by David Blixt
As the first family of Verona finally came this way, the guard grew more energetic in his shoving. The Capitano rode beside the lady Giovanna, while the Heir held the reins for his little bride's mount. Mastino was coupled with his Carrarese bride, while Alblivious rode with his two unmarried sisters. Paride was there, with his cousin Verde and her disgraced husband Rizzardo bringing up the rear.
Next came the Nogarola clan, bound to the Scaligeri by politics, affection, and blood. A man, his Scaligeri wife, and their two sons.
Fortune placed the twisted man on the right hand side of the procession. Had he been on the left, his eyes might not have narrowed in recognition. Resisting the liveried guard's jostling, he pointed his calloused forefinger towards the woman. “Who is that?”
“Show respect!” The guard slapped the pointing hand down.
“Who is she?”
The man's Bergamo accent was almost impenetrable. Had the guard understood the question, he might not have answered it. As it was he snapped, “That is Donna Katerina da Nogarola, the Greyhound's sister, lady of Vicenza and mother to two of the new knights today. Now get back!”
As if under a spell, the cripple endured the shoving without resistance, wondering that she could not feel the intensity of his gaze. When at last she vanished around the corner, Girolamo the Diviner turned and hobbled away through the crowd.
After so long, all unlooked for, it had come. He had a name. He knew where to find her.
He had some thinking to do.
♦ ◊ ♦
HAVING SURVIVED THE RECENT earthquake without damage, the Arena of Verona was as impressive as ever. Second in size only to the Colosseum in Rome, this marvel of Roman engineering was superior in one vital respect – it was still functional.
That was something that continued to amaze Pietro. In Rome, ruins were ruins, treated with reverence and open for pilgrims and gawkers with a sense of history. In Verona, ruins weren't allowed to be ruins. Ancient arches were incorporated into new buildings. Every classical structure was still in use. It was the difference between a necropolis and a metropolis. One was for the past, set aside for the dead. The other was for the living to carve out a future from the bones of history.
The Arena was the perfect example. Over a thousand years old, the inspiration for Dante's Hell could still hold thirty thousand people in its concentric rings of seats.
Today it was filled to overflowing. As the seats stretched all the way to the Arena floor, low slatted walls had been erected to protect baser spectators. These were the least desirable seats, while the best were in the fourth row on the center of each side – or else in the balconies above the two tunnels on opposite ends of the Arena.
As a foreign guest, Berthold's appointed place was on the far balcony, so Pietro parted politely with the German and climbed to the nearer balcony, trying not to imagine a river of blood and a sea of centaurs.
Instead, he focused on his neighbours. Seated at the very front, Marsilio da Carrara shot Pietro an amused smile. Pietro returned an ironic nod. This was their first time together in this structure since their duel. Perhaps time does indeed heal all wounds.
He noticed Antony take up a seat far to the right, so he might not sit too close to Mari. Pietro sighed. Not all wounds.
His reserved place was just behind the front row. There were so many friendly faces here: Petruchio, Castelbarco, Nico da Lozzo. The first two were proud as peacocks, their sons being among those knighted this day, while Nico seemed to have grown a full foot in stature, so high did he hold his head. He had the right, vindicated in his decision to join Cangrande's faction at the start of this war.
Petruchio was pointing to where his wife and daughters were seated, further up along the Arena's cascade of seats. “Poor sinless creatures. They don't get to be planted as deeply in Hell.”
“Sinners get the best seats,” remarked Nico.
Petruchio grinned through his beard. “Well, we paid for them.”
“Or we will,” said Pietro.
Everyone laughed. Pleased with his small witticism, Pietro felt someone take a seat beside him and shifted automatically to make room along the stone bench. Turning, he came face to face with a more recent nemesis than Carrara.
“Such pleasant weather for a November wedding,” said Ambassador Dandolo of Venice. “But then, the Veronese always have the luck, do they not?”
The Ambassador spoke politely, as if he had not once thrown Pietro into a lightless cell at the base of the Doge's palace, where rats had swarmed up through the grate of the foul Venetian waters to nip at Pietro's toes and fingers.
“If Verona has luck, it's because we make it,” said Pietro, regretting his sharp tone – he didn't want to give the Venetian the satisfaction.
