The Master of Verona

Twenty-Three

"Francesco!"

Across the loggia the laughing Capitano turned and saw the expression on his sister's face. At once he barreled across the crowded hall. Reaching Pietro's side, he took in the scene at a glance. "Where is he?"

"Gone. I stepped away for a moment." Though she was shaking, Katerina's voice was firm.

Cangrande snapped his fingers and men appeared — Passerino Bonaccolsi, Nico da Lozzo, Bailardino, Tullio, and Ziliberto dell'Angelo, his master of the hunt. "The girl's been murdered and little Cesco has disappeared. Tullio, find Villafranca, tell him to seal the bridges. Nico and Passo, get your men and make a house-to-house search, starting with the nearest. Nico, go north, Passo, south. Bailardino, go dunk your head, get sober, then take my men west. Ziliberto, get across the San Pietro bridge. It's closest. All of you, go."

As they dispersed Katerina laid a hand on Cangrande's sleeve. "He can't have got far. This just happened."

Pietro opened the shutters beside them, looking down on the huge crowd milling about in the alley below — an alley that led in one direction to the stables and in the other towards the Piazza della Signoria. His eyes searched all the faces desperately. "I saw a Moor."

"I know about the Moor," said Cangrande.

"I think it was him," insisted Pietro.

Katerina said, "He might have his reasons."

Cangrande frowned uncertainly. "True. I'll search the palace. You'll organize things here."

"Let Tullio," said Katerina. "I'm coming."

"Pietro, I'm taking your dog." Slipping his hand into Mercurio's leash, Cangrande made for the exit, only to find his path blocked by his wife.

"Husband?" asked Giovanna da Svevia, her face concerned. "What is happening?"

Cangrande pushed past her without a glance. "No time."

Katerina followed her brother. By now gawkers were pressing in, fascinated by the dagger protruding from the nurse's breast. Half the men on the balcony had military backgrounds. One by one they offered their services to Cangrande, who was struggling towards the far door.

Pietro remained behind, feeling utterly helpless.

When the panel swung open to disgorge a man with a bundle, the drunks gave an ironic cheer. Nursing a broken head, one exclaimed, "I told you! The wall moves!"

"Let me pass." The man had been delayed by the darkness of the stairwell and the wriggling of the bundle's contents.

"What's that door?" asked one of the sots, looking inside.

The man with the burden said, "They're giving away free drinks up there. But it's a secret."

Already men were staggering for the sliding panel. The man tried to push past them, and as he fought, a blond head emerged from the blanket in his arms.

"Cute kid," said one drunk as he passed.

Pietro stared down upon the milling crowd in the Piazza della Signoria, looking for one face, a single face in the throng. An elderly voice at his elbow snapped, "What's happening?" Pietro saw Constable Villafranca examining the body.

"Cesco's been kidnapped."

The Constable visibly started. "When?"

"Just now, dammit!" Turning back to the window, Pietro peered through the falling snow at the crowd below. To one side a noteworthy figure emerged from the palace doors, struggling through the sea of staggering drunkards. It was the man Pietro had been looking for. The Moor.

Something wasn't right. In spite of the bulky cloak, Pietro could tell the Moor's arms were empty. But he was certainly moving fast. In fact, he seemed focused on another figure ahead of him, a figure making better progress through the throng. The Moor was trying to intercept him. The man in the lead was passing almost directly beneath Pietro's balcony, which meant he couldn't have come through the main doors. A tall man in a knee-length tunic and a long trailing hood, with awkwardly distended limbs, he looked like a spaventapasseri, the creatures farmers created to scare off scavenger birds.

In the scarecrow's arms was a bundle, something wrapped in a blanket-

"There. There!" shouted Pietro, pointing. "Stop that man!"

The fugitive glanced back in panic and Pietro got a good look at the man's face. Beneath the short beard it was grotesque, with long sallow cheeks under the shadows of the hood, conjuring up Pietro's every childhood nightmare. "There he goes! That's the man!"

Cangrande had barely reached the doors to the loggia. Now he whirled about and saw Pietro pointing out the window. The Scaliger cursed and cried, "The back stairs!"

