Just as he was running over the words again in his mind, he heard the knight two places down from them proclaim them both! Oh fut! He had to find two more, but he hadn't been listening. Which ones have been used?
The knight beside him proclaimed, "Live to serve God, Capitano, and country and all they hold dear!" It was clever, the way he pushed two tenets into one fine sentiment.
It was Pietro's turn. He took a breath, raised his head, and let loose with the first two that came to mind.
"Live a life that is worthy of respect and honour! Protect the innocent!"
Cheers, not jeers. He sighed and lowered his chin as Mariotto looked up.
"Never abandon a friend, ally, or noble cause! Avoid deception!" More cheering, even though avoiding deception was awfully close to avoiding cheating.
Antony whispered, "Had to take the friendship one, didn't you?" He lifted his own head as Mari, grinning, dropped his. The big Capuan exclaimed, "Never use a weapon or stratagem on an opponent not equal to the attack! Respect authority!"
Mari snickered. "Respect authority?"
"Shut up, witless," hissed Antony. "I didn't mean you."
"Be quiet, the pair of you!" Pietro was pressing his lips tight together so as not to laugh. "Cangrande's talking again!"
The Scaliger was gesturing for silence. When the applause ended he put on a grave face. "There is more to being a knight than skill at arms and wit. To become a knight is to take upon you the responsibility of being God's sword of justice here on earth. A knight does not enrich himself. He does not, as many today do, seek fame," here the Scaliger couldn't help smiling slightly, "or dress in the finest apparel." His angel's eyes returned to their most serious. "A knight rights wrongs. A knight protects the innocent. A knight listens to the words of the Lord. Do you understand this?"
"We do," proclaimed the assembled youths.
"Then take the communion I offer you, and be one with the Lord!"
As Cangrande finished speaking the charge, several priests and monks appeared. Pietro heard the chiming of the bells — it was exactly noon on the first Sunday of Lent. The prayers the priests spoke as they gave the fifteen of them communion also gave absolution to the citizens for not attending church on this holy day, using the creation of the knights as a special dispensation.
Pietro took the bread and drank the wine, thinking not of God but of how he could possibly endure kneeling any longer. His right leg was trembling, and in spite of the chilling cold he could feel sweat dappling his forehead. He was just thinking, Ceremony be hanged, I'm going to sit down, when he saw the Scaliger signaling them to rise.
"I bestow on each and every one of you the highest honour Verona can bestow — I proclaim you Cavalieri del Mastino!"
The new Knights of the Mastiff, Verona's private order of chivalry, stood basking in cheers. Antony raised his hands above his head in sign of victory. Mariotto blew kisses and waved, flashing his brilliant smile. Other new knights danced and cavorted around the inside of the Arena.
Pietro was grinning, tears in his eyes. He had seen, up on the balcony, his reserved father stand and shout with the rest. The poet's hand went up to his eye, as if to wipe away a tear. That put the seal on the proudest day of Pietro's life.
But it wasn't over. Outside the Arena there was cheering as well.
For now that the ceremony of knighthood was over, the Palio could begin.
Sitting in a shaded corner in a tavern along the route of the Palio, two men conferred. One, a remarkable figure, attempted to disguise himself from prying eyes by keeping well out of the light. The other, more average, was dressed in a clothes a bit too fine for the usual patron of such an establishment. Between them sat a hunk of cheese and some spirits, so far untouched.
The shadowed man stopped listening long enough to say, "That's a poor jest."
"It's no jest."
"The Scaligeri palace." The voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Right under the Greyhound's nose, yes."
"You're mad. I've been in Vicenza this last month and more, I've seen how he's watched. Day and night. In fact," the speaker leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eye, "I overheard their instructions, from the lady herself. She said there had already been an attempt. What haven't I been told?"
The average-looking man frowned in what might have been genuine puzzlement. "What attempt?"
"She didn't say much, but it happened in Padua. I swear, if I've been lied to-"
"I know nothing about Padua. Look, friend, I only bear the message. So either listen or walk." He waited, scrabbling off a corner from the block of cheese on the table. "Try some. No? Fine. Then let's get to it. They're running the horse race as we speak. Tonight is the footrace, yes? While that's going on, there's going to be a horde of people in the palace, there always is. You are to wait until the race is over and the winner is being feted. Then you make your move."
"The boy will be there?"
"I have it on the best authority that he will."
"And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in, much less get out? With a child, no less."
A diagram was slid across the scarred table. "Alberto della Scala was a cautious man. What the people giveth, the people taketh away. And he learned a lot from the death of his brother. One lesson was always have an escape route." A finger landed on a cross in the diagram. "There is a passage here, leading both to the feasting hall on the ground floor, and up to Cangrande's salon above it. It opens onto the street, here at the side, see? It's carefully painted in fresco, the seams are invisible unless you know to look."
"And this secret side door, it will be open?"
"It will."
"Who is going to open it for me?"
"You don't need to know that. Just be there before the second race starts. While the Scaliger is distracting everyone by starting the race, you can slip in. No one will see you."
A hand darted out to grasp the planner's wrist. "Tell me why I should trust you. It may be well worn, but your accent — "
"— is not your concern. Nor the name of my employer. Your needs are aligned with ours for this fraction of time. Do not expect to see me ever again. Remove your hand and go."
Their eyes held, and slowly physical contact was ended. The diagram was tucked away and the men parted, one eager to disappear into the crowd outside, the other content to watch him go.
A nearby door opened and another man sidled up to the bench and sat. "He seems a pleasant type. Can he do it?"
"We'll see. He's certainly determined enough." They each quaffed a drink. "What about that other piece of business?"
"Done and done. The future is behind her now."
"Good." They finished their spirits and stood, leaving the tavern to watch the race before returning to the palace for an evening that promised even greater excitement.
Seventeen
Even with the capable Tullio d'Isola organizing affairs, it was closer to one than to twelve before all the prospective contestants were mounted and ready on the Arena floor. Flasks passed from hand to hand to keep off the cold, jokes were told, surreptitious sabotage attempted on saddles and reins. But now, at last, all was set, awaiting the Scaliger's command to begin.
Pietro had traded his destrier for his palfrey. Warhorses were forbidden entry — a beast bred and trained to trample, bite, and kick would give unfair advantage. Thinking he'd have to dash to the Scaliger stables to fetch it, Pietro was surprised to see a squire racing forward with the thin brown horse already saddled, new spurs dangling. They were knight's spurs, recognizable by their length. Since a mounted soldier rode tall, legs locked, the long necks allowed the rowels to reach the horse's flanks. He fitted them on as the squire led his destrier away. "Hey! What's his name?!" But the squire was already gone.