The Master of Verona

Fifteen

The walk to the Arena was an ordeal. After confession, Pietro had struggled back to the room, trying twice to run, falling both times. Poco, under strict instructions from their father, was now extravagant in his compliments. "Really, no one deserves it more. It's the least he can do, and really about time! It's not like he's been busy. I wonder what took him so long — "

"Shut up, Poco." Pietro hurried over to his uniform for the ceremony and dressed rapidly.

Poco examined his brother's new farsetto with great interest. "The Capitano knows his fabrics." Lifting a fine pair of knee breeches, he added, "And he's considerate — he knows about your new aversion to hose. And that hat! Look at that feather! It's perfect. Daring, but not foppish."

Dante was beginning to laugh. Pietro said, "Seriously, Poco, I mean it, shut up."

But his little brother was on a roll. The purple of the doublet was a subject of particular eloquence. "This is a Tyrian dye — you know, the sign of senators and emperors. It's not the purple of violets, but more a plum colour. Do you know where they get it? From the ink sacks of a Mediterranean mussel. It takes hundreds of shells to obtain just a pound of it. First you have to crack the shell, then pull out the tiny sack, which contains only a few drops."

From across the room Dante arched an eyebrow. "And how, pray, does my son know so much about dyes?"

"When we were in Lucca, I — knew someone involved in the art."

The patriarch's left eyebrow arched even higher. "Oh? And you didn't introduce me, why?"

Jacopo shrugged, kicked the bed with his toe. "You wouldn't've liked — I mean, this person wasn't very — "

"She wasn't very what?" asked the father gravely.

"Did I say it was a girl?"

"No, but evasion is as good as an oath. I swear, Jacopo, if you've-"

"Father," said Pietro, "the Capitano is waiting."

Dante's jaw moved from side to side under his beard. But the poet decided to let it go for the moment. With a mutter about Poco being blown by eternal winds, he wrapped a scarf about his face. At fourteen, Jacopo was already close to notorious among the ladies, and Pietro was vaguely jealous of his little brother.

They departed the Domus Bladorum in the predawn light, Mercurio padding dutifully along by Pietro's legs. As they passed by the arch with the highly decorated monster's bone, a newly established phenomenon occurred. The occupants of the Piazza delle Erbe spied Pietro, and a murmur began to ripple through the crowd. Applause started, not for the poet, but for Pietro. Bailardino hadn't been lying — everyone loved a battle wound. Nothing gave more proof of devotion to a just cause and to God.

Strangely, this reverence of injury had grown into a passion for disfigurement. The worse the wound, the greater the knight's daring and endurance. Pietro himself thought this a little backward. A skilled knight avoided injuries, as Cangrande had. But while the common people revered their Capitano as something akin to a warrior angel, popular lore had embarrassingly turned Pietro into an earthy romantic hero. His wound was just right, not hard on the eye, only evidenced in his limp.

"Stay awake, boy," muttered Dante as Pietro bumped into someone. "You're not as spry as you used to be."

"Mi dispiache," muttered Pietro as he struggled with his crutch. It was all he could do to look self-sufficient enough to fend off the well-wishers pressing forward to carry him to the Arena. Even more disturbing, several young ladies were making eyes at him. Mercurio growled.

They continued through the throng all the way up to the Porta Borsari. Once past the old Roman arch, Pietro suggested that they turn up a small side street. "It'll be less crowded."

His brother looked put out, but Dante was grinning. "So. For once it is you being harassed in the streets, not I. A pleasant change." Incredibly, the wryness of the old master's grin indicated pride.

Old master. His father did seem older than his years. It might have been the exile that had so aged Dante, but Pietro fancied it was the epic poem itself. An auspicious fifty years old this June, at the end of each writing day the poet looked far older. Each stroke of the quill removed a day of his life. Today was an unaccustomed respite, a pleasure-filled day, yet Pietro could sense the resentment in his father. As his patron's client, he was obligated to show himself in public. But it meant a writing day lost, which he deemed a terrible price.

Focused on not falling, Pietro was startled to look up and see a wide area, like a Greek agora or a Roman forum, filled with thousands of massed bodies pressed against their neighbours for warmth, blocking out the chilling air. The Piazza Bra. The sun was just peeking between the city towers, the first race still some five hours away, but already the rowdies, having begun their celebrations hours, nay, days early, were being trounced by men in Scaliger livery.

Pietro stopped in his tracks. In front of him, rising like magnificent island in a sea of men, was the Roman Arena. He had only seen it in passing in autumn, and since his return he'd been pretty well confined to the streets around the palace.