Mercurio was ahead of him, his nose leading him to a door hidden in a recess just around the corner from the loggia. Cangrande reached it moments after the hound and pulled on the latch. It didn't move. "Why in the name of the Virgin is this door locked?!" He battered uselessly at it with one hand, then spun on his heel for the crowded front stairs.

At the window Villafranca stood beside Pietro. "Show me!"

"There!" Down among the populace the scarecrow was not able to run, but he was pushing steadily on, hugging the walls of the Giurisconsulti where the crowds were thinner because of the leopard on the steps. If no one intercepted him or the Moor, they were going to lose the child.

Pietro's leg was over the railing before he knew what he was doing. He beat away Villafranca's grasping hand with his crutch and used his left leg to propel himself, dropping off the balcony onto the crowd below.

Some saw him coming and threw up hands to protect themselves. Some were taken by surprise. Pietro's hip cracked on someone's head, but his outstretched arms grasped enough men to keep him off the ground.

There was a good deal of cursing until someone noticed his clothes. "It's a knight!" Thinking him drunk, they held him aloft and passed him from hand to hand. On a sea of men reeking of drink and sweat, he was being carried away from the kidnapper and the Moor. "No! Stop, dammit!" His frantic shouts were lost, so he started lashing out with kicks, swinging his crutch. One man ducked and let go, which sent the young knight rolling over face-first towards the earth. Pietro's left knee struck hard on the cobblestones but he forced himself to stand, thinking he was lucky it had been his left knee, not his right.

Ducking this way and that, he tried to see through the crowd. The hunched figure of the kidnapper was still jostling people near the leopard, trying to get by. Pietro stumbled in that direction, shoving bodies out of his path.

A great cry from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. The huge Moor in the hooded cloak was brandishing a falchion, scything the air above his head as he threw men out of his path, heading directly for Pietro, protecting the scarecrow's escape. Pietro's hand went instinctively to his belt, but he was armed only with the silver knife Mariotto had given him that morning, the one with his own name on it. The thin miseracordia was useless against the falchion's blade, which could remove head from neck in a single stroke.

The crowd parted for the Moor, who began moving faster. Pietro stumbled but kept on in the direction of the scarecrow, casting frantic glances behind him at the approaching falchion. Further back, he saw a sign of hope. Cangrande was emerging from the palace doors, a firebrand held high in one hand, Mercurio's leash in the other. Pietro's dog was straining towards the chase, and Pietro prayed Cangrande would let the hound free to aid his master.

Forcing himself to forget the Moor, Pietro trained his eyes on Cesco, squirming this way and that in the scarecrow's arms. The boy was crying now, shrieking for all he was worth. The kidnapper was obviously having trouble holding him. Pietro cupped a hand to his mouth. "Cesco! Francesco! Cesco!"

The little head turned and the frowning eyes found Pietro, a known face. A hand broke free from the blanket and reached for Pietro. Ignoring the terrible pain in his leg, Pietro broke into a full run. Damn me and damn this leg and where the hell are Cangrande and Bailardino and the rest of them? And how close is the Moor? In desperation, he threw his crutch over his shoulder, a weak missile. Maybe it would trip the Moor up.

Now all Pietro had was the silver dagger. Suddenly an idea struck him. He held the weapon up high. "Cesco, look!"

Cesco saw the dagger glinting in the torchlight and started to struggle, pulling both hands free and straining for the pretty weapon. The grotesque kidnapper cried, "God bless it, child! Be still, in the name of God!" The spaventapasseri shook Cesco, who cried out and grabbed onto a thin chain around the scarecrow's neck.

Mere feet away, Pietro saw the villain cast about in desperation. The crowd had backed off, but it wouldn't be long before they understood who was in the wrong. His path would be blocked, his life ended. The scarecrow had no hope of escape. Pietro drew a shallow breath and called, "Give up, man! It's over!"

"The devil it is!" The scarecrow whirled around. There was a knife in his hand, resting on the back of Cesco's neck.

Pietro checked his run. "Don't!"

A fierce growl cut him off. Nearby the leopard was straining its leash. The scarecrow glanced at the animal and Pietro saw the thought forming. A smile curled the edge of the fiend's mouth. No. He can't!

