door slightly open for his escape, but after the first few steps all light vanished. He had to use his left hand to feel his way up the spiraling staircase. His right was filled with steel.
Twenty-One
The noise was deafening even before Pietro reached the top of the stairs. Two hundred men and women were pressed into a space that was meant to comfortably accommodate half that. A dozen braziers were scattered about, taking up space even as they warmed the air. Pietro could see that shutters had been affixed to the tall windows to eliminate the chill wind. In the center of the east wall of the palace, two lone arches were free of shutters. Pietro counted from the edge of the loggia and decided that those were the very arches that the Scaliger had leapt through five months before. Now they were the finish line for the race. Pietro grinned.
Tonight none of the guests were made to doff their shoes in favor of soft slippers. With all the people packed in here, there probably weren't enough to go around. Or else the Grand Butler had acknowledged it a lost cause.
Before he entered the hall, Pietro was stopp
ed again by Giotto's fresco of the five Scaliger lords. This time, though, it was the first knight who drew his attention. This man was noticeably lacking a regal bird atop his scala, and his visage was odd as well. His face was not as clear as the others, his features obscured in the shadow of his simple helmet.
"Leonardino della Scala, detto Mastino," said his father in his ear. "The first of the Scaligeri lords."
Pietro continued to study Mastino's face. "He seems different from the rest. He looks — I don't know…"
Dante cocked his head to one side. "No one remembers much about him."
"I saw his tomb this morning. It bore the title Civis Veronae."
"A common citizen," observed the poet. "Remembered more for his humility than his deeds. It is known he organized a rewriting of the city statutes. And though he is generally acknowledged to be the first great Scaligeri, he was never lord of the city. Not officially. He never held the two major offices that the rest of the family have."
Pietro changed his gaze from the painted wall to his father. "Which are?"
Dante looked grave, as though it were Pietro's duty to have already ferreted out this information. "Capitano del Populo and Podestà of the Merchants. The two are technically separate. Together they combine command of the military with the merchant's financial power, creating the most secure power base of any family in Italy. Better by far than being king."
Pietro returned his gaze to Mastino's fresco. It wasn't the shadowy face that bothered him. It was something else. All the Scaligeri shown were surrounded by armed men. In the other four portraits, those men's spears and swords and halberds pointed out at unseen enemies. In Mastino's portrait, though, those arms were turned in towards their lord. "Why are the swords pointed inward?"
Dante's eyes narrowed as he examined the painting more closely. "I hadn't noticed that. It is disturbing, isn't it? Perhaps it's because of the way he died. Mastino was murdered not far from here. He and Bailardino's father were riding through the Volto dei Centurioni on their way back to the palace when they were ambushed and slain. In fact, the story goes that their bodies were thrown into the well that stands outside our current residence."
