The Master of Verona

"The boy will be there?"

"I have it on the best authority that he will."

"And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in, much less get out? With a child, no less."

A diagram was slid across the scarred table. "Alberto della Scala was a cautious man. What the people giveth, the people taketh away. And he learned a lot from the death of his brother. One lesson was always have an escape route." A finger landed on a cross in the diagram. "There is a passage here, leading both to the feasting hall on the ground floor, and up to Cangrande's salon above it. It opens onto the street, here at the side, see? It's carefully painted in fresco, the seams are invisible unless you know to look."

"And this secret side door, it will be open?"

"It will."

"Who is going to open it for me?"

"You don't need to know that. Just be there before the second race starts. While the Scaliger is distracting everyone by starting the race, you can slip in. No one will see you."

A hand darted out to grasp the planner's wrist. "Tell me why I should trust you. It may be well worn, but your accent — "

"— is not your concern. Nor the name of my employer. Your needs are aligned with ours for this fraction of time. Do not expect to see me ever again. Remove your hand and go."

Their eyes held, and slowly physical contact was ended. The diagram was tucked away and the men parted, one eager to disappear into the crowd outside, the other content to watch him go.

A nearby door opened and another man sidled up to the bench and sat. "He seems a pleasant type. Can he do it?"

"We'll see. He's certainly determined enough." They each quaffed a drink. "What about that other piece of business?"

"Done and done. The future is behind her now."

"Good." They finished their spirits and stood, leaving the tavern to watch the race before returning to the palace for an evening that promised even greater excitement.

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.