The Master of Verona

The crowd was muttering again. Then, as if on cue, came the stomp and clink of official boots. The crowd parted for the two dozen men-at-arms. The man who led them was easily one of Venice's most recognized faces. Francesco Dandolo was a hero in the Serenissima and still young enough to have great days ahead.

The choking man had recovered enough to step in front of the approaching Dandolo. "Ambassador, this — creature just assaulted me! He…"

Dandolo pushed past him to give Ignazzio and the Moor a deeply respectful bow. "Ser Ignazzio, we have been waiting on you at the doge's palace this last half-hour. I heard of an altercation along your route. I hope you are not hurt."

"Theodoro is," said Ignazzio angrily. "We were attacked in our gondola — an ambush by professionals, no less — and now these fools are waylaying us!"

Dandolo gave the scene an appraising glance. Turning to the captain of the men-at-arms, he pointed into the bloody gondola. "Take the living to the gaol at once. Use whatever means necessary, but find out who put them up to it." He turned sharply and pointed to the aggressive Venetian still rubbing his throat. "Take him as well. Don't kill him but thrash him soundly." The man gasped, his watering eyes now wide with horror. Dandolo turned back to Ignazzio. "Unless his offence warrants worse?"

"No," said Ignazzio grimly. "He was abusive, but Venice has given us worse welcomes."

"Very well. Take them away." Dandolo looked at the Moor, busy replacing his scarf and hood. "Does your man need a doctor?"

Ignazzio turned to the Moor, who shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Then please," said Dandolo, bowing again, "allow me to escort you to the Doge personally. He is eager to consult with you."

Ignazzio followed Dandolo without sparing the crowd a single glance. The large Moor trailed a few paces behind. The mob took a collective step back. Some may have been discontented, but all were unified in their wonder. Who were these men to be treated so solicitously by Dandolo and the Doge?

One found his courage. Stepping out, he called to Dandolo's receding back, "Ambassador, who is this man? Where is he from?"

Over his shoulder Dandolo said, "Disperse, citizens, before you're unlucky enough to find out!"

Fourteen

Verona

16 February 1315

Dawn was hours off and the night air was sharp, the remnants of the last snowfall hardening underfoot. The noise in the streets defied anyone to sleep, and Pietro didn't try. He lay in bed beside his brother, imagining the day to come.

When he'd first heard of the city of Verona, before he had ever heard the name Cangrande or the Greyhound, Pietro had heard tell of this day's event. The Palio. Arriving in Verona five weeks ago in the bitter January frost, he noticed at once that it was all anyone talked of. The betting was fierce, the speculation wild. Mariotto couldn't shut up about it. He had Antony and Pietro on the edge of their seats with excitement.

His return to Verona had happily thrown Pietro in with his two friends again. Since it was a poor season for hunting, Pietro's bad leg didn't hamper them as they settled into a raucous routine of storytelling, mock duels with woolly clubs, and surreptitious drinking. As they navigated the streets they earned the nickname "The Triumvirs" from a proud and welcoming city. The Triumphant Trio that had helped Cangrande rescue Vicenza. Antony had even paid to have a song written, and Pietro laughed whenever he heard it. It was terrible.

Through it all, Mari kept talking about the Palio. Dating back to Roman times, it marked the city's great victory over a monster whose bone still hung in the alleyway called Via dei Sagari. Held the first Sunday of Lent, the revelry served to take the citizens' minds off their fasting and the sumptuary concessions. Traditionally it was celebrated with parades and dancing, feasting and drinking, all manner of spectacle could be seen — pig wrestling, knife fighting, bear-baiting, duels, magicians, oracles, jugglers, gymnasts, fire-eaters.

Best of all was the Palio, the famous twin races of Verona. The first Palio would be run at midday on horseback though the streets. Wild and reckless, it was but a prologue to the midnight race through the city's eastern streets across the Adige and back. The route was hand-picked by the Capitano and run by the light of the stars. Many participants fell to grisly injury and even death. The citizens not participating came every year to cheer as the competitors ran, not merely barefoot, but entirely naked.

A native, Mari was going to race for the first time this year. Antony declared his intent to run. They hadn't been able to think about anything else for weeks. Pietro, who wasn't racing for obvious reasons, teased them both by making bets on one or another of them, settling on both of them to come in second place.