“I must remember that in the future,” said Dandolo. “Destroy the luckmakers, destroy the luck.”
“You wish to destroy your hosts?”
“On the contrary,” replied Dandolo, eyes twinkling over his patrician nose, “I wish to learn from them.”
This was not their first meeting since Pietro's escape from the Doge's palace. Two months past, when Cangrande and Carrara had traveled to Venice to formalize this peace, they had met. Then, Pietro had been braced for Dandolo's cutting kindness and solicitude. Today, prepared for a different kind of trial, he found this unwelcome neighbour unnerving. He was glad his sister would not be attending. Antonia hated Dandolo, less for what he had done to her brother than for the part he'd played in their father's untimely demise.
Turning his gaze back to the Arena floor, Pietro spied the Scaliger, now ascending to the balcony. Was Dandolo's placement some kind of taunt? A means of putting Pietro down yet again? But why? What was the message?
His internal voice, the one that sounded very like his father, rebuked him. It needn't always be about you. Perhaps Pietro was not the victim here, but the weapon. Placing Dandolo beside a man he had wronged was hardly polite.
Well, if Pietro was here to discomfit the Venetian ambassador, he was more than happy to oblige. “I regret to say our mutual friends Dottore Morsicato and Tharwat al-Dhaamin will not be joining us for the ceremony,” said Pietro lightly. “If you are in a learning mood, you could hardly have better teachers.”
“Tharwat? Is that the man I knew as Theodoro of Cadiz? I thought I saw the renowned astrologer outside the church. I am delighted to hear he did not drown. Though, if what I saw was any indication, he has seen hard times of late. If I am to learn luck-making, I do not think I should apply to him. His luck seems to be of a most disastrous nature. Though perhaps it is a part of his profession. I was entertaining a diviner just last evening. He had a true gift, but was most disfigured – not by birth, but by mistreatment. Fortune does not seem to look kindly at those who divulge her secrets.”
“It might not be Fortune,” offered Pietro. “Truth-tellers are often plagued by lesser men. Those who do not like the truth when they hear it.”
“Does anyone want the unvarnished truth? I think the truth about any man would scald his soul and make his children disown him. Not you, of course, Ser Alaghieri. Everyone knows you to be honest to a fault.”
“Whose fault?” inquired Nico across Pietro.
“Sorry,” said Petruchio, pretending to break wind. “My groom gave me some beef and mustard this morning.”
Cangrande arrived, clasping hands and slapping shoulders. Hearing Petruchio's comment, he pointed to Dandolo. “Perhaps Venice should make Lord Bonaventura a citizen as well, my Lord Dandolo. He could double the speed of your sails with a single expulsion.”
Petruchio shook his hands in mock triumph. “The fart that launched a thousand ships!”
Ignoring the raillery that often occurred in the company of these men, Dandolo pursued his conversation with Pietro. “Our friend the Moor, I should like to speak to him. Where is he now?”
Tharwat and Morsicato had chosen to remain in the tunnels to watch for danger. The last time Cesco had participated in Arena games
, treachery had nearly claimed his young life. But that was not for Dandolo's ears. “They have better seats, closer to the action.”
“Further down in Hell,” said Nico across him.
Dandolo pressed on. “Indeed, I recall that Theodoro – forgive me, Tharwat – was always at the heart of any conflict. It must be difficult. Since the rise of this Orhan in Anatolia, Muslims have been persecuted in Italy. I recall he was once attacked in Venice simply for being a Moor. The Doge saved his life,” added Dandolo pointedly.
“Yes, the Doge is known for his hospitality,” said Pietro. “I will say, it is hard being a stranger in a strange place, full of plots and dishonest men. Fortunately, Tharwat knows a good doctor.”
As this was the second time Morsicato had been mentioned, Dandolo picked up the hint. “This doctor, you say he is our mutual friend. Yet I do not recall him.”
“You met him once, for an afternoon. Though you might not recognize him, now his beard has returned.”
Understanding dawned. “Ah yes, of course. Please tell them both I would be delighted to enjoy their company again.”
“I am sure they will take that invitation in the spirit it was tendered.”
