Pietro shifted the caparison under him. A knight's horse was often covered with a large cloth with the ornamental designs corresponding to the knight's heraldic patterns. It served as a form of identification in battle and on parade. There were several fancy devices in the press. Others were bare under the saddle. Pietro's borrowed caparison bore the Scaligeri ladder. Pietro wondered what he could add to the boring old Alaghieri family crest to spice it up some. Perhaps a sword.
Other young men had forgone the ceremony and the blessing to fetch their own horses from nearby stables. Stallions, mares, and palfreys all came trotting into the center of the Arena, which served as both the start and finish line. Young and old alike were breathless with excitement.
On the balcony, Cangrande watched the preparations with real longing in his eyes. He had been the victor of every Palio, horse and foot, from age thirteen until his brother's illness. As ruler, it was unfair for him to participate. His only consolation was that now it fell to him to design the route. The course was different each year. Servants had been out during the morning hours frantically hanging banners at street corners. Those at the forefront of the race would have to have their wits about them or else they would lose the track, be either disqualified or hopelessly left behind.
On the Arena floor, Pietro mounted, whispering names in his palfrey's ear. "Zeus? Apollo?" The beast hardly noticed him. "Frederick? Peppin?" Nothing.
Familiar faces emerged from the mob. Nico da Lozzo was there, trying to strike up a conversation with Antony's dour elder brother. Good luck with that, thought Pietro. The fellow hadn't even congratulated his brother on being knighted. Pietro stopped feeling bad for forgetting his name.
Forty-seven men were participating this year. Some were youths hoping to make a name for themselves. Others were men well into their forties who had participated in the Palio every year since coming of age, determined to do so until they won or died. Every man clutched his reins and breathed in the harsh winter air. Pietro was grateful that, unlike the footrace tonight, this race was run fully clothed.
"Brutus? Cassius? Hades. Pluto. Mars?"
Suddenly a dark-haired knight on horseback emerged from a tunnel, dressed in a starched white farsetto and brilliant red hose — the colours of Padua. Under the white doublet he wore a tunic closed at the throat that was as red as his hose. The fellow's only concession to the cold was a black woolen scarf wrapped around his throat, its ends jammed into the collar of the white leather doublet. Though white was the colour of mourning, he cut so fine a figure that the crowd oohed as he came into view and others riders moved aside to make a path.
The horse under the rider was not a palfrey. Few men could afford the upkeep of more than two horses, and most of a knight's money went towards the upkeep of his destrier, followed by his riding horse. But this horse was a courser, a strong, lean horse made for racing. This one probably had 'hot' blood in its veins, bred from Arabian or Turkish stock. There were five or six coursers in the Arena, but none so magnificent.
Astride this magnificent piece of horseflesh sat Marsilio da Carrara, bolt upright. Beneath the saddle, the caparison was starched a stainless, expensive white. With his blinding hues, Carrara stood out white as snow against the furs and the cloaks around him.
"Showy son of a bitch," muttered Mariotto.
"Hope that thing bolts right out from under him," spat Antony.
Pietro felt Carrara's eyes sweep over to him. Forcing himself to ignore the Paduan's noxious presence, Pietro continued whispering names in his mount's ear. "Caesar? Augustus. Nero!" Not a twitch.
Tullio arranged the riders in front of the eastern balcony in five rows. Each row held ten men except for the last, which held eight. High above, Pietro saw Cangrande beckon Dante up to join him in the front row of watchers. Women were no longer in evidence, though young Mastino and Alberto remained poised at the edge of their seats. Pietro was secretly crestfallen. He'd desired Katerina to see him ride. Perhaps she would have waved. I should have asked for a token. Something dipped in lavender.
Dante whispered something to the Capitano, who instantly burst out laughing. At his side Bailardino howled. He beckoned Monsignor Montecchio and Monsignor Capecelatro forward, demanding the poet repeat his joke. Capecelatro looked offended but recovered himself quickly and chuckled. Lord Montecchio smiled wanly, his eyes furrowed in thought. Bailardino was still clutching his sides. O God. What did he say now?
The mirthful Cangrande stood and spread his arms wide. "Riders! On this Holy Day you are racing not for money or fame, but for the honour of your city! To win, you must all use your heads as well as your horses! And remember, those you ride against are your fellows, your friends! This is sport, not war! Do not mistake the two!" There were grim chuckles among the more experienced riders.
Pietro patted his horse. "Cicero? Socrates? Ptolemy?" He was stuck in a classical rut. He tried other legends. "Merlin? Lancelot. Galahad."
Above, Cangrande continued speaking in his public voice. "You will exit the western gates of the Arena and turn right! After that, the track is marked by crimson flags!"
Crimson! Of the many differently coloured flags lining the streets, every rider fixed that colour in his mind. "Follow the flags, wherever they may lead, and you will be brought back here." The riders shifted, anxious to start, and the Scaliger held up a forestalling hand. "There is a twist this year. I have decided to lengthen the routes of both the horse race and the footrace. With the footrace that was easy enough. But for the horse Palio, I created a double route. You must ride the track twice, thus doubling the distance from four to eight miles. It has been the trend of the past few years that the fastest horse wins. A quick steed will no longer assure victory. You must rest your horses, husband their strength for the second half of the race." Cangrande's blue eyes twinkled. "I have also a few surprises for you. To be sure you truly enjoy them, you will pass through them twice!"
There was a little nervous chatter as the riders quickly rethought their strategies. In this, Pietro was far ahead of them. He had no prepared strategy for winning. He was just going to ride hard and see what happened. In some ways, the double lap would be an advantage for him. Wrong turns could be avoided the second time around. "Aries. Ganymede. Bucephalous." He'd returned to the classics. Still no name roused a response from the horse. "Not Phaeton, I hope."
The Scaliger gestured to his Grand Butler. Under the command of the steward, the forty-eight men turned about, facing away from the Capitano's balcony. Now they were all aimed for the west end, with the row of eight riders in the front. Pietro saw Mari and Antony close to the center of the second line from the front. It was a risky position. They would either get out the gate quickly or else be trapped in the crush.
Having lined up closest to the Capitano, Pietro was now on the far right of the rear line. His first challenge would be getting his horse through the arch as nearly fifty horses vied with him to squeeze through an opening that was only wide enough for six.
"Venus — no, sorry, you're not a Venus, are you, boy? Cupid. Vulcan. Hermes?" The palfrey shook his head in irritation. Pietro patted the mane, eyes on the crimson flag in Tullio d'Isola's hand.
The crimson cloth became a downward blur and a cheer rose up, human and animal voices shrieking together as spurs drove home. All five lines lurched forward. The Palio was under way!
"Go go go!" The palfrey was well trained. At the barest touch of Pietro's spurs it bounded forward. Already the front line of riders was entering the arch of the tunnel. Among the furs and cloaks of these could be seen the bright white of Marsilio's doublet. The Paduan almost fell out of his courser's saddle, righting himself just in time for the stone archway to miss his head. Then he was lost in shadow. A shame he wasn't trampled.