Though dressed in brick, the body of the Arena was made of cement mixed with river pebbles and tile fragments. Supporting the body were arches, huge, square blocks of rose-marble, creating in each space an arch four times taller than a man, wide enough for five men to walk abreast with room to spare. Pietro counted twenty arches before it began to curve out of sight. It was magnificent, titanic, collossal, far greater than he could ever have imagined.

"The one in Rome dwarfs it," murmured Dante.

"I don't believe it." Pietro finally understood his father's obsession with the Arena, the model for Dante's version of Hell.

Pietro drew in an awed breath, and Dante nodded. "Literally inspiring, I see." His father pointed to the top of the Arena, indicating a set of exterior arches that rose higher than the rest. "See that? It is the remains of an outer wall that collapsed in an earthquake long ago. But come. The Scaliger waits."

Several civic caretakers bearing the badge of Verona were cleaning new graffitti off the lower walls. A trickle of water seeped between the stones of the Arena. It mixed with dirt, claylike and red, that must have been left over from some event. The red dirt turned to mud, making it appear that the stones themselves were bleeding, a river of blood flowing out of Hell, through the stony earth, and into the mortal world.

Emerging from the corridors beneath the Arena, the Alaghieri family arrived at the balcony reserved for the Capitano's personal guests. They were guided to the second row on the left-hand side. Not bad seats, though more for being seen than for seeing. Opposite them on a twin balcony sat many of the city elders and local nobles. Craning his neck this way and that, Pietro looked for Antony and Mari, hoping they were near.

Cangrande himself had not yet arrived. Pietro got Mercurio settled in at his feet. As they waited in the biting air, Dante fidgeted with his cap and scarf. Poco was twisting in his seat and winking at older girls in rows behind them. Seated between them, Pietro was still looking around for people he knew when the horns began to sound.

Down in the pit, fifty mounted knights appeared from the arches and rode headlong at each other as if to clash at the Arena's center. Suddenly all wheeled, merging into a tight formation for a series of mounted maneuvers that had the crowd on its feet. Drawing up into dual battle-lines, the knights stilled their mounts and drew longswords. The scraping of fifty blades departing their sheaths echoed around the great bowl. Slowly the lines advanced towards each other until the steel tips of the swords touched.

A hush fell over the crowd. Pacing slowly under the canopy of swords was Cangrande's nephew Mastino, playing in the role of the Herald of Verona. He carried before him the ceremonial bow to launch the Bolt of the People, an honour long held by the Scaligeri. In his youth, Cangrande had walked in this place. Mastino's older brother Alberto had been Herald for the past three years. Now it was Mastino's turn. The bow in his grip was symbolic of the weapon that had slain the legendary monster in La Costa.

Reaching the open air beyond the swords, the boy lifted the bow. He took no particular aim but loosed his bolt high into the air. People watched the shaft hurtle into space, wondering upon whose unfortunate head it would fall.

When they glanced back down, the men-at-arms had melted away to the far walls of the Arena and Mastino had vanished. In his place, mounted on his magnificent warhorse, was Cangrande. He wore his finest armour, his famous Houndshelm resting in his lap. In his left arm he held the two scrolls that symbolized his sovereignty over the merchants. In his right hand he held a ceremonial sword. On his head was the laurel wreath, denoting his recent victory over the Paduans.

The audience surged forward, calling and cheering, stamping their boots and shouting his name. Cangrande stepped lightly from his saddle to kneel on the ground. The crowd calmed somewhat as the same priest who had heard Pietro's confession now recited a loud, short invocation to the Virgin Mary and her son.

The moment the prayer ceased to echo around the Arena, Cangrande rose to his full height and threw a balled fist into the air. "Let the festivities commence!" The crowd went wild and Cangrande withdrew, making way for the actors.

At the center of the Arena floor, a stage was marked out, and the rising sun coincided neatly with the start of the first entertainment. Far from the usual miracle or mystery plays, what erupted onstage was a bawdy romp by Aristophanes in which the women of Athens stormed the Acropolis, demanding that the men of Greece stop warring or else live lives of involuntary chastity.

"Hardly appropriate to Lent," observed Dante.

"Unless one viewed the denial of sex as a religious concession," said Pietro. That drew a laugh from Poco. "I hear Cangrande asked for something light and silly."

Dante sniffed. "This qualifies. Tcha! They're ruining the text."

On the stage were about twenty men, most dressed as women (acting was a degenerate profession, and in those parts of the world where women were allowed onstage, the word 'actress' was synonymous with 'whore'). Some of these girls sported long beards, much to the elaborate dismay of the over-phallicized men on the makeshift stage. They spoke loudly, but the crowd paid little attention to the dialogue as they pointed at the actors' enormous false bosoms and prodding genitals.