The kidnapper heaved Cesco sideways at the leopard. The child was still clutching the man's necklace, but it broke and the child sailed through the air.

Far behind him Pietro's heard Katerina's scream drowning out the gasps and cries from the drunken crowd.

Wrapped in the blanket, Cesco bounced off the leopard's shoulder and fell. Landing roughly on the top stone step, the small bundle rolled down two more stairs. Cesco ended facing upward, looking at the snow falling from the sky. His mouth was open in a scream but there was no sound coming out.

The startled leopard crouched back on its hindquarters, looking at the boy and growling. Pietro gazed for a horrible moment at the beast's strange mouth and the row of teeth just within. Then the angry leopard lifted a forepaw big as the child's whole body, ready to crush the offending bundle. Cesco dragged in a huge breath, and this time his scream was audible.

Forgetting the Scarecrow, forgetting the Moor, forgetting everything else in this world, Pietro threw himself forward over Cesco's body, putting up his fist to ward off the leopard's blow. The weight that struck his fist was crushing. The leopard bellowed as something was torn from Pietro's grip. A second swipe hit him like a furry brick to the head. Damp stones buffeted his shoulders as Pietro was flipped in the air and landed flat on his back.

Dazed, he rolled onto his side, blinking hard. Something dark was blurring his sight, but he could hear the leopard howling. Pietro cuffed his eyes and squinted up.

Cesco was still laying on the nearby step, screaming bloody murder. The leopard was perched on the top step of the Giurisconsulti, but something was amiss with its right forepaw because it limped, trailing blood behind it. Pietro's dagger, forgotten when he'd jumped, had pierced the leopard's paw.

The leopard snarled again, letting out an eerie cat bellow. It's ears were back and it crouched again, ready to throw itself at the child-

Suddenly Cangrande was there, flaming torch in hand. He waved it back and forth to ward the beast back. To Pietro's eyes the Scaliger looked a thousand times fiercer than the animal.

Then a huge shape appeared close to Cangrande. The Moor! Standing behind Cangrande, that evil blade hovering over the child! "No no no," mumbled Pietro, stretching out a futile hand.

Cangrande didn't see the danger to Cesco. He was busy swinging the torch, forcing the leopard to hunch back. But fear of fire did not diminish the creature's rage. A snarl, a clamping of jaws, and it leapt into the air.

Cangrande lunged forward at the same moment, one arm protecting his head, the other still holding the brand. The Moor stepped right over Cesco and drove in behind the Scaliger, arms crossed, bashing the animal under its chin with the flat of his blade. The crushing weight of the beast landed on the Capitano's shoulders and the Moor's forearms. Its paws flailed wildly at the air as together they staggered, both throwing their legs wide for support. If they gave ground at all, the leopard would land squarely on the child.

Cangrande used the brand to fend off the claws of the uninjured paw, then pressed the flames upward, scorching the beast's underbelly. The massive cat screeched horribly. The Moor took a step forward and twisted himself so his back was pressed against the animal's wounded belly. Cangrande dropped the brand, twisted around the Moor and away from the animal. In two steps he swept up the shrieking Cesco and dashed to the edge of the crowd, handing the bundle to his sister, just arrived.

"Could someone help me, please?" Voice low and rasping, the Moor's calm tone disguised his enormous strain as the held the leopard at bay.

Someone in the crowd cried, "Let them kill each other!" The sentiment was echoed. Quick bets were made as the leopard was cheered on. Suddenly Ziliberto dell'Angelo appeared, a long stick with a leather noose on its end in his hand. With a flick of the wrist the Master of the Hunt collared the beast and hauled upward.

"You're not a light love, are you?" demanded Ziliberto. The leopard was angry, hurt and frightened. Landing on the steps it limped away from the crowd. Ziliberto followed it, cooing, making strange animal noises. Immediately the Moor stepped away, to the jeers and hisses of the crowd.

Pietro felt hands hooking into his armpits, but his eyes were on Cangrande. The Scaliger was breathing hard, and blood flowed from his shoulder and back, but he seemed steady. He looked around for Cesco. "Is he hurt?"

"The Capitano's fine," someone told him.

"No — the boy! Is he hurt?"

"He's fine," rasped a low voice as a dusky hand touched Pietro's head, feeling for damage. "Someone needs to look at those cuts."

