Bailardino shook his head. "He did the same to me. You'd think he wasn't the darling of every lass in the land!"
Rising, Pietro said, "That's Mariotto."
Cangrande laughed, but Bailardino pressed his point. "No, goddammit, really, I tell you, a wound is guaranteed sex! Pull up your breeches to show a girl that knee, and she'll pull them off you to see the rest."
Pietro flushed, but he was smiling hugely. It was simply impossible not to like Bailardino.
"Bail," chided the Capitano. "We are in a church."
Bailardino was unrepentant. "The Lord appreciates sex. Wouldn't've made it so fun if he didn't."
Cangrande sighed. "Pietro, Tullio's been to see you?"
"Just now, lord," Pietro confirmed. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry it's so long in coming."
"It's wonderful, lord," said Pietro wholeheartedly.
"You've come for confession, I imagine."
"What, is he supposed to confess to you?" asked Bailardino.
"Yes, lord," answered Pietro.
"Good. I cannot have a potential leader of men not conform to the all rules of knighthood. Many wink at them," he nudged Bailardino in the ribs, "and some of us fail, but we all must try."
Pietro took a breath. "Lord, I'm very grateful for the charity you've bestowed on me." Cangrande frowned and Pietro hurried on. "But I cannot accept the commission. Or the promissory note." There! He'd gotten it out.
Cangrande's face was grim. "Why, may one ask?"
"Because I can never fulfill the terms of the commission, and therefore I would be taking money under false pretenses."
Scaliger and Nogarola shared an amused glance. Nogarola said, "Is there such a thing as an honest pretense?"
Cangrande rose. "Your objection is nonsense, Pietro. The money is not extravagant. And it comes from my own purse, not the coffers of the state. So there are no pretenses, false or otherwise. Consider it payment for services already rendered. A solidus a day is a small price to pay for my life."
"Too much, by half," muttered Bailardino. "I wouldn't part with a florin for it."
"If you refuse me this," continued the Capitano, eyes twinkling, "I will be greatly offended. You'll be telling me my life is worth nothing. Besides, how else are you going to pay for the upkeep of your horses?"
"They are beautiful," Pietro admitted.
"The warhorse is a direct descendant of my own. When I'm not riding him, I have him covering some of Montecchio's mares. Now, as to the commission — in that, too, I am quite serious. It isn't the holiday you may think. A banneret is a leader of men, but those men must be his own. He pays them, he commands them, he takes responsibility for their behavior. You are welcome in any army I ever command, as soldier or civilian. But to be a banneret you must raise your own force, train it, and command it."
Pietro gestured helplessly to his crutch. "Lord — how can I? I'm…"
Bailardino clucked his tongue. "Are you sure you want him, Francesco? He seems a little thick." He laid a hand on his shoulder. "A knight is a mounted soldier, son. He does very little fighting on foot. In fact, only an idiot jumps off his horse." He dug his elbow into his brother-in-law's ribs.
Cangrande momentarily clasped his hands to plead to the cross on the far wall. "Dear Lord, what good is it to give me power when I cannot use it to smite those who ridicule me? But Bail's not wrong, Pietro. There is nothing preventing you from being a great soldier. Unless," he added, "you think it's not in your stars?"
"Don't answer him, Pietro," came a familiar, cool voice. "He doesn't believe in the stars."
Pietro hadn't heard that voice in months, not since he'd left the palace at Vicenza. She had been too busy with her new charge, and far too unwelcome in Verona these last months. Turning, he saw Donna Katerina emerge from the curtains enclosing the baptismal font. It was like breathing again.
Clasped in her arms was the child — Cangrande's bastard heir. The infant had grown in the months since Pietro had seen him last, limbs long and thin. Now his eyes were wide, his mouth working silently, his body damp.
A low huff came from the door. Turning, Pietro saw Mercurio's ears curiously flattened, his tail wagging intensely.
A Franciscan priest was now crossing the threshold of the baptistery. Feeling monumentally stupid, Pietro finally made the connection between the alcove, the water, the priest, and the baby.
Pietro started to bow to the lady, but the baby reached out a hand and grabbed his nose. Pietro yelped. Though the adults chuckled, the baby himself seemed disinterested as he let loose a long yawn.
"From the mouths of babes." Cangrande beckoned his chaplain forward, indicating Pietro. "This lad needs to receive confession and be dressed in time for the first entertainment of the day." He slapped Pietro on the shoulder. "One of a knight's merits must be punctuality!"
Pietro made way for them as the family exited via the metal-studded double doors of the south exit. The young hound moved to follow, straining at his tether. "Mercurio. Stay."
The priest stepped towards the confessional. "Come, young man. It's a busy day."
"And an early one," observed Pietro.
A weary-looking fellow with a knowing eye, the priest nodded. "Well, as the lord of today's festival, the Capitano had to be shrived. Though why the christening had to be today, I have no idea." His tone was disapproving. "The child — well, you won't guess what name the Capitano gave him."
"Francesco."
"Oh, you knew? Can't say I approve. The Capitano has never formally acknowledged any of his natural children before."
That caught Pietro's attention. "Did he now?"
The priest considered. "No-o-o," he admitted, drawing out the sound. "But his sister is raising a child he has given his own name? It seems to me that he might be planning — if, God forbid, Donna Giovanna remains barren — " His voice trailed off. "Well, God works in mysterious ways. Come."
Stepping into the penitent's seat, Pietro's thoughts were on the boy. Francesco. Pietro alone knew that wasn't the name he'd received at his first baptism. His mother had given him a different name, a name the Capitano saw fit to erase from memory.
Another thought occurred to him. The custom was that the ceremony of baptism would drive the evil spirits from a child, making him cry as they departed. This child hadn't cried. Did that mean the demons had already departed at his first baptism? Or did they still lurk within?
Fifteen
The walk to the Arena was an ordeal. After confession, Pietro had struggled back to the room, trying twice to run, falling both times. Poco, under strict instructions from their father, was now extravagant in his compliments. "Really, no one deserves it more. It's the least he can do, and really about time! It's not like he's been busy. I wonder what took him so long — "
"Shut up, Poco." Pietro hurried over to his uniform for the ceremony and dressed rapidly.
Poco examined his brother's new farsetto with great interest. "The Capitano knows his fabrics." Lifting a fine pair of knee breeches, he added, "And he's considerate — he knows about your new aversion to hose. And that hat! Look at that feather! It's perfect. Daring, but not foppish."
Dante was beginning to laugh. Pietro said, "Seriously, Poco, I mean it, shut up."
But his little brother was on a roll. The purple of the doublet was a subject of particular eloquence. "This is a Tyrian dye — you know, the sign of senators and emperors. It's not the purple of violets, but more a plum colour. Do you know where they get it? From the ink sacks of a Mediterranean mussel. It takes hundreds of shells to obtain just a pound of it. First you have to crack the shell, then pull out the tiny sack, which contains only a few drops."