The Master of Verona (44 page)

Pietro laughed. "He looks to be in a foul temper."

"Wouldn't you be, kept out in the cold all day? Look at him pace to keep warm. Those runners ought to be doing the same."

"They'd better keep away from him." There was a pause, then Pietro gave in. "What were the missing lines?"

Grinning, Dante opened his mouth only to be interrupted by the Capitano's voice. "No speeches! I don't want to keep you standing still for long!" He was a dark shape in the falling snow, lit from behind by the steward holding torches. "Follow the torches, and try not to frighten the womenfolk."

Amid the laughter, all eyes scanned for the first torch. It hung on a corner of the walls of Santa Maria Antica.

"The finishing line is my loggia, so keep your hands nimble enough to climb! When I give the signal, start running!"

Open to all comers, there were noticeably fewer knights participating in this trial, though if this was due to modesty, drunkenness, or weather Pietro didn't know. The numbers were swelled by the common citizens. Excluded from the first Palio because they owned no horses, they could still rely upon their legs to carry them through the second. Several of the watchers in the crowd, on impulse, tore off their clothes and joined in.

Pietro had difficulty seeing in the falling snow. He thought he spied Antony and Mariotto taking their places in the line. Poco was probably among the three hundred men in the crowd. Pietro wished he could be, too. But a man had to know his limitations. Pietro could not run.
Hell, after the horse Palio I can hardly walk!
Instead he stood beside his father, leaning thankfully on the crutch. His other hand held Mercurio's leash. Otherwise the dog might run the race for him.

Cangrande dropped a flaming torch into the snow. With a gust of excited breath that smoked the air the runners started, slipping and falling in the initial steps. There were shouts of encouragement and curses, hands grappling at ankles as the fallen tried to trip the upright. One fellow was thrown towards the angry leopard. He barely rolled away as a huge paw slashed at his head.

As the racers disappeared in the curtains of snow, Pietro gestured towards the open doors. "Let's get warm." Beard frosted with snow, Dante nodded vigorously. They climbed the slippery steps back to where braziers burned and hot spiced wine flowed. "Come on, Mercurio," said Pietro, urging the dog inside.

As Pietro waited in the doorway for the hound to pass, he glanced back. Alone in the center of the square stood the Capitano, head back. Snow fell on his face, into his mouth. His eyes were open, looking into the sky that was obliterated in a sea of white on the darkness. Tonight there were a million-million stars, all falling earthward to melt and disappear into every living thing they touched.

A rough elbow in Pietro's side abruptly ended his study of the lord of Verona. A huge man in hooded robes cut across his path. "Excuse me," came a voice from within the folds of the cloak. It was a painful voice to hear, rasping as if it had to scrape its way out of the man's throat. The words were strangely accented. He wore what looked to be a thin cottony material that wrapped Eastern-style around his midsection. His hood was up, but above the wide scarf wrapped around his face the skin was dark as soot, eyes black as night. It was the face of a Moor.

The creature moved off into the crowd, leaving Pietro wondering. Moors were not uncommon here in Verona, but they were mostly servants or slaves. Few were free men.

Dante was inside already, halfway up the wide stairs leading to the rear loggia. Dismissing the startling figure, Pietro gritted his teeth and started the long ascent.

Moments later a panel slid shut on the noise of the street and a hooded figure dusted the snow from his shoulders before beginning his own climb. He left the secret door slightly open for his escape, but after the first few steps all light vanished. He had to use his left hand to feel his way up the spiraling staircase. His right was filled with steel.

The noise was deafening even before Pietro reached the top of the stairs. Two hundred men and women were pressed into a space that was meant to comfortably accommodate half that. A dozen braziers were scattered about, taking up space even as they warmed the air. Pietro could see that shutters had been affixed to the tall windows to eliminate the chill wind. In the center of the east wall of the palace, two lone arches were free of shutters. Pietro counted from the edge of the loggia and decided that those were the very arches that the Scaliger had leapt through five months before. Now they were the finish line for the race. Pietro grinned.

Tonight none of the guests were made to doff their shoes in favor of soft slippers. With all the people packed in here, there probably weren't enough to go around. Or else the Grand Butler had acknowledged it a lost cause.

Before he entered the hall, Pietro was stopped again by Giotto's fresco of the five Scaliger lords. This time, though, it was the first knight who drew his attention. This man was noticeably lacking a regal bird atop his
scala
, and his visage was odd as well. His face was not as clear as the others, his features obscured in the shadow of his simple helmet.

"Leonardino della Scala,
detto
Mastino," said his father in his ear. "The first of the Scaligeri lords."

Pietro continued to study Mastino's face. "He seems different from the rest. He looks — I don't know…"

Dante cocked his head to one side. "No one remembers much about him."

"I saw his tomb this morning. It bore the title
Civis Veronae
."

"A common citizen," observed the poet. "Remembered more for his humility than his deeds. It is known he organized a rewriting of the city statutes. And though he is generally acknowledged to be the first great Scaligeri, he was never lord of the city. Not officially. He never held the two major offices that the rest of the family have."

Pietro changed his gaze from the painted wall to his father. "Which are?"

Dante looked grave, as though it were Pietro's duty to have already ferreted out this information. "Capitano del Populo and
Podestà
of the Merchants. The two are technically separate. Together they combine command of the military with the merchant's financial power, creating the most secure power base of any family in Italy. Better by far than being king."

Pietro returned his gaze to Mastino's fresco. It wasn't the shadowy face that bothered him. It was something else. All the Scaligeri shown were surrounded by armed men. In the other four portraits, those men's spears and swords and halberds pointed out at unseen enemies. In Mastino's portrait, though, those arms were turned in towards their lord. "Why are the swords pointed inward?"