Pietro looked into the Moor's face. "How — who are you?"

The man might have answered if a rock hadn't come hurtling from back of the crowd, anonymous and vicious. The blow struck the Moor on his back. He grunted and hunched down. A second projectile, this one a patch of ice, struck the back of his head. This was followed by snowballs with rocks inside them. Pietro threw his arms up about his ears and ducked under the volley of missiles aimed at the man beside him.

"How dare you!" cried Cangrande, leaping forward into the crowd. His torn doublet was gone, his shirt in tatters and his body streaked with blood. "You dare attack him? That man just risked his life while the rest of you stood by watching! Want to show how brave you are? Find the one who started this! The tall thin man in the patched cloak! I promise riches to the man that finds him, and death for the next stone thrown!"

As he spoke men in Scaligeri livery hustled the Moor away down a side street. The crowd departed quickly, though if to hunt the fugitive or to escape the Scaliger's wrath Pietro couldn't tell.

Pietro's head was still ringing from the leopard's blow, and he forced himself to sit down again on the Giurisconsulti steps. He stayed there for hours, if the pulsing in his head was any measure. He was roused by the Constable gently shaking his shoulder. "You need to go in, boy. The doctors will want a look at you."

Pietro accepted the man's help to stand. "Thanks."

"You're a damn fool, boy," said Villafranca, shaking his head. "Then again, never seen a brave man that wasn't."

Pietro cuffed at his face and noticed it wasn't sweat that came away but blood. "Where did he go?"

"Don't worry, we'll find the bastard."

"No, the other one — the Moor."

"Oh, him! Fearsome devil, isn't he? I swear, he may be a heathen, but I've rarely seen a feat like that. I'd forgotten — well, we hadn't seen him in years."

"Who is he?" persisted Pietro.

"I suppose you couldn't know, could you? They call him the Arūs, whatever that is. He's the property of Lady Katerina's personal astrologer. Damn sorcerous bastard. For all he's brave, I half wish they'd put an end to him just now. Him and his master both."

Katerina's man? Pietro glanced at the Constable. "How did you get here?"

"The same way you did. You managed it better than I did." Villafranca nodded towards his left ankle, visibly swelling. "Broken, I think. Shall we go in to see the good doctor together? Mind you, first thing Fracastoro will do is squeeze the piss out of you. Then he'll smell it, taste it. If he's really upset he'll set it out for the flies, and if they like it, well, that's when you're in real trouble."

Pietro squinted at the square. "Cangrande?"

"Searching for the kidnapper with all my men. My orders are to look after you. Don't worry. I fancy he'll find us when he's through. Let's get you to the doctor." Pietro started to protest. "Young man, neither of us is in any condition to give chase to a snail, let alone that creature. Come inside like a sane man and get drunk."

In the confused aftermath of the foiled kidnapping, Mariotto Montecchio left the Scaliger palace only to return twenty minutes later, armed with a book. Making his way through the buzzing crowds in the Piazza della Signoria, he slipped into the church of Santa Maria Antica through the small western door. Had his thoughts not been elsewhere, it might have occurred to him to wonder at the state of his soul for bringing a book called L'Inferno onto holy ground.

Closing the door on the excited revelers in the square, he looked around. It was dark in the intimate church, and he couldn't see anyone. He shook the snow off his cloak and crept forward, his boots leaving damp patches in his wake. Ahead there was a dim light where a single candle flickered. His hands on the book were shaking. He rounded the pillars, then stopped.

"Gianozza?"

The girl was kneeling, and she crossed herself before turning to him. "I thought if I was found, it better be in prayer. Then I'd just say I'd come for confession."

"What could you have to confess?"

Blushing, the girl came to take his hand. "I came here to meet you. That could be a sin."

"I'm glad you did." His face inches from hers, his breath felt very warm.

"I'm glad, too," she whispered, looking up past his eyes at the snow clinging to his handsome black hair. "You poor man. You must be frozen stiff."

"I don't think I'll ever be cold again."

"That's pretty of you to say."

He felt her breath on his cheek and closed his eyes. "So, this is courtly love."

"What?"

"Loving an unobtainable woman."

