The Master of Verona

Mariotto hit his friend on the arm. "Just like you to think of the greatest day of your life as nothing but the race. We're to be knighted!"

Antony said, "You're running, aren't you, Pietro?"

Pietro almost answered in the negative. Then he remembered Bailardino's comment about riding. No, he couldn't compete in a midnight footrace. But that didn't stop him from riding his new palfrey in the noon stampede. He nodded. "I think I will!"

"Good!" Antony clapped a hand on Pietro's back, hard. "Mari and I have a bet on who will win."

"There's no chance you'll win, oaf, unless you fall off your horse onto me again," replied Mariotto.

"Would you listen to him? I save his life — "

"You fell! You said so yourself!"

"I saved your life!"

"I saved yours!"

"Pfah! You should have that Morsicato look at your head, pretty boy. Phantom knights with spears!"

"Phantom crossbows is more like it — "

"Girls, girls," laughed Pietro. "You're both pretty." Which turned them both to attacking him.

There was more good-natured scuffling as they walked down a ramp and under the outer ring of the Arena's lower level. All around them were remnants of past times: grooves in the marble floor worn by centuries of traffic; the rough sockets in the walls where, after Rome's fall, citizens suspended timbers to create homes out of the Arena walls; and here and there a touch of the original paint still lingered, reminding everyone that the Roman Empire had been a startlingly garish place.

"Say," said Mari suddenly, "look what Antony and I have!" He drew a long silver dagger from its sheath at his back. "Show him yours, you big lout! Or have you lost it already?"

"I have mine right here," retorted Antony, tossing his dagger up by Mariotto's head.

Mari's gloved hand plucked the blade from the air. "Nice."

"Daggers?" Pietro wondered why he didn't get a silver dagger in his box of weapons. Or had he overlooked it?

"Something Mari and I had made," said Capecelatro. "We got one for you, too. A gift." He handed over a third matching weapon, which Pietro accepted joyfully.

Mari pointed to his own. "Look, on one side it says 'The Triumvirate,' and on the other a name engraved on it." Sure enough, Pietro saw Mariotto etched with acid into the finely wrought silver of one, Antonio in the other. The one in his hand read Pietro.

He looked up into their expectant faces. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you can juggle!" Antony and Mari started tossing their knives back and forth with practiced ease, causing people around them to duck and curse. Pietro tossed his up into the mix and nearly sliced his free hand open as he caught the one that flicked back at him.

"We were thinking of working up an act for the next festival," said Mariotto. "You should join up — we'd be famous!"

"Yes, the three-fingered trio," laughed Pietro, ducking. "Watch out!"

"Did you listen to that oracle?" asked Antony, catching a knife and waving it back and forth mystically as he crossed his eyes and began to moan. "Loooovvve! All of you will die for loooooove!"

Mariotto snickered. "Wait a minute — she didn't say it was the love of a man for a woman. Perhaps it will be love of battle that will destroy the city!"

"Or of poetry," growled Antony.

"Or of wine," observed Pietro.

"Well then I'm safe," sighed Antony happily. "I prefer beer."

"You would!" snorted Mari. "You're probably really a German. The whole Capua story is a lie."

"That's right," nodded Antony. "Spying for the Empire, here to report on who's fit for battle. I've told them that of the whole Montecchi clan, only Monsignor Gargano Montecchio is fit for duty."

They were trailing the crowd of new knights around the outer ring of the Arena, below the vaulted arches that held the seats. Mari said, "I have a pretty fierce aunt in a convent in Treviso. Perhaps your father would fancy her," he added to Pietro. "Her name is Beatrice."

"Ouch! One is enough, thank you." He explained that his sister would soon be joining them in Verona. "The old man calls her Beatrice."

"Maybe your father and Mari's will arrange a match," muttered Antony.

Pietro was shocked. "What?"

"Don't mind him," chuckled Mariotto breezily. "He's only cross because he meets his bride today."

"Don't remind me!" shouted Antony.

"Bride?" said Pietro, eyes wide.

Mariotto glanced down at the dagger in his hand. "Hey, oaf — you've got mine."

"And I'm going to keep it," muttered Antony, slicing the air. "If you bring her up again, I'll give it back to you up to the hilt!"

Grin widening, Pietro repeated, "Bride?"

"Yes, yes!" proclaimed the Capuan hotly. "My father's arranged a marriage for me. I meet her today."

Mariotto was positively joyful. "There will even be a formal betrothal on Wednesday. And a solemn supper, and a clasping of hands, and a — "

"And a dead Montecchio for dessert," growled Antony.