There was a bustle of activity on the balcony as Cangrande arrived and took his place at the center beside his wife. He'd shed his parade armour for the fine clothing Pietro had seen that morning. At once the performers started to play up to the Scaliger, blowing him kisses and offering protestations of their affection. The master of Verona readily returned the proffered love, and the crowd whooped with glee — everyone knew how much Cangrande loved actors.

One member of the company ran forward, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand, and began to climb the balcony with cries of love. The Capitano made a big show of coyly refusing, but swayed in tune with the love song of the afflicted actor. Finally he took the flowers from his would-be paramour.

"Give us a kiss, lovey?" asked the 'girl'.

Lifting a flagon from beneath his seat, the Capitano poured the contents over 'her' head. The actor sputtered, smacked his lips, and cried, "A good year!" The crowd cheered. Cangrande tossed the fellow a coin and demurely handed the flowers to his wife. The show went on.

Poco glanced sidelong at his father. "Fun stuff!"

Dante shook his head. "Poor Aristophanes. If anyone should take such liberties with my work, I should rise from the dead and castrate them."

"That's real contrapasso," murmured Pietro. His father chuckled.

Only the Capitano's wife appeared unappreciative of his antics. Or perhaps it was her neighbours that bothered her. To Giovanna's right was Cangrande's sister Katerina, with only Bailardino separating them. Gay and lively, thoroughly enjoying the antics of the jugglers, Katerina behaved as if there were nothing the matter whatsoever.

At least there was no sign of the boy. Already the people had glommed onto this child as Cangrande's successor. If the Scaliger had no legitimate son, this child, they said, would be the natural heir. The term natural was thought to be a nice double entendre.

Pietro watched as Giovanna carefully avoided Katerina's eyes while their husbands chatted across them. Instead the first lady of Verona conversed with the Bonaccolsi family — Passerino, his brother Guido, and Guido's wife Costanza della Scala, the forgotten older sister to Cangrande and Katerina.

The rest of the Capitano's family was in evidence. In the front row just past Donna Katerina sat Cecchino, the groom of Pietro's first day in Verona. He held his wife's hand and smiled blissfully. Rumour said she was already with child.

Past them sat the two little nephews of the Scaliger, Alberto and Mastino. Alberto was watching the goings on in the pit with avid interest. Mastino, on the other hand, listened intently to the adult conversations around him.

A fortnight in the Scaligeri household had not increased Pietro's liking for the child. His first impression had been correct. Mastino ran about causing all sorts of trouble, leaving the blame to rest squarely on the shoulders of his older brother, the kind and oblivious Alberto. No matter how often Alberto was chastised for his brother's deeds, he came lumbering back to fall into the trap anew. In amused sympathy, the servants had taken to calling the older boy Alblivious.

Pietro scanned the rest of the faces around him. By now he knew the Scaliger's intimates well enough. Directly in front of Pietro sat Nico da Lozzo and Guglielmo da Castelbarco, both of whom wore their wartime gorgets to the festivities, following the latest of French style. As Pietro returned their nods, his father coughed and muttered, "Dandies."

On the other side of the balcony, far from Pietro, Marsilio and Giacomo da Carrara sat in the front row. No doubt it was an invitation of politics, but the uncle appeared to be enjoying himself. Marsilio looked as handsome and mean-spirited as ever. Pietro recalled his lost ransom with a little bitterness.

Turning in his seat, Pietro finally spied Mariotto. The Montecchi clan were seated a row behind the Paduans, a position Mari must have hated. Pietro's friend was wearing the purple and silver, though the feather in his hat was from a swan, pure white. While Pietro knew he cut a fine figure in his new clothes, withered leg and all, he couldn't hold a candle to Mariotto. The fellow couldn't be unhandsome if he tried.

Sitting to Mari's left was his sister Aurelia. Both obviously came from the same stock — dark hair, long face, big expressive eyes. But Aurelia was sadly lacking the overt beauty owned by her brother. She sat upright, looking down on the Arena floor with a smile on her open face.

On Mariotto's other side sat the Montecchi patriarch. Mariotto's father was chatting with a large, ruddy-faced man with thick broken veins across his face. Unlike Lord Montecchio, who was dressed in sumptuous but understated clothes, this man wore a wild compilation of layers, brocade, lace, and fur all fighting for dominance. The cacophony of colours and textures fought to swallow the man, but to his credit they failed. He was impressive both for his girth and for the gleam of intensity in his eyes — eyes that looked strangely familiar. The man threw back his head in a loud laugh, and Pietro suddenly realized, It's Antony, twenty or thirty years down the road.