"Am I unobtainable? I thought I was brazen." For an instant her cheek was against his face. He felt the flicker of her eyelash against his skin. Then with breathtaking speed she stepped back and pulled him by the hand towards the confessional.

"What are you-?"

"I want you to read to me, Cavaliere. If I'm going to listen, I can't be looking at you. I'll never hear a word you say." She nodded him through the door reserved for the priest.

Mariotto's heart was so full he didn't even protest as she closed it behind him. She had already lit a candle and placed it in the cell. Another door slid shut, and the girl was in the penitent's chamber. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Mariotto bit back his first three demands for repentance. "Say three Hail Marys and come kiss me."

"Oh, Father! If you can't come up with anything better than that, you'd best start reading."

Dutifully Mariotto unlocked the book and opened the binding. The frontispiece was signed by Pietro's father, inscribed to him. Turning the page, he began to recite. "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…."

The Constable's prediction was correct. The Scaliger returned to the palace after an hour. By now the salon-cum-infirmary was nearly empty. When Cangrande erupted into the room he found only Antony, Pietro, and Villafranca, each lying on backless couches pushed close together to ease the sharing of a bottle. The bloodied cushions under them declared the couches would never again be fit for guests. Doctors Fracastoro and Morsicato had tended their wounds and were waiting to see if more came in. Off in a corner lay Marsilio da Carrara, drunkenly spread-eagled on a daybed.

"I hope there's some wine left." Cangrande was still shirtless, but the blood had been washed off by the snow that had melted as it touched him.

The men lying prone shifted to face him, and the two doctors took him by the arms and sat him down. The Scaliger looked at Antony and Villafranca. "A matched set. With those splints, you two should be bookends."

"I'd do a better job at that than I did as constable tonight," groused Villafranca.

"Stop fretting, I'm not going to sack you."

Pietro sat up. "Did you catch him?"

Cangrande was thoroughly disgusted. "Disappeared! Completely gone. Vanished. I'm beginning to think he's a ghost."

Pietro voiced the speculations they had been sharing. "He might have had an accomplice, or a rented room."

"There's a door-to-door search going on in the entire Roman quarter. But why do I have the feeling it's not going to turn this man up? He's a magician!"

"Necromancy isn't the only explanation," observed Morsicato, poking at a slash in the Scaliger's shoulder. Fracastoro slapped Morsicato's hand — Cangrande was his patient. The Vicentine doctor withdrew, giving his fellow practitioner the fig as he did.

Villafranca said, "Many people do dislike you, lord."

"Hmph! Don't see why." At his doctor's urging, the Scaliger lay down on a free couch. As Fracastoro began to prod at him in earnest, medical tools ready at hand, the Capitano closed his eyes but didn't wince. Only when the doctor paused did he repeat his demand. "Damn you, Aventino! Aren't you going to offer me any of that foul stuff?"

"Of course, lord. I just wanted you to ask for it." Fracastoro lifted a wineskin and handed it across.

"How now, how now!" protested Antony. "That's not what you offered us!"

"You don't pay my keep," smiled the Scaliger's personal physician.

Pietro asked, "How is Cesco?"

Cangrande took a deep draught from the skin before answering. "Sleeping, I hope. He didn't seem badly hurt. A few bruises from where the bastard gripped him. Nothing more."

"And where is your shadow?" asked Villafranca of Cangrande.

"The Moor is guarding Katerina's house. He'll be there all night."

Villafranca looked angry. "I can have men placed there — men who won't let them get within a mile of the boy."

"Do what you like. It will make no difference to him."

"Feh," grunted Morsicato dismissively. "The Moor. He once told me that I would travel to far-off places and make a name for myself abroad."

Cangrande glanced at the visiting doctor. "What's wrong with that?"

"I hate traveling," confided Morsicato. "I get seasick."

The Constable, nursing his pride as well as his ankle, drained the closest bottle. "Speaking as we are of prophecies, does this business have to do with the oracle, you think?"

Cangrande shrugged, then winced. Morsicato said, "I heard she was murdered. What did you do with the body?"

Villafranca said, "I hired some actors. They saw her burned."

"You should have called us," chided Morsicato, gesturing towards himself and Fracastoro.

