The Master of Verona

Emerging into daylight, Pietro angled his horse right and hoped no one took the offer too seriously. Everyone was too busy trying to take the lead. Ahead Pietro could see the figure of Marsilio, kicking out with spurs and reins, but much more viciously than the horseplay in the tunnel.

"Cunnus," growled Pietro in a low voice.

The horse raised his head.

"Cunnus?"

Racing full tilt to the north now, the palfrey let out a short grunt.

"Of course," said Pietro, scandalized. But the name seemed to work. "Come on, Cunnus! Let's go!"

It was a wild chase, and a surprisingly straight one. The track led north, shifting briefly west along the Corso Mastino until they came to another junction. A crimson flag was easily visible fluttering in the breeze from a second story balcony. It turned them north again, and for what seemed an eternity they rode along the riverbank. To their left were houses and apartments belonging to the lower and middle classes. On their right was the curving Adige just beginning its S-bend at the top of the city. The air off the river was crisp and biting.

Pietro was among the second tier of riders. There were a few fists, but these were random and largely without malice. Ahead, those riders who hadn't had to fight their way through the tunnel led by a good four lengths. But these pioneers were hampered by having to look everywhere for the little red flags. Among the leaders were Mari and Antony, riding neck and neck. As Pietro watched, Marsilio bolted past them, vying for first place with two other knights. One more knight was close behind this small knot of horsemen. These six ran close, eyeing each other with suspicion while they scanned the horizon for the next flutter of crimson. Marsilio's beautiful courser took long graceful strides, eating up great distances with each step. If the course had been a straight one, the Paduan would have won easily.

Along the banks of the Adige, obstacles abounded — barrels everywhere, fishing equipment discarded hither and yon. The path was half paved and half mud. The horsemen had to dodge around short piers and ramps. It made for quite a course. To their left, on low rooftops, and their right, in boats, common citizens cheered. These were the best seats for the race, certainly better than the Arena.

Pietro began to feel warm under his heavy fur-trimmed cloak. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, soaking his new shirt. He recognized what Carrara had known at the start. While standing about without cover in the cold chilled the bones, the race would be less tiring if one wasn't sweating under the weight of furs and weaves. Pietro did waste a moment thinking of his fine new rabbit-fur shoulder-cloak, but then he reached up a hand and released the catch.

Looking about he saw different coloured flags — blue and gold and white and black. But no crimson. Pietro was just beginning to think the race would take them out of the city when the six riders in the lead turned west. A few seconds later Pietro saw the crimson flag hung on a sconce on the side of a tallow shop. He made the turn, only to see the leaders turning again. The next flag indicated north.

He followed. To his right loomed the church of San Zeno. The race ran right past its front steps, with the engraved metal doors below the massive circular window. From the basilica of Verona's patron, they turned south for several city blocks, then west down the Strade di San Bernardino. For the first time passage became difficult. The two long straightaways had closed most of the gaps between the riders. Now, hedged in by the new stone wall on their right, the racers jockeyed for position, anticipating the next turn.

Pietro was penned in against the wall by other riders. Riding close by was Antony's older brother. Irrelevantly, his name bubbled up — Luigi! Luigi Capecelatro's eyes were focused like daggers on his younger brother's back.

Just ahead was one of the city gates, called the Porta San Sisto, but rechristened by the inhabitants of the quarter in honour of this very event. The Porta Palio was a wide affair, with five stone arches leading out to the western suburbs. Pietro saw the griffin on the top, and then a flutter of red across the square caught his eye. It was a flag, marking a hard left turn back towards the city center.

But the riders ahead of him hadn't seen it! Mari, Antony, and the other leaders had thundered blithely on. Carrara had missed the flag by less than two feet. Pietro could take the lead.

His problem was that, hedged in by the riders to his left, there was no way he could make it across to the gap between buildings without coming to a complete halt and letting the others race by — a tactic that would draw attention. Maybe I can pretend my horse threw a shoe…