The Master of Verona

Seventeen

Even with the capable Tullio d'Isola organizing affairs, it was closer to one than to twelve before all the prospective contestants were mounted and ready on the Arena floor. Flasks passed from hand to hand to keep off the cold, jokes were told, surreptitious sabotage attempted on saddles and reins. But now, at last, all was set, awaiting the Scaliger's command to begin.

Pietro had traded his destrier for his palfrey. Warhorses were forbidden entry — a beast bred and trained to trample, bite, and kick would give unfair advantage. Thinking he'd have to dash to the Scaliger stables to fetch it, Pietro was surprised to see a squire racing forward with the thin brown horse already saddled, new spurs dangling. They were knight's spurs, recognizable by their length. Since a mounted soldier rode tall, legs locked, the long necks allowed the rowels to reach the horse's flanks. He fitted them on as the squire led his destrier away. "Hey! What's his name?!" But the squire was already gone.

Pietro shifted the caparison under him. A knight's horse was often covered with a large cloth with the ornamental designs corresponding to the knight's heraldic patterns. It served as a form of identification in battle and on parade. There were several fancy devices in the press. Others were bare under the saddle. Pietro's borrowed caparison bore the Scaligeri ladder. Pietro wondered what he could add to the boring old Alaghieri family crest to spice it up some. Perhaps a sword.

Other young men had forgone the ceremony and the blessing to fetch their own horses from nearby stables. Stallions, mares, and palfreys all came trotting into the center of the Arena, which served as both the start and finish line. Young and old alike were breathless with excitement.

On the balcony, Cangrande watched the preparations with real longing in his eyes. He had been the victor of every Palio, horse and foot, from age thirteen until his brother's illness. As ruler, it was unfair for him to participate. His only consolation was that now it fell to him to design the route. The course was different each year. Servants had been out during the morning hours frantically hanging banners at street corners. Those at the forefront of the race would have to have their wits about them or else they would lose the track, be either disqualified or hopelessly left behind.

On the Arena floor, Pietro mounted, whispering names in his palfrey's ear. "Zeus? Apollo?" The beast hardly noticed him. "Frederick? Peppin?" Nothing.

Familiar faces emerged from the mob. Nico da Lozzo was there, trying to strike up a conversation with Antony's dour elder brother. Good luck with that, thought Pietro. The fellow hadn't even congratulated his brother on being knighted. Pietro stopped feeling bad for forgetting his name.

Forty-seven men were participating this year. Some were youths hoping to make a name for themselves. Others were men well into their forties who had participated in the Palio every year since coming of age, determined to do so until they won or died. Every man clutched his reins and breathed in the harsh winter air. Pietro was grateful that, unlike the footrace tonight, this race was run fully clothed.

"Brutus? Cassius? Hades. Pluto. Mars?"

Suddenly a dark-haired knight on horseback emerged from a tunnel, dressed in a starched white farsetto and brilliant red hose — the colours of Padua. Under the white doublet he wore a tunic closed at the throat that was as red as his hose. The fellow's only concession to the cold was a black woolen scarf wrapped around his throat, its ends jammed into the collar of the white leather doublet. Though white was the colour of mourning, he cut so fine a figure that the crowd oohed as he came into view and others riders moved aside to make a path.

The horse under the rider was not a palfrey. Few men could afford the upkeep of more than two horses, and most of a knight's money went towards the upkeep of his destrier, followed by his riding horse. But this horse was a courser, a strong, lean horse made for racing. This one probably had 'hot' blood in its veins, bred from Arabian or Turkish stock. There were five or six coursers in the Arena, but none so magnificent.

Astride this magnificent piece of horseflesh sat Marsilio da Carrara, bolt upright. Beneath the saddle, the caparison was starched a stainless, expensive white. With his blinding hues, Carrara stood out white as snow against the furs and the cloaks around him.

"Showy son of a bitch," muttered Mariotto.

"Hope that thing bolts right out from under him," spat Antony.

Pietro felt Carrara's eyes sweep over to him. Forcing himself to ignore the Paduan's noxious presence, Pietro continued whispering names in his mount's ear. "Caesar? Augustus. Nero!" Not a twitch.

