The Master of Verona

Twenty-Two

At the end of the alley blurry figures hurtled into view, shoving and pushing and tripping each other. A few in the back were limping heavily, and no one was running as quickly as he had at the race's start. Foot by dogged foot, they pressed on towards the Scaligeri palace.

On the balcony of Federigo della Scala's home across the way there was cheering and the waving of torches. "Stop waving those torches, you idiots!" shouted a man at Pietro's shoulder, but either they didn't hear or didn't care. Attracted by the cheers and the waving firebrands, several racers began to climb the wrong balcony in their blind desperation to finish. They were halfway up when they realized their mistake. Some dropped back to the earth to try again. Some found themselves bodily lifted up onto the open-air balcony and feted by a congenial host determined to ply them with drink and pry a story or two out of them.

Two figures in the snow approached the correct wall. They knew which was the loggia of the Scaligeri palace because they'd leapt from there five months before. Mariotto's dark hair was damp with melted snow and bore a crown of icy-white around the fringe. By his side ran the newly christened Antony Capulletto, whose hair was shorter, making the snow invisible. In the torchlight both their bodies glistened with snowmelt and sweat.

Pietro said, "Perhaps you should retire until the race is finished. It won't be long."

"I can endure the sight of a naked man," said Gianozza, her face turning red even as she smiled.

"I'm sure. But I doubt they can take being seen."

"Oh! Of course!" Taking pity, she stepped back to the far end of the loggia where most women had gathered.

Pietro turned back to the railing and called out encouragement. "Come on, you two! Get up here and have a drink!" He doubted they could hear him. In the street, on the loggia, on the balcony opposite, every man was shouting. Behind Pietro the jester Manuel was piping away like a madman, his tune high-pitched and frantic, an apt counterpoint to the action below.

At street level, Antony and Mari were both struggling to find a handhold on the icy walls. Antony got a firm grip on a post extending outward from the stable. A moment later Mariotto leapt into the air and clutched at a sconce above his head. Both got their feet under them and started the climb. Other men were beneath them now, trying to either mimic their actions or else dislodge them and bring them crashing back to earth.

Mari and Antony ascended, their fingers probing the wall for the next handhold. Finding one, Antony pulled himself higher, only to slip. He found himself dangling one-handed, his feet swinging free while he scrabbled at the wall for another grip.

Less than four feet away Mariotto found a place for some toes to grip, enabling him to stand as his hands quested. He looked to his right and saw Capulletto almost level with him. From above, Pietro glimpsed Antony's grin as he twisted around to face Mariotto. The Capuan kicked out at someone beneath him, knocking the fellow sideways off the wall and into the crowd. At the same time he stretched out a hand to Mari.

Pietro saw a momentary hesitation. Then Mariotto extended his own hand. The duo's fingers met and closed about each other, and Mari pulled Antony up to the next handhold. They climbed together, racing for the top. One of them was certain to win. A bare twenty feet below the window, Antony's joyous voice rang loud enough to hear over the cacophony. He had found a place to set his feet, leaving both hands free. This was even more dangerous. Leaning in towards the wall, without anything for his hands to grip, he could topple backward into the struggling mass of naked men beneath him.

Mariotto was higher on the wall, poised to clamber over the rail of the balcony and emerge victorious. If Antony was going to win he had to make a tremendous final effort. He balled himself up, tucking his knees under his chin, and launched himself up towards the balcony's railing.

His elated expression was instantly replaced by a sickening look of fear as Antony's angle of ascent changed. His chin banged against the railing of the loggia and his hands slipped off it. Pietro lunged forward to grasp Antony's wrists, but the cold wet hands fell away from his fingers.

Mari's hands appeared that very second. He was standing on the outer lip of the balcony, having heaved up from firmer footing.

"Mari!" yelled Antony, real fear in his voice, arms grasping at air.

Busy climbing over the rail, Mariotto didn't turn.

Pietro watched Antony fall, limbs flailing. There was a sickening crunch as he bounced off the wall, then a great thud as he landed among the breathless runners on the ground. Some had the sense to try to catch him. Others who hadn't seen him tumbling towards them were unwitting cushions. Then he was on the ground, holding his leg and shouting words it was best his fiancée not hear.

Pietro gave Mariotto a relieved smile. "He's hurt, but he'll live."

