The Master of Verona

In the red light from the glowing coals nearby, the Capitano's face was demonically delighted. "Have you ever seen a broken army come home? Yes, Padua will have more men — but they'll be frightened men, fatigued men, disillusioned and panicked men. They were sure they'd win today. Dear God, how could they lose? Did you see their numbers? No, this time I'll let the Paduan army do my work for me. The sight of all their men running for their lives, led by San Bonifacio in his shirt and hose — that unwelcome image may break the Paduans more thoroughly than I broke their army." The Scaliger laid a gentle hand on Pietro's shoulder. "Now, rest. Morsicato is the best at what he does. I'd hire him in a trice if he'd ever leave Katerina. So let yourself sweat out the reaction to your wound and by tomorrow you should be able to move around a little."

"But, lord, I — "

"I promise, Pietro, that when we are ready to undertake the journey to Padua, I will inform you. You won't be left behind. But only if you rest now. Close your eyes. I have nowhere to be for some time. I will stay here until you are asleep."

He helped Pietro settle himself comfortably on the daybed, changing the sweat-soaked flannel for another, fresh with steam. He paused to check the dressing on Nogarola's shoulder, then returned to sit on the stool vacated by Donna Katerina. Taking up the cloth again, he laid it across Pietro's forehead. The wounded youth closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. The heat of the room, the coolness of his brow, the soft smell of burning wood and spices in the brazier, all mingled into a drowsy miasma that consumed him.

Pietro dreamed. His head was filled with a series of images his unconscious mind could make nothing of. Though the setting was familiar, he didn't recognize the key figure, a shadowy fellow with long curling hair and a curved sword.

Waking with a start, he found Cangrande's eyes upon him. "You were talking in your sleep. Do you remember anything?"

"No, lord." His head was in a fog.

"Here, drink this." The Scaliger lifted the cup of wine with its mixture of poppy juice and hemp seeds that Morsicato had prescribed. As Pietro slipped back into the comforting mists he wondered absently what he'd been saying.

Pietro dreamed again, but this time the visions were less obscure. He was lying on a bed, eyes closed, listening again to the voices of the two beautiful siblings. This time man and woman did not spar. Their voices were kept soft, their tones clear and concise.

"You said you had news."

"A woman has been to see me. She serves the Signora de Amabilio."

"Ah."

"Indeed. It seems the signora's husband was killed falling from a horse last April."

The voice was grave. "I take it she has a request."

"Sanctuary, if you take the city."

"Tell her it is granted." In the dream the Veronese lord rose to leave.

"It is not that simple." A brief pause. "The signora has recently given birth."

A silence, then the brother resumed his seat. He sighed. "A boy."

"Yes."

"Have you taken any steps?"

"I've sent for Ignazzio."

"And the Moor." As it wasn't a question, the lady did not respond. "She cannot be allowed to keep him."

"No. For all our sakes, but especially for the child's. There has already been an attempt."

"Has there? Who else knows?" There was a long stillness between them, broken by the words, "I must take him in."

"Yes, you must."

"If he lives."

"He will live."

"This will hurt my wife."

"Better this pain now than the pain of her heir losing his station."

"If she has an heir."

"There are other children, are there not?"

The brother's voice was almost amused. "You are unusually delicate. Yes, there are. Two, at least. But girls."

"Well, then. Hide this one among the others. What is one more?"

"Interesting that she sent to you, not me."

"She knows the prophecy as well as we do."

"I see I have no choice. Will you help?"

For a heartbeat there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire in the blackened brazier.

"Thank you, Francesco. Of course I will."

"Don't thank me," he said bitterly. "I am only a tool of Fate."

Opiate-aided sleep reclaimed Pietro. He dreamed of a greyhound pursued by a pack of hyenas. Pietro twisted as in his dream the greyhound was brought down at the base of a collossal theatre, an ancient arena, staining the steps with blood.

II

The Horse Palio

Ten

Florence

20 September 1314

Italian cities were reflections of local geology, each one owning a distinctive character based on local stone. Verona was made mostly of rose marble and brick, Padua banded marble and cold stone. In Siena one found a burnt red colour everywhere. Bologna was terra cotta, and Assisi was the colour of fresh salmon. Venice, with no local geology, was constructed from all of them, at great expense.