“Excellent. Oh look. They are taking their places.”
Pleased that Dandolo had been first to change topics, Pietro followed the outstretched finger towards the purple-and-gold-clad men gathering at the center of the Arena. Amazed at how many there were, he did a quick count. “Thirty-nine! That must be the most knights created at a single time in Italian history.”
“I believe the record is fifty-two. Azzo and Francesco d'Este created that many in Ferrara. 1294, I think. But this is certainly the most in modern times,” added Dandolo, deigning to soften the correction with a patronizing smile.
Quelling the urge to hit the old man with his elbow, Pietro watched as the mitered Bishop Francis came forward to face the knights-to-be. Young and newly arrived in Verona at Pietro's knighting, there was still a good spring in his step. Now, as then, he began the ceremony by reciting the Commandments of Chivalry:
Thou shalt believe all that the Church teaches, and shalt observe all its directions.
Thou shalt defend the Church.
Thou shalt respect all weaknesses, and shalt constitute thyself the defender of them.
Thou shalt love the country in the which thou wast born.
Thou shalt not recoil before thine enemy.
Thou shalt make war against the Infidel
without cessation, and without mercy.
Thou shalt perform scrupulously thy feudal duties, if they be not contrary to the laws of God.
Thou shalt never lie, and shall remain faithful to thy pledged word.
Thou shalt be generous, and give largess to everyone.
Thou shalt be everywhere and always the champion of the Right and the Good against Injustice and Evil.
Next came the Chivalric Code. When Pietro had been created a knight, he'd been charged to proclaim two tenets of the Code. He'd chosen 'Live a life that is worthy of respect and honour' and 'Protect the innocent'. Extemporaneous choices, it was curious to think how prescient those words had been.
With so many new knights today, each had to name only one. An unworthy splinter of Pietro's heart hoped Cesco might pick one of his foster-father's choices. But Cesco had ever been his own man.
Among the prospective knights, the Paduans were given primacy of place for the ceremony, and so had first choice of tenets. Cangrande's close kin would go last.
“My eyes are not what they were,” confessed Dandolo in Pietro's ear. “Who is first to speak?”
Pietro did not believe the Venetian for a moment – Dandolo would never admit a weakness. But he answered. “Ubertino da Carrara.”
“Ah, Marsilio's less-troublesome cousin, new-reconciled. It will be interesting to hear his choice.”
From the Arena floor, Ubertino's voice rang out. “Show respect to authority.” A publicly contrite message that Marsilio applauded.
Next came Pietro Rossi, Cesco's father-in-law, who chose Exhibit Courage in word and deed, followed by his brother Marsilietto, who settled on Live for freedom, justice and all that is good. The youngest Rossi brother, Rolando, said, “Never abandon a friend, ally, or noble cause.”
Dandolo squinted. “And who is next?”
Now Pietro was certain Dandolo was play-acting. “Obizzo d'Este and his brother Rainaldo.”
“Ah! Quite the political coup, to have them present after your master's mistreatment of their brother-in-law.” The Estensi had tied themselves to the star of the late Passerino Bonaccolsi through his marriage to their sister Alisia. It was widely considered that the Scaliger had performed an unusually craven and despicable deed in cutting off his former friend Passerino, going so far as to supply troops to help unseat him.
But Pietro knew that, this one time at least, Cangrande was blameless. Bonaccolsi had tried to murder both Cesco and Cangrande. He'd deserved his fate. Alisia was now a widow, Mantua belonged to Cangrande, and the Scaliger was courting the Estensi to shore up his support.
As Bonaccolsi's murderous plots had been made with the aid of the Venetian beside him, Pietro decided to twist Dandolo's tail. “Perhaps they don't wish to be blamed for his compact with Venice.”
“Compact? What compact is that, Ser Alaghieri? You have some proof, I trust, to arraign me in your master's court?”
“If I had proof, I would have produced it before now. No, you are quite safe, my lord. But please do not insult me by feigning innocence. I recall hearing the plot from your own lips.”
“You were more reluctant then to allow me to refer to the Scaliger as your master. Have we re-affixed our star?”
“No, just less interested in quibbling. We're missing the ceremony.”
