The Master of Verona

"Only once will you fail in battle, and that day shall be far from your last in the field. Only once will you fail in friendship, though that will be a far greater stain on your name than the defeat in war. You shall survive both of these to be the victor of all that is your right."

On the balcony Il Grande raised an eyebrow at that last phrase.

"Yet while you live the seeds will be sown for the destruction of this fair city."

This was more like it! Doom and gloom! Thrilling, the crowd pressed forward to hear more.

"It will not be wars that destroy this fair city, but hates! Yet the hates will be born of love. Three great loves shall bring Verona low. They will also seal its fame. Two of these loves will be consummated in marriage. One will not. The love that is denied will shape the man to come. It will be his duty to save Verona. He will destroy it instead. His is a twisted path. The stars are against him, yet in spite of all, they love him. He will renew lost arts, and will be the great unsung hero of both Verona and mankind. The heavens weep for him."

The murmurs were rising, and the question was repeated from lip to lip. None raised their voice, but they all urged Cangrande to ask what was on everyone's mind.

He did. "Who?"

"Look to your cousins," was the hollow reply.

Cangrande's wife frowned. So did Katerina. Bailardino looked puzzled. The crowd cast quick glances at Mastino and Alberto. Glances, too, were sent towards young Cecchino and his pregnant bride of five months. All of these were 'cousins,' but only in the broader sense, for Cangrande owned no true cousins.

The Scaliger stared at the oracle with an expression as fixed as the low stone wall his fingers were gripping. "Tell us more!"

"Two of these great loves will occur within your lifetime. One will be born this very year, one within a year of your death. The last — the last will come in its own time. All three loves will be united in the last, and though it will diminish the city in power, it will raise it in fame. Verona will always be remembered for love."

The eyes closed. The head drooped. The long hair swept over the face, obscuring it from view.

The Capitano did not wait. He took a purse from his belt and threw it down into the pit. It clattered at the oracle's feet.

The crowd roared to life, a thousand voices chattering at once. Hadn't she said their city would be famous? And the Capitano would win everything he dreamed of! Terrific stuff!

But what about the darkness? People whispered, nudging their neighbours, looking at the children on the balcony near the Scaliger. Which of them would be that unsung hero of Verona? Certainly not that Alberto. He had none of his grandfather's daring or piety. And that Cecchino was a wastrel. But there, looking down on the oracle as she was led away, there was little Mastino. Gossip said he was a wild one — hadn't she said a twisted path? Oh, he was the one to watch.

Pietro saw the realization pass over the six-year-old. The boy straightened, basking in the attention. Pietro could see his pleasure and, beneath it, a hunger for more.

Nico had said that the oracle's words were written ahead of time — she was supposed to have been another part of the pageant, like the actors and the jugglers. But something in the air told Pietro she had departed from her script.

Poco nudged him. "What's wrong with your dog?"

Pietro glanced down to Mercurio. Until now he'd been in a fine mood, lapping Pietro's hand happily. Suddenly the greyhound was shaking, traces of froth and drool around his mouth. His eyes, angled up to the open sky, were strangely opaque.

"Mercurio? Hey, boy." Voice urgent, Pietro rubbed Mercurio's ear. "What's the matter?"

Eyes blinking, Mercurio turned its head and laid his chin on Pietro's right thigh. The hound always arranged himself on Pietro's wounded side, the better to protect it. Pietro used both hands to lift the dog's face and nuzzle it with his own. "You all right, boy?"

There was a plucking at his sleeve, and the Grand Butler was saying, "It is time, my lord."

Lord? Dear God, he means me! Pietro turned to his father. "Could you keep an eye on Mercurio?"

Dante nodded, reaching out a hand to brush the Mercurio's snout, a game the poet and the hound had developed. The dog ducked and swiveled his head over the extended hand, waiting for Dante's second try. Dante glanced at Pietro. "Go on. We're fine."

Rising, Pietro leaned on his crutch and hobbled after the rest of the prospective knights as they passed under the seats on their way down to the Arena floor. It was good to be out of the chilled air for the moment. The braziers on the balcony had helped, but the cold air threatened to freeze the blood in a man's veins.

Or perhaps it was the oracle's eyes.

Sixteen

As Pietro followed the steward's lead, Antony and Mari fell in beside him. "Let's get this over with," said Antony, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "I want to get to the race."