Tullio arranged the riders in front of the eastern balcony in five rows. Each row held ten men except for the last, which held eight. High above, Pietro saw Cangrande beckon Dante up to join him in the front row of watchers. Women were no longer in evidence, though young Mastino and Alberto remained poised at the edge of their seats. Pietro was secretly crestfallen. He'd desired Katerina to see him ride. Perhaps she would have waved. I should have asked for a token. Something dipped in lavender.

Dante whispered something to the Capitano, who instantly burst out laughing. At his side Bailardino howled. He beckoned Monsignor Montecchio and Monsignor Capecelatro forward, demanding the poet repeat his joke. Capecelatro looked offended but recovered himself quickly and chuckled. Lord Montecchio smiled wanly, his eyes furrowed in thought. Bailardino was still clutching his sides. O God. What did he say now?

The mirthful Cangrande stood and spread his arms wide. "Riders! On this Holy Day you are racing not for money or fame, but for the honour of your city! To win, you must all use your heads as well as your horses! And remember, those you ride against are your fellows, your friends! This is sport, not war! Do not mistake the two!" There were grim chuckles among the more experienced riders.

Pietro patted his horse. "Cicero? Socrates? Ptolemy?" He was stuck in a classical rut. He tried other legends. "Merlin? Lancelot. Galahad."

Above, Cangrande continued speaking in his public voice. "You will exit the western gates of the Arena and turn right! After that, the track is marked by crimson flags!"

Crimson! Of the many differently coloured flags lining the streets, every rider fixed that colour in his mind. "Follow the flags, wherever they may lead, and you will be brought back here." The riders shifted, anxious to start, and the Scaliger held up a forestalling hand. "There is a twist this year. I have decided to lengthen the routes of both the horse race and the footrace. With the footrace that was easy enough. But for the horse Palio, I created a double route. You must ride the track twice, thus doubling the distance from four to eight miles. It has been the trend of the past few years that the fastest horse wins. A quick steed will no longer assure victory. You must rest your horses, husband their strength for the second half of the race." Cangrande's blue eyes twinkled. "I have also a few surprises for you. To be sure you truly enjoy them, you will pass through them twice!"

There was a little nervous chatter as the riders quickly rethought their strategies. In this, Pietro was far ahead of them. He had no prepared strategy for winning. He was just going to ride hard and see what happened. In some ways, the double lap would be an advantage for him. Wrong turns could be avoided the second time around. "Aries. Ganymede. Bucephalous." He'd returned to the classics. Still no name roused a response from the horse. "Not Phaeton, I hope."

The Scaliger gestured to his Grand Butler. Under the command of the steward, the forty-eight men turned about, facing away from the Capitano's balcony. Now they were all aimed for the west end, with the row of eight riders in the front. Pietro saw Mari and Antony close to the center of the second line from the front. It was a risky position. They would either get out the gate quickly or else be trapped in the crush.

Having lined up closest to the Capitano, Pietro was now on the far right of the rear line. His first challenge would be getting his horse through the arch as nearly fifty horses vied with him to squeeze through an opening that was only wide enough for six.

"Venus — no, sorry, you're not a Venus, are you, boy? Cupid. Vulcan. Hermes?" The palfrey shook his head in irritation. Pietro patted the mane, eyes on the crimson flag in Tullio d'Isola's hand.

The crimson cloth became a downward blur and a cheer rose up, human and animal voices shrieking together as spurs drove home. All five lines lurched forward. The Palio was under way!

"Go go go!" The palfrey was well trained. At the barest touch of Pietro's spurs it bounded forward. Already the front line of riders was entering the arch of the tunnel. Among the furs and cloaks of these could be seen the bright white of Marsilio's doublet. The Paduan almost fell out of his courser's saddle, righting himself just in time for the stone archway to miss his head. Then he was lost in shadow. A shame he wasn't trampled.

