But Pietro had no time for his dislikes. He'd decided there was no chance of making his way through the center of the pack. He raced up along the outside, passing the fourth and third lines. That was as far as he could go without risking being forced headlong into a stone wall. He jerked the reins left, cutting in, and the horse obediently veered into the throng. This angered a half-dozen riders. Obscenities in Latin, Italian, German, and French followed him. Most of these were in the form of personal insults: "Figlio di buona donna!" "Tete de merde!" "Unde ars in tine naso!" "Culibonio!" "Pezzo di merda!" "Fellator!" and so on.
One rider bashed his horse's hind into Pietro. It could have been disastrous, but the palfrey was game for a rough ride. So was Pietro. He released the reins from the grip of his left hand, looping them over a wrist so he wouldn't lose them. He shocked his reserved father up on the balcony by thrusting a protruding thumb between the first and second fingers of his closed fist. This was the fico, the fig, a very insulting gesture indeed.
His assailant saw the fig, grinned, and slammed into Pietro again, making him clutch at the saddle to recover himself. Pietro pulled left again, then felt something painful brush his left leg. Pietro turned his head and saw a glimpse of gold. The bastard was kicking out with his spurs! There was a trickle of blood just above Pietro's boot. Wondering why everyone went after his legs, Pietro kicked out with his heel. His spur caught and he pulled back hard, making the man yelp. Too bad, friend. But I didn't start it.
"Porco dio!" With that joyful curse, the man beside him used his reins as a whip, flinging the leather straps at Pietro's eyes. Ducking, Pietro looked ahead. The wall was coming up quickly. He pulled hard to the left and again his palfrey responded just in time. A rush of air passed between his scalp and the marble slab. Darkness engulfed him, and he joined the crush in the tunnel.
Just ahead, Pietro's friend jerked his horse sideways. This was dangerous. They could both careen into the tunnel wall and fall to be trampled to death. Pietro pulled back on his reins. An opening formed just to the fellow's left, and Pietro steered his horse into it, effectively swapping places. The man's reins flicked towards his face and Pietro leaned left, where his body brushed another rider.
The light was growing. The western arch to the tunnel was only a few feet away. The reins came again, snapping in the air above Pietro's head. He ducked, reached up, and grasped his competitor's reins in his right hand. He yanked backward and down. His assailant's horse resisted and the rearing horse slammed its rider into the arched tunnel ceiling.
The man took the blow on his shoulder and cursed, shouting, "Twenty florins to the man who unhorses that little bastard!"
Emerging into daylight, Pietro angled his horse right and hoped no one took the offer too seriously. Everyone was too busy trying to take the lead. Ahead Pietro could see the figure of Marsilio, kicking out with spurs and reins, but much more viciously than the horseplay in the tunnel.
"Cunnus," growled Pietro in a low voice.
The horse raised his head.
"Cunnus?"
Racing full tilt to the north now, the palfrey let out a short grunt.
"Of course," said Pietro, scandalized. But the name seemed to work. "Come on, Cunnus! Let's go!"
It was a wild chase, and a surprisingly straight one. The track led north, shifting briefly west along the Corso Mastino until they came to another junction. A crimson flag was easily visible fluttering in the breeze from a second story balcony. It turned them north again, and for what seemed an eternity they rode along the riverbank. To their left were houses and apartments belonging to the lower and middle classes. On their right was the curving Adige just beginning its S-bend at the top of the city. The air off the river was crisp and biting.
Pietro was among the second tier of riders. There were a few fists, but these were random and largely without malice. Ahead, those riders who hadn't had to fight their way through the tunnel led by a good four lengths. But these pioneers were hampered by having to look everywhere for the little red flags. Among the leaders were Mari and Antony, riding neck and neck. As Pietro watched, Marsilio bolted past them, vying for first place with two other knights. One more knight was close behind this small knot of horsemen. These six ran close, eyeing each other with suspicion while they scanned the horizon for the next flutter of crimson. Marsilio's beautiful courser took long graceful strides, eating up great distances with each step. If the course had been a straight one, the Paduan would have won easily.
Along the banks of the Adige, obstacles abounded — barrels everywhere, fishing equipment discarded hither and yon. The path was half paved and half mud. The horsemen had to dodge around short piers and ramps. It made for quite a course. To their left, on low rooftops, and their right, in boats, common citizens cheered. These were the best seats for the race, certainly better than the Arena.
Pietro began to feel warm under his heavy fur-trimmed cloak. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, soaking his new shirt. He recognized what Carrara had known at the start. While standing about without cover in the cold chilled the bones, the race would be less tiring if one wasn't sweating under the weight of furs and weaves. Pietro did waste a moment thinking of his fine new rabbit-fur shoulder-cloak, but then he reached up a hand and released the catch.
Looking about he saw different coloured flags — blue and gold and white and black. But no crimson. Pietro was just beginning to think the race would take them out of the city when the six riders in the lead turned west. A few seconds later Pietro saw the crimson flag hung on a sconce on the side of a tallow shop. He made the turn, only to see the leaders turning again. The next flag indicated north.
He followed. To his right loomed the church of San Zeno. The race ran right past its front steps, with the engraved metal doors below the massive circular window. From the basilica of Verona's patron, they turned south for several city blocks, then west down the Strade di San Bernardino. For the first time passage became difficult. The two long straightaways had closed most of the gaps between the riders. Now, hedged in by the new stone wall on their right, the racers jockeyed for position, anticipating the next turn.
Pietro was penned in against the wall by other riders. Riding close by was Antony's older brother. Irrelevantly, his name bubbled up — Luigi! Luigi Capecelatro's eyes were focused like daggers on his younger brother's back.
Just ahead was one of the city gates, called the Porta San Sisto, but rechristened by the inhabitants of the quarter in honour of this very event. The Porta Palio was a wide affair, with five stone arches leading out to the western suburbs. Pietro saw the griffin on the top, and then a flutter of red across the square caught his eye. It was a flag, marking a hard left turn back towards the city center.
But the riders ahead of him hadn't seen it! Mari, Antony, and the other leaders had thundered blithely on. Carrara had missed the flag by less than two feet. Pietro could take the lead.
His problem was that, hedged in by the riders to his left, there was no way he could make it across to the gap between buildings without coming to a complete halt and letting the others race by — a tactic that would draw attention. Maybe I can pretend my horse threw a shoe…