This observation was borne out when a sandy-blonde head capped with purple leaned into view to converse excitedly with Mariotto. Noticing Pietro looking at them, Antony waved and said something to Mari, who turned and winked. Pietro waved in return, pointing to his cap. Mariotto pointed to his own and grinned.

When Antony leaned back, Pietro caught a glimpse of another Capecelatro. This tight-lipped figure had to be Antony's older brother. He did not wear the purple, and Pietro wondered how jealous he must be to be forced to watch as his little brother was knighted by the lord of their new home.

Next to the Capecelatro heir sat a veiled woman who was at least eight months pregnant. Pietro assumed this to be Antonio's sister-in-law. So the Capecelatro family was about to produce another generation. The woman pulled back her veils for a breath of unfiltered air, and Pietro was shocked at how fair she was. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. She seemed not to have eyebrows at all, her hair was so light. She was everything a classical beauty should be, yet her face was pinched and uncomfortable.

The balcony contained other faces: the unwelcome Abbot of San Zeno, along with the Scaliger's personal priest and the new Franciscan bishop, appropriately called Francis. Seated between the abbot and the bishop was a Dominican abbot, who tried to bridge the gap between the two men.

Behind them was a young fellow in a Franciscan cowl doing service to his master as a page would to a knight. The young monk was in the spring of his orders, his tonsure new and carefully tended. His eyes were light grey, the colour of a cloudy sky, his hair a raw black. He had a long, solid chin and was quite comely. Pietro wondered why such a handsome man would take the cloth so young in life — though clerical celibacy was the base of a hundred jokes. There was a priest who lived with six girls…

Dante was staring at his son. "What are you smiling at?"

"The play, father," said Pietro quickly.

An arched eyebrow. "The play is over."

"Oh."

Jugglers came next, followed by acrobats and trick riders. As the sun mounted, so did the anticipation. The first Palio would take place just after noon, just after the ceremony of knighthood. Other than himself, Mari, and Antony, Pietro counted twelve more men in the purple and silver scattered though the nearby crowd, shifting excitedly in their seats.

Pietro realized he'd missed an announcement from the heralds. He turned to his brother. "What did they say?"

Jacopo was busy waving to some girl, her father staring angrily over her shoulder. Pietro's answer came from in front of them, as Lord Castelbarco turned in his seat. "The next performer is the oracle."

"An oracle?"

"It's tradition," affirmed Nico da Lozzo, the Paduan turncoat who was now one of Cangrande's trusted lords. "It's the most delicious of the warm-up acts. The oracle always predicts doom and destruction, with just a hint of hope."

"It's disgusting," said Dante sternly. "The art of prognostication is not for entertainment."

"What other use is there?" asked Nico lightly. "You can't live your life according to prophecy. Look at the prophets of history — always vague. No matter what happens, they can claim the credit for it. But it's great for stirring up a dull crowd! Set them up for you new cavalieres to knock down. Make the crowd gasp and pray to avert some doom, then reveal the new knights, the only ones who can save them." Looking up past Pietro, Nico's eyes fell on the abbots and the new Franciscan bishop. "Of course, the Church has to put its seal of approval on the enterprise long in advance."

Pietro's brow furrowed. "You mean what the oracle says is decided ahead of time?"

The former Paduan rolled his eyes. "Of course! You can't let her make it up on the spot! What if she predicts a plague, or a poor harvest? No, it's usually a victorious war and the death of Verona's enemies. Oh, look! Here she comes!"

The quality of the crowd's noise changed as the oracle shuffled out. She was a tiny thing. In defiance of the chilled air she wore no robe, no fur, only a shapeless gown of pale blue. Her body was so thin as to be shapeless too — no hips, no breasts, nothing to disturb the line of the gown. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, thin and almost nonexistent. Pietro would have mistaken her for a boy if Nico hadn't already indicated her gender.

The complete lack of form to the body or the clothes only brought more strongly to the fore the oracle's most striking feature — her hair. Long and black as a raven's, it reached all the way to her ankles. Entirely without curl, it shimmered in the February sun.

She stopped just beneath the Scaliger's balcony. Without raising her head she bowed to the lord of Verona. The Scaliger bowed in return, then remained standing high above her as she lifted her head past him to the sky, eyes shut in concentration. Her body swayed, head dipping left, then down to her chest. She repeated this move three times before the swaying stopped.