The Constable shook his head. "She was beyond saving."

"What he's saying," interjected Fracastoro reprovingly, "is that we might have been able to tell you something about her death. Lord knows between us, we've seen enough battlefield wounds. It might have given you a clue to her murderer."

"Oh. I'll remember in the future," said Villafranca with a belch.

"I think we know who the murderer is, in any case," said Cangrande, making a face as Fracastoro started sewing up a wound. Morsicato opened his mouth to suggest something, but a withering glance from the other doctor reduced him to watching. No one would tend Cangrande's wounds but his personal surgeon.

"The spaventapasseri," said Pietro.

"The scarecrow? That's a good name for him," agreed Cangrande. "And I believe the oracle's death was his message to us."

Pietro said, "How so?"

Villafranca told them about the oracle's head. Cangrande snorted. "An excellent contrapasso. Someone's an admirer of your father's work, Pietro."

"What's that?" asked Antony.

"The twisted head," Pietro explained, "making her face backward. That's one of my father's tortures in Hell. It's the price seers and diviners get for trying to see the future."

"So whoever killed her was making a statement about her prophecy," deduced Morsicato.

"Or has a sick sense of humour," supplied Cangrande.

"Who is this scarecrow anyway?" demanded Antony. "What did he want?"

"Who he is will take some tracking, but we have a clue. The child ripped something from around his neck. A medallion I've never seen before. As to what he wants, we'll ask him that when we find him."

The Constable ventured an opinion. "Perhaps he thought to kidnap him for ransom purposes. The Scaliger's son." If he'd expected Cangrande to rise to the bait, he was disappointed.

"Should I go join the searching parties?" asked Pietro. "I got the best look at him."

"God forbid," said Cangrande before either physician did. "Go to bed. Rest. That was a nasty clout you took. When you awaken tomorrow, come see me. Don't rush, though. I have a feeling I'll be busy." The Scaliger closed his eyes.

"What happened to the leopard?" asked Morsicato.

"Del Angelo thinks it should be destroyed. I think the animal was defending itself in a frightening circumstance and should therefore be allowed to live. We'll have it out tomorrow."

"What I don't understand," fretted Pietro, "is how he got down to the street so quickly."

"We'll look into it." The Scaliger's tired eyes half-opened. "So much has happened tonight, Pietro, that my manners have slipped. Tomorrow, remind me to thank you. Again."

Pietro flushed slightly. Antony winked at him. The Scaliger's eyes closed as Fracastoro dug his needle into the scarred and bloody back.

Morsicato had a few quiet words of advice for Pietro regarding the cuts on his forehead, which he listened to. Saying goodnight to everyone, he balanced on his crutch, preparing to go.

A pluck at his sleeve pulled him down so Antony could ask, "Where was Mari? Why didn't he help you?"

"He was talking to-" Pietro hesitated. "He was talking to your fiancée. They were across the loggia. He probably didn't realize what was happening until it was over."

Antony grunted. "Well, at least they get along. That's good news. Could you imagine it if they didn't?" He settled back, elevating his broken leg, waiting for a litter to transport him to his father's house.

Pietro exited the makeshift sickroom and crossed the hall towards the front door. He found Bailardino Nogarola there, stomping the snow off his boots. Seeing Pietro, the large man smiled tiredly. "I swear, I'm moving to Rhodes, become a Hospitaller. Too damned cold here. Glad to see you up and about, boy."

"Glad to be here, my lord," replied Pietro.

"Word is a leopard cracked your skull."

"Yes, my lord."

"Damn stupid of you to let him."

"I guess I'm just not that bright." Pietro gestured to the bandaged claw marks just over his eye.

"God's wounds! An inch lower and you'd be blind!"

"He just swatted at me. No sign of the kidnapper?"

Bailardino shook his head. "None. At least, not in the houses west of here. My men are still searching, but I promised Kat I'd check on you. Yes, you! You've got to stop risking your neck for our family. It's giving her grey hairs." He laid a beefy hand on Pietro's shoulders. "She's taken a liking to you, lad. She'd hate to see anything happen to you. As would I."

A nearby tapestry shuddered. As there was no wind in the hall to make it do so, Pietro and Bail both looked at it, their tension rising. A tiny lump in the tapestry was half hidden by shadows.