But Pietro had no time for his dislikes. He'd decided there was no chance of making his way through the center of the pack. He raced up along the outside, passing the fourth and third lines. That was as far as he could go without risking being forced headlong into a stone wall. He jerked the reins left, cutting in, and the horse obediently veered into the throng. This angered a half-dozen riders. Obscenities in Latin, Italian, German, and French followed him. Most of these were in the form of personal insults: "Figlio di buona donna!" "Tete de merde!" "Unde ars in tine naso!" "Culibonio!" "Pezzo di merda!" "Fellator!" and so on.

One rider bashed his horse's hind into Pietro. It could have been disastrous, but the palfrey was game for a rough ride. So was Pietro. He released the reins from the grip of his left hand, looping them over a wrist so he wouldn't lose them. He shocked his reserved father up on the balcony by thrusting a protruding thumb between the first and second fingers of his closed fist. This was the fico, the fig, a very insulting gesture indeed.

His assailant saw the fig, grinned, and slammed into Pietro again, making him clutch at the saddle to recover himself. Pietro pulled left again, then felt something painful brush his left leg. Pietro turned his head and saw a glimpse of gold. The bastard was kicking out with his spurs! There was a trickle of blood just above Pietro's boot. Wondering why everyone went after his legs, Pietro kicked out with his heel. His spur caught and he pulled back hard, making the man yelp. Too bad, friend. But I didn't start it.

"Porco dio!" With that joyful curse, the man beside him used his reins as a whip, flinging the leather straps at Pietro's eyes. Ducking, Pietro looked ahead. The wall was coming up quickly. He pulled hard to the left and again his palfrey responded just in time. A rush of air passed between his scalp and the marble slab. Darkness engulfed him, and he joined the crush in the tunnel.

Just ahead, Pietro's friend jerked his horse sideways. This was dangerous. They could both careen into the tunnel wall and fall to be trampled to death. Pietro pulled back on his reins. An opening formed just to the fellow's left, and Pietro steered his horse into it, effectively swapping places. The man's reins flicked towards his face and Pietro leaned left, where his body brushed another rider.

The light was growing. The western arch to the tunnel was only a few feet away. The reins came again, snapping in the air above Pietro's head. He ducked, reached up, and grasped his competitor's reins in his right hand. He yanked backward and down. His assailant's horse resisted and the rearing horse slammed its rider into the arched tunnel ceiling.

The man took the blow on his shoulder and cursed, shouting, "Twenty florins to the man who unhorses that little bastard!"

Emerging into daylight, Pietro angled his horse right and hoped no one took the offer too seriously. Everyone was too busy trying to take the lead. Ahead Pietro could see the figure of Marsilio, kicking out with spurs and reins, but much more viciously than the horseplay in the tunnel.

"Cunnus," growled Pietro in a low voice.

The horse raised his head.

"Cunnus?"

Racing full tilt to the north now, the palfrey let out a short grunt.

"Of course," said Pietro, scandalized. But the name seemed to work. "Come on, Cunnus! Let's go!"

It was a wild chase, and a surprisingly straight one. The track led north, shifting briefly west along the Corso Mastino until they came to another junction. A crimson flag was easily visible fluttering in the breeze from a second story balcony. It turned them north again, and for what seemed an eternity they rode along the riverbank. To their left were houses and apartments belonging to the lower and middle classes. On their right was the curving Adige just beginning its S-bend at the top of the city. The air off the river was crisp and biting.

Pietro was among the second tier of riders. There were a few fists, but these were random and largely without malice. Ahead, those riders who hadn't had to fight their way through the tunnel led by a good four lengths. But these pioneers were hampered by having to look everywhere for the little red flags. Among the leaders were Mari and Antony, riding neck and neck. As Pietro watched, Marsilio bolted past them, vying for first place with two other knights. One more knight was close behind this small knot of horsemen. These six ran close, eyeing each other with suspicion while they scanned the horizon for the next flutter of crimson. Marsilio's beautiful courser took long graceful strides, eating up great distances with each step. If the course had been a straight one, the Paduan would have won easily.

Along the banks of the Adige, obstacles abounded — barrels everywhere, fishing equipment discarded hither and yon. The path was half paved and half mud. The horsemen had to dodge around short piers and ramps. It made for quite a course. To their left, on low rooftops, and their right, in boats, common citizens cheered. These were the best seats for the race, certainly better than the Arena.

