The Master of Verona

Ducking past the men running to view the horse Palio, bobbing around the torches hung on brackets in the walls, the Constable approached a curtained doorway. He noticed the torches were recently extinguished. Still smoking, having been doused in water. A distinct metallic smell assaulted his nose.

Smell and taste are closely related. It was the recollected taste that told him what it was.

"Hello?" he called softly. No answer. Lifting a dead torch from its bracket, he marched back down the hall and relit it from one of the active flames. It took time, but the Constable was in no hurry. When he returned, the torch's illumination reflected on a pool outside the curtained doorway. Thicker than water, and darker.

The Constable pushed the curtain aside and stood in the doorway staring down at the oracle. She was sitting upright against the wall of the small chamber. Her dark hair, so long and lustrous, was matted to the body, soaked in her own blood. Mercifully, her face was hidden in those long tresses — or so Villafranca at first thought. Upon examining closer, however, he found that her head had been twisted back to front, so now her eyes gazed behind her.

The Scaliger would have no more answers from the oracle.

A fistfight on the floor of the Arena was unseemly. Yet in spite of the presence of both Carrara's uncle and their own fathers — not to mention the Veronese lord — this was exactly what Mariotto and Antony had in mind. They dropped from the back of the sweating horse and strode towards the kneeling Paduan, fists clenched.

Cangrande was no fool. Though it might prove amusing, it could become a political nightmare. The peace with Padua was fragile enough, and though he wanted it broken, this was not the way. So he swung his legs over the edge of the balcony and dropped. His knees barely buckled as he touched down. In a moment the Capitano was upright and moving forward, hands held wide. "A well run race!" By rights he should have been approaching Marsilio to congratulate him. Practicality dictated he intercept Mariotto and Antony instead. "It is your first winter with us, Antony. How does your Capuan blood like our cold air?"

"The air's fine, my lord!" spat Antony. "It's my blood that's hot! I want this bastard's head! I'm calling-"

"No!" said Mariotto abruptly. "I'm calling him-"

Both were attempting to issue a challenge. Cangrande beat them to it. "I'm calling him the victor."

"But my lord!"

"That son of a-!"

It was rare for the Scaliger to deliberately use his height to impress others. He did so now, stopping both them both in their tracks. "I'm also calling on him to dine with me this evening." He noticed two more riders entering the Arena. "It seems that this is one of those years where there are few victors."

"There was an accident." Marsilio managed to sound pained by the event.

If the duo had known what Pietro knew about the 'accident' they might have persuaded the Capitano that their challenge was necessary. As it was, they had only the deliberate cutting of Mariotto's saddle strap, which they began to describe with overlapping rage.

Marsilio interrupted them, tone airy. "If you have a problem, cavalieres, I will gladly face you in the Court of Swords. One or both, I care not at all. As the accused, I choose my weapon to be the longsword."

"Why not a crossbow?" Antony growled.

The smug look grew even more satisfied. "It is not my best weapon. If it were…" His right hand moved casually towards Mariotto.

The Scaliger cut off any retort. "There will be no challenges today. It is Sunday, and a day of Lent as well. You've run a good race and are here to speak of it. Others are not."

Carrara's uncle appeared, having taken the long way down. He strode over to face the young Veronese cavalieres, gripping his nephew's elbow as he bowed. His knuckles went white as his nephew's doublet, as did Marsilio's face. Il Grande and the Scaliger exchanged a few pleasant words, wherein the latter invited his Paduan guests to dine close to him at the table of honour. "But now your nephew must mount the victory horse in preparation for his ride around the city."

A groom was standing by with a pure white stallion saddled to carry the winner of the first Palio. Beside the magnificent snow-coloured animal stood a nag, his traditional companion. The nag was truly a sad beast, an ancient limping, farting animal with a sagging spine, sprained shoulder, swelled limbs, loose teeth, and sticky nose. That animal had no designated rider yet.

The crowd booed when the handsome winner in white started to mount the victor's steed. No fools, they had read the body language of the three knights who had finished the race. That the Capitano had interceded was a disappointment. They hadn't seen much of the race, and there was no better sport than watching one of the knightly caste engage another in a duel for God, Truth, and Justice. So they jeered.