Dante's eyes narrowed as he examined the painting more closely. "I hadn't noticed that. It is disturbing, isn't it? Perhaps it's because of the way he died. Mastino was murdered not far from here. He and Bailardino's father were riding through the Volto dei Centurioni on their way back to the palace when they were ambushed and slain. In fact, the story goes that their bodies were thrown into the well that stands outside our current residence."

Behind them a man coughed, as they were blocking the hallway. Entering the loggia people made way for Pietro, recognizing him by the fine clothes that marked the new knight. Men he did not know called congratulations to him. "Hey! Alaghieri!"

Pietro found his arm held in a steely clasp and a moment later he was embraced. He tried to identify the man, who did look familiar…

"We met today — though I'm afraid I was something of a cad. Sorry about the tunnel."

Oh!
"I was a little evil myself. Don't worry about it."

The man let out a breath of relief. "Good. I was afraid you'd want to duel or something. My name's Ugo de Serego!" Again Pietro's arm was encased in that strong grip. "Some friends of mine are over in the corner — we've had enough racing for one day. Come and join us! I want to introduce them to the man who saved my life."

Pietro was embarrassed. "We were both lucky."

Serego was roughly scruffing Mercurio's neck. "Come over anyway. I want to hear what it's like to be descended from a great poet."

Pietro saw someone he'd longed to see all evening. "Can I catch up with you? There's someone I need to talk to."

"Of course! We'll be over here when you want to celebrate." Serego strode back to his friends while Pietro and Mercurio made for another corner of the loggia.

Katerina della Scala
in
Nogarola was seated away from the crush of men and women. Pietro had expected her to hold court in the style of her brother and sister-in-law, surrounded by the best and the brightest, making use of her wit and her grace. But with the exception of a serving girl, there was nary a soul by her, a feat on this crowded loggia.

The reason for her solitude was cradled in her arms. Pietro was amazed she'd brought the boy to Verona, let alone here in public. It was tantamount to slapping Giovanna della Scala's face.
Here is the son you could not give him
, Cangrande's sister was saying,
and I will raise him. We cannot even trust you to do that.

Cangrande's wife was across the loggia, holding a boisterous court. Men and women kept their eyes deliberately averted from the stately woman and the child she held, a child that bore such a strong resemblance to their lord.

Katerina passed the time by chatting with her girl, who must have been the child's nurse. Pietro looked around. Bailardino was nowhere in sight, which was unfortunate. Pietro required a chaperone, otherwise it would be improper — even if only he knew it.

He was rescued from his dilemma by his father. The poet arrived with a fresh goblet of steaming wine. The vessels here were finer than those in the feasting hall, these made of ornate rock crystal. Cangrande's famous disdain of ornaments evidently had no effect on his wife's tastes. Or his Butler's.

"Would you like to sit, father?" The reply was a raised eyebrow, indicating that idiot questions would not be answered. Crutch in hand, Pietro led his father to the corner occupied by Donna Katerina.

The lady smiled at his approach. "Ah Pietro, you mean to join me in my exile?"

Pietro bowed as best he could, and she pretended offense. "Ser Pietro Alaghieri! Do you dare to mock me by bowing when I cannot rise to curtsey in the proper way?" She indicated the child twisting restlessly in her lap. "I decided that, since I was banned from partaking in polite society, I might as well carry the cross with me. He is the cause of my plight. The least he can do is share it. And it gives the other guests a topic of conversation."

Pietro said, "You know my father."

"Who doesn't? I'm pleased I can say I knew him before he went to Hell. And who is this?" she asked of the hound staring at the child in her arms.

"His name is Mercurio." Nudged, the dog obediently curled up at Pietro's right foot.

"You seem to be weathering exile well," observed Dante. He settled himself onto a cushioned bench. "An active child."

"Too active for his own good. His nurse was about to throw him from the window. He's small for his age, and I'm convinced it's because he uses up all his energy staying awake. Pietro, please don't stand on ceremony." She freed a hand from the child's clutches to wave to a seat near her. Immediately the boy tried to wriggle himself onto the floor.

"He is a trial, then?" asked the poet, leaning forward to study the baby. A tiny hand darted out to grasp his beard. Dante chuckled. The child heaved up with his tiny muscles as if he viewed the poet's face as a mountain to be scaled hand over hand. As the next handhold was Dante's protruding lower lip, the poet let out a yelp.

"Cesco! Monsignore, please. Allow me." Katerina removed the poet's fumbling hands then wrapped her own slender fingers around each of the infant's wrists. Pietro saw her knuckles go white. The child's eyes opened wide. When she released her grip, the baby's hands opened instinctively. Dante pulled back as the child giggled as though entertained by the rebuke. Katerina spared him hardly a glance in return.

The nurse came forward. "Should I take him?"

"Thank you, Nina, no. I will deal with him. As you see, Maestro Alaghieri, he has recently taken to climbing. He's scaling everything in sight. I positively dread the day he takes his first step."

Her knee began to bounce, providing the child with a new stimulus to distract him. But little Cesco's eyes remained fixed on the poet's beard. In return, Dante was massaging his chin with the back of his hand and eyeing the child with wary respect. "Pietro, if that laugh escapes I'll disown you. It is quite a grip, madam. I assume he gets it from his father?"

"I wouldn't know." She canted her head. "Really, Maestro Alaghieri, I have been the intended victim of a hundred such traps and have yet to stumble."

Dante grinned like a child caught filching sweets. "I am so sorry. My son can tell you, I am an inveterate gossip. Though I think it says enough that your brother asked you to raise the boy. If I recall, your relationship was not one of requests and favors done lightly."