A sudden shudder made the crowd gasp as the grey eyes opened to stare at the Scaliger. Slowly, in a soft voice that somehow carried throughout the Arena, the oracle addressed Verona's lord:

"Can Francesco della Scala! Verona will reach its greatest heights under your rule! Your fame will be great while you live. Though forgotten in two generations by the world outside our walls, it shall never cease to be spoken in the city of your birth. You are the flower of Verona's pride."

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.

"Only once will you fail in battle, and that day shall be far from your last in the field. Only once will you fail in friendship, though that will be a far greater stain on your name than the defeat in war. You shall survive both of these to be the victor of all that is your right."

On the balcony Il Grande raised an eyebrow at that last phrase.

"Yet while you live the seeds will be sown for the destruction of this fair city."

This was more like it! Doom and gloom! Thrilling, the crowd pressed forward to hear more.

"It will not be wars that destroy this fair city, but hates! Yet the hates will be born of love. Three great loves shall bring Verona low. They will also seal its fame. Two of these loves will be consummated in marriage. One will not. The love that is denied will shape the man to come. It will be his duty to save Verona. He will destroy it instead. His is a twisted path. The stars are against him, yet in spite of all, they love him. He will renew lost arts, and will be the great unsung hero of both Verona and mankind. The heavens weep for him."

The murmurs were rising, and the question was repeated from lip to lip. None raised their voice, but they all urged Cangrande to ask what was on everyone's mind.

He did. "Who?"

"Look to your cousins," was the hollow reply.

Cangrande's wife frowned. So did Katerina. Bailardino looked puzzled. The crowd cast quick glances at Mastino and Alberto. Glances, too, were sent towards young Cecchino and his pregnant bride of five months. All of these were 'cousins,' but only in the broader sense, for Cangrande owned no true cousins.

The Scaliger stared at the oracle with an expression as fixed as the low stone wall his fingers were gripping. "Tell us more!"

"Two of these great loves will occur within your lifetime. One will be born this very year, one within a year of your death. The last — the last will come in its own time. All three loves will be united in the last, and though it will diminish the city in power, it will raise it in fame. Verona will always be remembered for love."

The eyes closed. The head drooped. The long hair swept over the face, obscuring it from view.

The Capitano did not wait. He took a purse from his belt and threw it down into the pit. It clattered at the oracle's feet.

The crowd roared to life, a thousand voices chattering at once. Hadn't she said their city would be famous? And the Capitano would win everything he dreamed of! Terrific stuff!

But what about the darkness? People whispered, nudging their neighbours, looking at the children on the balcony near the Scaliger. Which of them would be that unsung hero of Verona? Certainly not that Alberto. He had none of his grandfather's daring or piety. And that Cecchino was a wastrel. But there, looking down on the oracle as she was led away, there was little Mastino. Gossip said he was a wild one — hadn't she said a twisted path? Oh, he was the one to watch.

Pietro saw the realization pass over the six-year-old. The boy straightened, basking in the attention. Pietro could see his pleasure and, beneath it, a hunger for more.

Nico had said that the oracle's words were written ahead of time — she was supposed to have been another part of the pageant, like the actors and the jugglers. But something in the air told Pietro she had departed from her script.

Poco nudged him. "What's wrong with your dog?"

Pietro glanced down to Mercurio. Until now he'd been in a fine mood, lapping Pietro's hand happily. Suddenly the greyhound was shaking, traces of froth and drool around his mouth. His eyes, angled up to the open sky, were strangely opaque.

"Mercurio? Hey, boy." Voice urgent, Pietro rubbed Mercurio's ear. "What's the matter?"

Eyes blinking, Mercurio turned its head and laid his chin on Pietro's right thigh. The hound always arranged himself on Pietro's wounded side, the better to protect it. Pietro used both hands to lift the dog's face and nuzzle it with his own. "You all right, boy?"

There was a plucking at his sleeve, and the Grand Butler was saying, "It is time, my lord."

Lord? Dear God, he means me! Pietro turned to his father. "Could you keep an eye on Mercurio?"

Dante nodded, reaching out a hand to brush the Mercurio's snout, a game the poet and the hound had developed. The dog ducked and swiveled his head over the extended hand, waiting for Dante's second try. Dante glanced at Pietro. "Go on. We're fine."

Rising, Pietro leaned on his crutch and hobbled after the rest of the prospective knights as they passed under the seats on their way down to the Arena floor. It was good to be out of the chilled air for the moment. The braziers on the balcony had helped, but the cold air threatened to freeze the blood in a man's veins.

Or perhaps it was the oracle's eyes.