Bailardino raised his eyebrows at Pietro, who lifted his crutch. "Yes," said Bail loudly, easing his sword from its scabbard. "We've all taken a real liking to you, Pietro."

Pietro moved closer and, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall beside the tapestry, he struck the lump hard.

"Ouch!" yelped the lump. From underneath the tapestry bolted little Mastino della Scala, rubbing his shoulder and looking mutinous. "Uncle Bail, put your sword away!"

Pietro lowered his crutch and shook a fist. "You've already been told. Don't spy."

Mastino glared daggers at him. "I'll fix you!" he cried, then ran through a door under the staircase.

Bailardino resheathed his weapon. "Fut. Little puke. Needs to be walloped more often." He shivered. "Damn, it's cold!"

"It must be hard, going out after the race."

"That reminds me," said Bailardino, "tell your friend Montecchio that that was the slickest move I've ever seen. And I've seen them all."

Pietro frowned. "What move?"

"What he did in the Palio. Slicker than goose shit."

"What did he do?"

"Heh. The little Capuan was going to win. Your boy knew it. So he kicks out at just the right moment and barks Capulletto right on the shins. Took him down, leaving the field clear to win." Bailardino chuckled. "Well done."

Pietro's blood was in his boots. "How do you know?"

"Damn if it wasn't me the Capuan fell on! Mind you, if I could have done it myself, I would have. Those two are just too young for me. But I put up a good race for an old coot. You have to admit that!"

"Yes," agreed Pietro absently.

"Is Cangrande in the salon? I'll go in and tell the peacock we're still holding our dicks, then I'll go over to our house and tell Kat you're unhurt. She wants to see you, by the way. Come by tomorrow, but not before noon. She's not at her best in the morning."

They bid each other goodnight, and Bail went off in the direction Pietro had come. It had been Pietro's intention to cross the Piazza della Signoria, climb the stairs to his father's room in the Domus Bladorum, and crawl into bed. Instead, tired as he was, Pietro stayed to search the Scaligeri palace. But there was no sign of Mariotto, and he drew the line at knocking on the door the Paduans' suite of rooms to ask if Gianozza was in.

At last Pietro staggered into his father's suite across the plaza. Poco was still out reveling, but Dante was writing by lantern light. "Will the light bother you? The muse is upon me."

Apparently the poet had missed all the excitement — not surprising, if he was in the midst of penning new verses. He'd even failed to notice the new bandage that graced his son's forehead. Pietro grunted and simply fell into bed without removing his clothes. Within moments he was asleep.

Dante stood from his littered papers and ink and, crossing to his son's bedside, he pulled a coverlet over Pietro to keep him warm. He waited a moment, watching his son's sleeping form, then returned to his Purgatory.

Had Pietro's search extended to the chapel across from the Scaligeri palace, he would have found his quarry. The candle had lowered but was still burning bright as Mariotto reached the second circle of Hell.

I began: 'Poet, gladly would I speak

with these two that move together

and seem to be so light upon the wind.'

And he: 'Once they are nearer, you will see:

if you entreat them by the love

that leads them, they will come.'

Gianozza was an excellent audience. Every now and then she made small noises of delight that encouraged her reader to continue. The rest of the time she kept her breathing audible but not rhythmic so he could be certain she was not asleep.

Now she leaned forward in delight, pressing her face right up to the wooden partition of the confessional. "Who are they? The lovers, which? He's already mentioned Cleopatra and Paris and Tristan. Is it Lancelot and Guenivere?"

"Be patient," chided Mari. "All will be revealed." He read Dante's entreaty to the lovers floating on the wind, and their pitiable reply. When asked to tell their tale, the man groaned as the woman spoke:

'Love, quick to kindle in the gentle heart,

seized this man with the fair form

taken from me. The way of it afflicts me still.

'Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving,

seized me so strongly with his charm

that, as you see, it has not left me yet.

'Love brought us to one death.

Caïna waits for him who quenched our lives.'

These words were borne from them to us.

Mariotto paused when he heard a snuffle from the connecting chamber. "Gianozza?" He pressed his faced against the carved grille that separated them. The door to the penitent's cell opened and he heard the girl flee from it at a run.