Leaning over to look down, Mariotto was ashen-faced. A blanket materialized around him and he was led swiftly away as more runners began to emerge. Pietro remained to help up the others who successfully completed the climb. Servants brought forward cloaks and socks. Bricks were already warm on the fires. The smell of mulled wine grew as vast tubs were brought out. Everything was ready to remedy the ills of the racers, who cheerfully huddled under blankets and gulped down drink so hot it scalded their tongues.

Tullio d'Isola came forward with a length of green silk, and also the rooster and the pair of gloves for whoever lost. Cangrande decided not wait for the loser. Pietro watched as the green ribbon was bestowed on young Montecchio, then pushed his way through to congratulate his friend. "How are you feeling?"

"F-f-frozen," said Mariotto, teeth chattering. "F-feels like a thousand n-n-needles in my feet. Ant-tony's n-nn-not hurt b-bad?"

"I don't know how bad it is," said Pietro. "Do you want to go find him?"

"We s-s-should, shouldn't we?"

"I think you should get warm, champion. I'll find Capecelatro."

"C–C-Capulletto."

"Right, I forgot." Crutch in hand, Pietro exited the loggia and plucked the sleeve of a servant. "Do you know where they took the injured runners?"

"I believe they're in the salon, ser."

"My thanks." Downstairs, Pietro opened several doors until he found the salon. Here the rushes were pungent, soaked by snow-covered boots tramping in and out. Candles lit, torches lined the walls. The men here were not particularly ill-tempered, just annoyed by their injuries. The Scaliger's personal doctor, Aventino Fracastoro, was here, as well as the ever-faithful warrior of wounds, Giuseppe Morsicato. The latter nodded to Pietro even as he massaged life back into someone's foot.

A cheerful Antony was stretched out on a long bench, wrapped in heavy blankets. His left leg stuck straight out in front of him, wooden splints embracing it. "P-P-Pietro! How is Gian-n-nozza? Is ss-she worried?"

Pietro felt guilty for not even imaging she might be. "I'm sure she is. Mariotto and I were. How bad is it?"

Antony groaned. "Broken! Badly, they say. Fracastoro put the splint on to keep me from moving it, but they still have to get everything back in place. I won't be riding for months!" He made a disgusted face. "And I was so close!"

"I saw you jump. What happened?"

"Hit my shin on something and lost my balance. I fell on Bailardino!" he added sheepishly.

Good. Pietro chided himself even as he thought it.

Antony looked imploringly at his friend. "I don't want Gianozza to see me like this. Could you and Mari entertain her tonight, in my stead?"

Pietro ignored the pricking sensation in his left thumb. It is not premonition, he told himself. It's just the cold. "I've promised Donna Katerina I would visit her, but perhaps Signorina della Bella will join us."

"Make sure Mari's there, too. I want them to be friends!"

"I will," said Pietro. "I promise."

Outside the palace, a group of inebriates leaned against a frescoed section of wall. Suddenly one jerked himself upright. "Jesus!"

"What's the matter with you?"

"I swear to God, the wall moved!"

"He's drunk!"

"So? It doesn't make me a liar!"

"Oh! Look at this one, who can move the walls of the palace!"

"No, really it gave a little…"

"He's fat enough to make it fall over!"

"Who said that!? Which of you drunks said it?"

"We may be drunk, doesn't make us liars!"

"Damn your hides! I'm the very image of fitness! Watch this!" He was cheered on as he performed a disastrous handstand.

"Go to it, Hercules!" Roaring and egging him on, no one gave the moving wall another thought.

It took half an hour for Mari to return to the loggia, resplendent in fresh clothes. Pietro was waiting by the door when he arrived. "How do I look?"

Gone was the new knight's garb, replaced by his own colours of blue and white, a touch of pink in the lining, the green ribbon across his shoulder marking him as the night's victor. Mariotto smelled of orange peel and mint, his dark hair was groomed, and his face was freshly shaven. Pietro, having neither bathed nor changed, felt shabby in comparison.

"You look better than Antony. He's-"

"Thanks!" Mariotto breezed past him into the crowd of guests. Pietro followed, looking around. Dante had retired, but Jacopo hobbled over to Pietro, walking on the outsides of feet that were clearly split and bleeding into their bandages. "Did you see me? Did you see me climb over the rail? I made it! And I was right there in the middle of the pack, not last like you!"

