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.
"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?"