Oh no! No no no! I've upset her! Was it my reading? Did I do something? Did I not do something? Should I go after her? She's Antony's bride. How can I chase her? God, how can I not?

The door to his cell opened. The gust of air made the candle gutter then die. Quickly the girl stepped inside and closed it behind her, engulfing them both in pitch darkness. She collapsed weeping into Mariotto's arms. "What?" he asked frantically. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She buried her face into his doublet, fingers clutching him in desperation. "It's so beautiful!"

Mariotto rocked her in his arms, pressing the top of her head with his cheek. That he did not kiss her then was probably the single greatest act of self-denial Mari had ever performed. He desperately wanted to shift in his seat, lest the girl notice exactly how excited she had made him. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of her weight in his lap. And an unworthy part of him wanted her to know how excited he was. As long as she wept he daren't caress her as he wished to, but he could stroke her hair, her neck, her shoulders.

After a time the girl's tears ceased to flow. She pressed her face into his. "I'm so sorry, Ser Montecchio. You must think me a foolish girl."

"Mariotto. Please, call me by my name. And no, not foolish, never that."

"Do you mind if I stay here?" she asked in a small voice. Mariotto found himself unable to answer. She settled in against him and he smelled once more the sweet orange blossoms. He drank it in as the gods of old drank nectar.

His hands began to stroke her back again, this time more insistently. In the tense, excited silence, the girl asked suddenly, "Who are they?"

"What? Oh! Her name is Francesca. Her lover is named Paolo. They were both murdered by her husband."

"Tell me their story," she said. He tried to relight the candle but she forestalled him. "You tell me. I'd much rather listen to you than Dante."

Trembling, he obeyed her. "Francesca da Polenta of Ravenna was married to Gianciotto Malatesta da Verrucchio of Rimini."

"Gianciotto?" The name meant, literally, John the Lame. "Was he?"

Mariotto nodded, just as if he'd been in Florence thirty years before. "Yes. His body was twisted while his brother Paolo's limbs were straight. Both of them were brave and virtuous, and fought side-by-side in many battles. Around the year 1280, Gianciotto sent his little brother to Francesca's father to offer a marriage contract. When Paolo arrived in Ravenna, Francesca mistook him for her future husband and agreed to the match. When she arrived in Rimini, she was presented with Paolo's older brother with the twisted limbs. They married, of course, but his business kept him away from home and he always left Francesca in the care of his younger brother."

"And they… they had a liaison?"

At this precise moment Mariotto saw the beauty Pietro's father had given the story of the two lovers. "They were sitting, reading a French romance — the story of Lancelot and Guenivere." In the darkness, her face close to his, Mari was having difficulty finding words. "They — I can't say it as well as the poem, but they were so excited by the story, so moved in emotion and spirit, that when they looked at each other they couldn't help…"

Her mouth found his. Or perhaps his found hers. The kiss was tentative at first, then she pressed harder. He responded, pulling her close. Their hands clutched at each other in the darkness. Breathing in the smell of her, his lips moved from her mouth to her neck. She gave a wonderful little moan. Encouraged, his fingers traced a line from the base of her neck to her shoulder, from there to her breast. She shivered and said, "Oh Mariotto, Mariotto, be my Paolo…"

"My Francesca, my Julia…."

A thudding against the doors of the church made them both start. Gianozza wrenched herself off his lap and out the door of the confessional before Mari could even speak. He heard the side door of the church open and slam shut. The drunks at the main doors carried on past the church, not knowing the moment they had ruined. Shaking, Mariotto sat lamely in the priest's seat and wondered what in God's name he was supposed to do now.

Gianozza fled through the revelers to the palace door, where she was admitted at once. Running up the stairs, she didn't stop until she reached the small chamber adjoining her uncle's guest suite. She bolted through the door into the lit room, expecting and deserving a scolding from her unfeeling chambermaid.

The room was indeed occupied, but not by a woman. Reclined deep in a chair, head in hands, legs splayed out before him, was a comely knight holding his face as if he thought it might fall off. As she closed the door his head came up.

The hungover Marsilio da Carrara gazed blearily at his breathless cousin. "Where the devil have you been?"