"O, thank you very much!" Pietro's determination to stay with Mariotto overpowered the impulse to throttle his brother.

The young Montecchio's eyes sparkled as he seized hand after congratulatory hand. He refused several offers of malmsey and cheese pressed on him by admirers, moving quickly through the throng, looking for someone.

When he found her, he bowed deeply, kissing her hand. "Signorina, we've not been properly introduced. I am Mariotto Montecchio, eldest son of-"

Gianozza cut across him with a laugh. "I know who you are, Ser Montecchio. Congratulations on your victory. O, Ser Alaghieri! Hello!" She gestured to another pretty girl beside her. "This is Consolata."

"Charmed." Pietro bowed as much as crowd and crutch allowed. Consolata hid her face and tittered. Uneasy, Pietro said to Gianozza, "Lady, your betrothed is well. His leg is broken, but apart from that he's fine. He asked Mariotto and me to entertain you in his stead."

Mariotto made a little flourish with his hat. "May we join you?"

Gianozza patted the cushion of the box bench upon which she sat. "Of course. I'm honoured to be in the presence of the winner of the Palio. Please, tell us all about it." The other girls were looking at Mariotto coyly. Consolata forgot Pietro entirely. He didn't know to if he was relieved or insulted.

But Mari couldn't be bothered with any of them as he told Gianozza about the race, turn by turn, each slip momentous. Nowhere in the narrative did he mention Antony. When he finished, Gianozza clapped her hands. "How exciting! But Ser Montecchio, I heard something this evening… but perhaps you won't wish to speak of it."

"No," said Mari eagerly. "Please, tell me."

"Ser Alaghieri said that there was talk this evening, something to do with your family…"

"Of course. The feud." In a hushed tone he spoke of his mother's death and the ancient feud with the Capelletti. Gianozza listened, eyes wide, head canted sympathetically to one side.

Does she give that look to everyone? wondered Pietro. No wonder Antony fell under her spell so fast. Watching now, it seemed she was working hard to weave that same spell over Mariotto. Almost as hard as he's trying to fall under it.

Pietro was wondering how to politely drag Mari away when he suddenly spied the same Moor from outside, passing across his line of sight, in a great hurry. Watching the man move through the crowd, he was startled by a voice in his ear. "For shame, Pietro. Forsaking me for younger girls."

He rose at once. "Donna Katerina."

Katerina received Mari's bow and curtsies from the young ladies. "No please, don't rise. You wouldn't mind if I stole Ser Alaghieri away for a few moments, do you?" She took Pietro by the arm, and the moment they moved away the girls burst into close whispers.

Katerina glanced back at Mariotto. "All hail the conquering hero."

"Yes, he's the man of the hour."

"So I see. Quite the Lancelot, isn't he?"

This rang a warning bell in Pietro's memory. "I suppose so."

"I didn't want to interrupt, just say goodnight. And return these." She extended his knife and his hat to him.

Pietro blushed as he tucked the blade into its sheath. "I'm sorry, lady. I was going to find you. I just-"

She laughed. "I am not pining, Ser Alaghieri. Today is a great day for you, I should not be monopolizing your time. I'm grateful for the attentions you've shown me. But it's time to put Cesco to bed."

"Is he tired out?"

"No, I am. He has the energy of the men in my family, he rarely sleeps." She stopped, her mouth twisting wryly. "If your father were here, he would tout that gaffe to the skies."

"It's not much of a secret," confided Pietro. "Is he with his father?"

"No, little Cesco is with the nurse." She gestured to the corner she had occupied. Sure enough, there was the nurse, back turned to them.

There was a great deal of noise on the balcony, including several animals. But Pietro swore he heard Mercurio's growl from the nurse's side. Squinting, Pietro thought that there was something wrong with the way the nurse was sitting. She was slouched forward, one arm hanging loose. "Donna," he said with an edge of urgency.

Turning, Katerina immediately spied what disturbed him. With Pietro in her wake she walked back to the nearly deserted corner of the loggia. "Nina?" Each step was quicker than the last. "Nina? Cesco?"

Reaching the nurse's side, Pietro laid his hand on her shoulder. Instantly the body fell from the stool to lay awkwardly limp on the marble floor. Kneeling, he turned her face to the light. Her skin was white, her body limp and lifeless, a crimson stain spreading outward from a knife in her chest.

Breathless, Pietro confirmed his worst fear. The nurse's arms were empty.