Pietro began to feel warm under his heavy fur-trimmed cloak. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, soaking his new shirt. He recognized what Carrara had known at the start. While standing about without cover in the cold chilled the bones, the race would be less tiring if one wasn't sweating under the weight of furs and weaves. Pietro did waste a moment thinking of his fine new rabbit-fur shoulder-cloak, but then he reached up a hand and released the catch.

Looking about he saw different coloured flags — blue and gold and white and black. But no crimson. Pietro was just beginning to think the race would take them out of the city when the six riders in the lead turned west. A few seconds later Pietro saw the crimson flag hung on a sconce on the side of a tallow shop. He made the turn, only to see the leaders turning again. The next flag indicated north.

He followed. To his right loomed the church of San Zeno. The race ran right past its front steps, with the engraved metal doors below the massive circular window. From the basilica of Verona's patron, they turned south for several city blocks, then west down the Strade di San Bernardino. For the first time passage became difficult. The two long straightaways had closed most of the gaps between the riders. Now, hedged in by the new stone wall on their right, the racers jockeyed for position, anticipating the next turn.

Pietro was penned in against the wall by other riders. Riding close by was Antony's older brother. Irrelevantly, his name bubbled up — Luigi! Luigi Capecelatro's eyes were focused like daggers on his younger brother's back.

Just ahead was one of the city gates, called the Porta San Sisto, but rechristened by the inhabitants of the quarter in honour of this very event. The Porta Palio was a wide affair, with five stone arches leading out to the western suburbs. Pietro saw the griffin on the top, and then a flutter of red across the square caught his eye. It was a flag, marking a hard left turn back towards the city center.

But the riders ahead of him hadn't seen it! Mari, Antony, and the other leaders had thundered blithely on. Carrara had missed the flag by less than two feet. Pietro could take the lead.

His problem was that, hedged in by the riders to his left, there was no way he could make it across to the gap between buildings without coming to a complete halt and letting the others race by — a tactic that would draw attention. Maybe I can pretend my horse threw a shoe…

But just then another racer spied it and shouted. Nico da Lozzo, Luigi Capecelatro, Pietro's friend from the tunnel — all saw it and cheered, delighted to suddenly advance to the lead. As one the forty-one riders turned their horses left, east down the Strade di Porta Palio, a route that would lead them back to the Corso Mastino.

Pietro was about to jerk his horse's reins left after the others when he happened to glance ahead. Mariotto and Antony and the rest of the former frontrunners were pushing hard as ever, not realizing they had missed the turn. Hadn't they heard the cheer?

Squinting, Pietro finally saw what they had seen already — far ahead, just as the city walls curved inward, there was a flutter of red. Another flag? How could that be? How could they turn here and at the next block as well?

Pietro had to make a choice. Swallowing hard, he ignored the nearer flag. Instead, he followed the six leaders. As he kept on south, he tried to put a finger on what was bothering him about that nearer flag.

He caught sight of Marsilio's bright white farsetto over the matching caparison of the horse. The colours jogged his memory. The Paduan had ridden within a handspan of the false flag. Another image flashed into Alaghieri's mind — Marsilio almost falling out of his seat at the beginning of the race. It had seemed an accident, but what if it hadn't been? Why else would he…

The starter's flag. Carrara had lifted it from where the Grand Butler had thrown it down. That same flag now had forty-one men racing in the wrong direction.

Crafty Carrara. He's eliminated most of the competition. It was a good ploy. If he hadn't been hedged, Pietro would have made the turn without hesitation. Now only he and the six ahead of him stood a chance of winning. By the time the others realized they had taken a wrong turn they'd be well into the eastern portion of the city, beyond hope of finding the trail again.

Pietro urged his horse on. With the field open around him he was able to close much of the gap between himself and the riders in the lead.

Mariotto and Antony were pushing each other joyfully, cursing and playing. At the start of the race, both had been grimly set on winning. But as they had passed San Zeno, Antony had been unable to resist reaching across and tugging Mari's saddle horn up into his friend's crotch. Mari's response was to grab an apple from an outstretched hand in the crowd, bite, and spit the chunks of it at Antony. These antics kept either one from pulling into a decisive lead. But they weren't even halfway through the course — this was the time for fun!

