But just then another racer spied it and shouted. Nico da Lozzo, Luigi Capecelatro, Pietro's friend from the tunnel — all saw it and cheered, delighted to suddenly advance to the lead. As one the forty-one riders turned their horses left, east down the Strade di Porta Palio, a route that would lead them back to the Corso Mastino.
Pietro was about to jerk his horse's reins left after the others when he happened to glance ahead. Mariotto and Antony and the rest of the former frontrunners were pushing hard as ever, not realizing they had missed the turn. Hadn't they heard the cheer?
Squinting, Pietro finally saw what they had seen already — far ahead, just as the city walls curved inward, there was a flutter of red. Another flag? How could that be? How could they turn here and at the next block as well?
Pietro had to make a choice. Swallowing hard, he ignored the nearer flag. Instead, he followed the six leaders. As he kept on south, he tried to put a finger on what was bothering him about that nearer flag.
He caught sight of Marsilio's bright white farsetto over the matching caparison of the horse. The colours jogged his memory. The Paduan had ridden within a handspan of the false flag. Another image flashed into Alaghieri's mind — Marsilio almost falling out of his seat at the beginning of the race. It had seemed an accident, but what if it hadn't been? Why else would he…
The starter's flag. Carrara had lifted it from where the Grand Butler had thrown it down. That same flag now had forty-one men racing in the wrong direction.
Crafty Carrara. He's eliminated most of the competition. It was a good ploy. If he hadn't been hedged, Pietro would have made the turn without hesitation. Now only he and the six ahead of him stood a chance of winning. By the time the others realized they had taken a wrong turn they'd be well into the eastern portion of the city, beyond hope of finding the trail again.
Pietro urged his horse on. With the field open around him he was able to close much of the gap between himself and the riders in the lead.
Mariotto and Antony were pushing each other joyfully, cursing and playing. At the start of the race, both had been grimly set on winning. But as they had passed San Zeno, Antony had been unable to resist reaching across and tugging Mari's saddle horn up into his friend's crotch. Mari's response was to grab an apple from an outstretched hand in the crowd, bite, and spit the chunks of it at Antony. These antics kept either one from pulling into a decisive lead. But they weren't even halfway through the course — this was the time for fun!
Mari pulled out his knife and flipped it into the air. Antony grabbed it and, unsheathing his own, tossed both back. A juggling match began, shimmering arcs of silver slicing the frosty air between them. The trick for the thrower was to flip in such a way that the other had to grab it by the blade. For the recipient, it was important to catch the blade without slicing through the glove.
"Be careful!" shouted Mari. "You might need that hand on your wedding night!"
"Shows what you know!" cried Antonio, snatching a blade from the air with three fingers. "You don't use your hands! Unless that's all you have!"
Mari gave Antony the fig.
Further back, Marsilio da Carrara spurred furiously on. He'd fallen back to drop the false flag and was now racing to catch up to Montecchio and Capecelatro. He had much to prove.
The luxury of his imprisonment had made it all the more humiliating. They had been well fed, wined and dined until all hours as if they were visiting royalty, not captives. Their rooms in the Vicentine palace had been sumptuous. Uncle Giacomo took it as a sign of respect. Marsilio had not seen it that way. It was disdainful — they should have been tortured, starved. That was Marsilio's own inclination towards 'guests' of Padua. Yet the Scaliger held nothing but contempt for them, and he showed it by pampering them.
The rain had been a tonic to Marsilio's soul. His homeland was safe from the ravages of the Veronese bastard. It was his shame that Nature, and not man, had been Padua's savior. And when his uncle had suggested meeting with the Scaliger to settle terms for peace, Marsilio had balked. If Il Grande had been any less persuasive or powerful a man, Marsilio would have voiced his outrage in public. As it was, he argued for hours in the privacy of their rooms. Uncle Giacomo had stressed the political advantage of arranging this peace now. "Padua will see us as saviors, and our family will rise to preeminence, as is our right."
Marsilio had countered bitterly that there was no need for peace, that with the rains blocking the roads and swelling Padua's defenses, their homeland could reform their army. Vicenza could still be theirs. Il Grande had actually laughed at his nephew. "Vicenza will never be ours, boy. Not after this defeat. Perhaps someday the Vicentines will be under Paduan rule, but not in our lifetimes. Besides," he'd added cruelly, "if we don't agree, we'll have to ruin ourselves by paying our ransom to Alaghieri. Unless you have a fortune stashed away somewhere?"
When the short traitor da Lozzo had opened the doors to escort them to the farcical meeting, Marsilio played his part. He'd watched as his uncle discussed terms with the Scaligeri minions over a game of dice — dice! And the result proved his uncle correct. Giacomo Il Grande was now the favored name on every lip, a sure bet for Podestà. Marsilio's own name was highly praised as well, receiving reflected glory for his uncle's deeds. It was somehow worse. His uncle was allowing him to reap the benefits of the peacemaking, implying Marsilio could never attain political heights on his own.
And now they were here, in this vaunted cesspool for some irreligious festival. Told it was his duty to show the new amity, Marsilio had resisted coming, even to the point of faking a fever. Until he remembered the famous Palio. A chance to show these trumped-up, Frenchified, German-loving, boot-licking, quasi-Italians what they lacked.
Now his path was blocked by the shenanigans of the pretty stripling he'd tried to skewer and the oaf that had saved him. Carrara had not forgotten them, nor the shame of the mocking he'd been subjected to. He'd sat digging his nails into his palms as these two and that damned Alaghieri were knighted before his very eyes for deeds done against his homeland.
Unable to resist, Marsilio urged his courser between the impromptu juggling act. Plucking one of the knives from the air, he called out, "Catch me if you can, children!" He listened to their curses behind him as he tucked the silver dagger into his boot.
Carrara had to bank left with the curve of the walls. These fortifications were clearly new, built in Cangrande's plan to expand Verona's defenses, enclosing the farms that fed the city.
From one of the farm's trees hung another crimson flag. The crowd of farmers and their families cheered deafeningly as the lead riders turned east, back towards the heart of the city.
Trailing after the leading horses, Pietro was jeered by the farmers, though a few shouted encouragement. Turning at the dirty corner of the Via Santa Trinita, Pietro was only two lengths behind the small clump of leaders. He hoped he hadn't pressed his horse too hard doing so. There was still the second lap to go.
On the Via Cappucini they passed under another ancient arch, left again, and the Arena loomed before them. They rode towards it, careful on the cobblestones lest a horse slip and break a leg. Their slower pace brought them all neck and neck as they burst forth into the Plaza Bra. The seven horses thundered past the Arena in a line like something out of a painting or a plate in a German fechtbuch — a perfect row of horsemen galloping towards some unseen enemy.
Above, men were perched across the Arena top and in the arched alcoves. Several were knocked over the edge into space as their fellows pushed for a better view.