The Master of Verona

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!"