Several more knights had gone, uttering innocuous oaths – Avoid Lying, Avoid Cheating, Avoid Torture, Exhibit Self-Control, Die with Valour, Respect Women. A man called Jacobo dal Verme took one of Pietro's own, Protect the Innocent. Whereas his brother, Pietro dal Verme, declared, “Exhibit courage in word and deed!”
Dandolo pointed, his eyesight miraculously restored. “There's one of ours.” And indeed, a Venetian called Nicolo Foscari was at that moment proclaiming, “Administer Justice!”
At last they reached the Veronese faction. The crowd cheered as Hortensio Bonaventura stepped forward and declaimed in a trumpeting voice, “Exhibit manners!” A vow that had his father hooting.
Taking his brother's place, young Petruchio declared, “Despise pecuniary reward.” That had every Veronese howling. His namesake had famously gone to Padua to take a wealthy wife, returning with not only his gold, but his soulmate.
Other famous men had sons being knighted. That redoubtable Veronese statesman, Guglielmo da Castelbarco, beamed like the summer sun as his own son proclaimed, “Be respectful of host, women, and honour!” It could have been their family motto.
Surprisingly, Valentino Nogarola chose, “Always maintain one's principles,” whereas his brother's oath was warmly predictable. “Never betray a confidence or comrade!” Detto uttered it with great feeling, and Pietro appreciated the young man's continued loyalty. Cesco seemed to take no notice.
Last came the four Scaligeri heirs. The youngest was first. Paride della Scala was turning into a handsome fellow, if a little lacking in colour. His oath was straightforward, like the uncomplicated lad who said it: “Die with honour!”
Next came Alberto della Scala. Though he was Mastino's elder brother, Alberto was not insulted to be given a less prominent place. It was his brother's wedding day, after all. His frown was due to the paucity of choices left. It was considered poor form to repeat one already spoken. Finally he smiled. “Crush the monsters that steal our land and rob our people. La Costa!”
“La Costa!!!” roared the crowd, reveling in this local lore. La Costa was the name of an arched tunnel where hung the monstrous bone whose twin Pietro had seen just an hour ago.
Final
ly, the two bridegrooms. Mastino's choice was a cumbersome one, but Pietro was among those few who knew how well it fit. He spoke deliberately, enunciating each word. “Never use a weapon or stratagem on an opponent not equal to the attack.”
Then it was Cesco's turn. Pietro had lost track of which oaths had been spoken. What was left?
Shaking his longish mane of curling chestnut hair, the fourteen-year-old smiled and spoke in a voice that carried from end to end. “If you cannot bend Heaven, raise Hell.”
Startled looks, confused murmurs. A low hum rumbled as people questioned, repeated, and parsed what Cangrande's heir had said. This was not a proper oath, not one of the tenets of Chivalry! Few in the huge crowd would recognize it as a line paraphrased from Virgil. But the original context meant little. This oath, uttered in this place, on this day, was contrary to every aspect of Chivalry.
Dandolo was sitting upright. Bail shot a look at Pietro, who felt his heart beating faster. Was this it? Was this the moment when Cesco broke free of his indolent malaise?
At the front of the balcony, Cangrande rose. “We admire your creativity, Francesco della Scala. Also your love for the classics. But for the sake of form, choose a more traditional oath.”
Cesco gave an elaborate shrug. “Avenge the wronged.” With that, he returned to his place as the clapping crowd discussed the portents of what Cesco had done.
It quite took the gloss from the final knighting as Cangrande turned and, drawing his father's famous sword, placed the blade on the shoulder of Marsilio da Carrara. Marsilio's choice of oath rang out through the packed stadium. “Live to serve God, Capitano, and country and all they hold dear!”
The Arena echoed with applause for what felt like ages. Eventually Cangrande gestured for silence, then turned to address the new knights below, reciting the same words his father had once spoken to him. “There is more to being a knight than skill at arms. To become a knight is to take upon you the responsibility of being God's sword of justice here on earth. A knight does not enrich himself. He does not, as many today do, seek fame or dress in the finest apparel.” Here he paused, inviting laughter in acknowledgement of his own sartorial habits, and how he had dressed these new knights.