Mari pulled out his knife and flipped it into the air. Antony grabbed it and, unsheathing his own, tossed both back. A juggling match began, shimmering arcs of silver slicing the frosty air between them. The trick for the thrower was to flip in such a way that the other had to grab it by the blade. For the recipient, it was important to catch the blade without slicing through the glove.

"Be careful!" shouted Mari. "You might need that hand on your wedding night!"

"Shows what you know!" cried Antonio, snatching a blade from the air with three fingers. "You don't use your hands! Unless that's all you have!"

Mari gave Antony the fig.

Further back, Marsilio da Carrara spurred furiously on. He'd fallen back to drop the false flag and was now racing to catch up to Montecchio and Capecelatro. He had much to prove.

The luxury of his imprisonment had made it all the more humiliating. They had been well fed, wined and dined until all hours as if they were visiting royalty, not captives. Their rooms in the Vicentine palace had been sumptuous. Uncle Giacomo took it as a sign of respect. Marsilio had not seen it that way. It was disdainful — they should have been tortured, starved. That was Marsilio's own inclination towards 'guests' of Padua. Yet the Scaliger held nothing but contempt for them, and he showed it by pampering them.

The rain had been a tonic to Marsilio's soul. His homeland was safe from the ravages of the Veronese bastard. It was his shame that Nature, and not man, had been Padua's savior. And when his uncle had suggested meeting with the Scaliger to settle terms for peace, Marsilio had balked. If Il Grande had been any less persuasive or powerful a man, Marsilio would have voiced his outrage in public. As it was, he argued for hours in the privacy of their rooms. Uncle Giacomo had stressed the political advantage of arranging this peace now. "Padua will see us as saviors, and our family will rise to preeminence, as is our right."

Marsilio had countered bitterly that there was no need for peace, that with the rains blocking the roads and swelling Padua's defenses, their homeland could reform their army. Vicenza could still be theirs. Il Grande had actually laughed at his nephew. "Vicenza will never be ours, boy. Not after this defeat. Perhaps someday the Vicentines will be under Paduan rule, but not in our lifetimes. Besides," he'd added cruelly, "if we don't agree, we'll have to ruin ourselves by paying our ransom to Alaghieri. Unless you have a fortune stashed away somewhere?"

When the short traitor da Lozzo had opened the doors to escort them to the farcical meeting, Marsilio played his part. He'd watched as his uncle discussed terms with the Scaligeri minions over a game of dice — dice! And the result proved his uncle correct. Giacomo Il Grande was now the favored name on every lip, a sure bet for Podestà. Marsilio's own name was highly praised as well, receiving reflected glory for his uncle's deeds. It was somehow worse. His uncle was allowing him to reap the benefits of the peacemaking, implying Marsilio could never attain political heights on his own.

And now they were here, in this vaunted cesspool for some irreligious festival. Told it was his duty to show the new amity, Marsilio had resisted coming, even to the point of faking a fever. Until he remembered the famous Palio. A chance to show these trumped-up, Frenchified, German-loving, boot-licking, quasi-Italians what they lacked.

Now his path was blocked by the shenanigans of the pretty stripling he'd tried to skewer and the oaf that had saved him. Carrara had not forgotten them, nor the shame of the mocking he'd been subjected to. He'd sat digging his nails into his palms as these two and that damned Alaghieri were knighted before his very eyes for deeds done against his homeland.

Unable to resist, Marsilio urged his courser between the impromptu juggling act. Plucking one of the knives from the air, he called out, "Catch me if you can, children!" He listened to their curses behind him as he tucked the silver dagger into his boot.

Carrara had to bank left with the curve of the walls. These fortifications were clearly new, built in Cangrande's plan to expand Verona's defenses, enclosing the farms that fed the city.

From one of the farm's trees hung another crimson flag. The crowd of farmers and their families cheered deafeningly as the lead riders turned east, back towards the heart of the city.

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 streaming 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."