The Master of Verona

Next to the Capecelatro heir sat a veiled woman who was at least eight months pregnant. Pietro assumed this to be Antonio's sister-in-law. So the Capecelatro family was about to produce another generation. The woman pulled back her veils for a breath of unfiltered air, and Pietro was shocked at how fair she was. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. She seemed not to have eyebrows at all, her hair was so light. She was everything a classical beauty should be, yet her face was pinched and uncomfortable.

The balcony contained other faces: the unwelcome Abbot of San Zeno, along with the Scaliger's personal priest and the new Franciscan bishop, appropriately called Francis. Seated between the abbot and the bishop was a Dominican abbot, who tried to bridge the gap between the two men.

Behind them was a young fellow in a Franciscan cowl doing service to his master as a page would to a knight. The young monk was in the spring of his orders, his tonsure new and carefully tended. His eyes were light grey, the colour of a cloudy sky, his hair a raw black. He had a long, solid chin and was quite comely. Pietro wondered why such a handsome man would take the cloth so young in life — though clerical celibacy was the base of a hundred jokes. There was a priest who lived with six girls…

Dante was staring at his son. "What are you smiling at?"

"The play, father," said Pietro quickly.

An arched eyebrow. "The play is over."

"Oh."

Jugglers came next, followed by acrobats and trick riders. As the sun mounted, so did the anticipation. The first Palio would take place just after noon, just after the ceremony of knighthood. Other than himself, Mari, and Antony, Pietro counted twelve more men in the purple and silver scattered though the nearby crowd, shifting excitedly in their seats.

Pietro realized he'd missed an announcement from the heralds. He turned to his brother. "What did they say?"

Jacopo was busy waving to some girl, her father staring angrily over her shoulder. Pietro's answer came from in front of them, as Lord Castelbarco turned in his seat. "The next performer is the oracle."

"An oracle?"

"It's tradition," affirmed Nico da Lozzo, the Paduan turncoat who was now one of Cangrande's trusted lords. "It's the most delicious of the warm-up acts. The oracle always predicts doom and destruction, with just a hint of hope."

"It's disgusting," said Dante sternly. "The art of prognostication is not for entertainment."

"What other use is there?" asked Nico lightly. "You can't live your life according to prophecy. Look at the prophets of history — always vague. No matter what happens, they can claim the credit for it. But it's great for stirring up a dull crowd! Set them up for you new cavalieres to knock down. Make the crowd gasp and pray to avert some doom, then reveal the new knights, the only ones who can save them." Looking up past Pietro, Nico's eyes fell on the abbots and the new Franciscan bishop. "Of course, the Church has to put its seal of approval on the enterprise long in advance."

Pietro's brow furrowed. "You mean what the oracle says is decided ahead of time?"

The former Paduan rolled his eyes. "Of course! You can't let her make it up on the spot! What if she predicts a plague, or a poor harvest? No, it's usually a victorious war and the death of Verona's enemies. Oh, look! Here she comes!"

The quality of the crowd's noise changed as the oracle shuffled out. She was a tiny thing. In defiance of the chilled air she wore no robe, no fur, only a shapeless gown of pale blue. Her body was so thin as to be shapeless too — no hips, no breasts, nothing to disturb the line of the gown. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, thin and almost nonexistent. Pietro would have mistaken her for a boy if Nico hadn't already indicated her gender.

The complete lack of form to the body or the clothes only brought more strongly to the fore the oracle's most striking feature — her hair. Long and black as a raven's, it reached all the way to her ankles. Entirely without curl, it shimmered in the February sun.

She stopped just beneath the Scaliger's balcony. Without raising her head she bowed to the lord of Verona. The Scaliger bowed in return, then remained standing high above her as she lifted her head past him to the sky, eyes shut in concentration. Her body swayed, head dipping left, then down to her chest. She repeated this move three times before the swaying stopped.

A sudden shudder made the crowd gasp as the grey eyes opened to stare at the Scaliger. Slowly, in a soft voice that somehow carried throughout the Arena, the oracle addressed Verona's lord:

"Can Francesco della Scala! Verona will reach its greatest heights under your rule! Your fame will be great while you live. Though forgotten in two generations by the world outside our walls, it shall never cease to be spoken in the city of your birth. You are the flower of Verona's pride."

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.