Pietro headed towards the Gavi Arch, old and crumbling. They had already passed under the plain white marble pillars once, and they did so again, turning to briefly traverse the Corso Mastino once more. Confused citizens stood in their way, almost getting trampled for their trouble. Their confusion stemmed from witnessing a whole stampede of horsemen racing the other way just two minutes before.
One man threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands. "Watch out!" Pietro cried as his horse jumped over him. The palfrey landed well, never breaking stride as he pressed on towards the river.
They were tracing the same path they had already taken along the river's edge. This time there was less joking rivalry and more aggression as they jostled and butted for position. Since they all now knew the course, each thought he could measure his mount's endurance for it. By now they'd all realized that they seven were alone. Only Pietro knew it was Marsilio's cleverness that had caused the others' erroneous detour.
Chance placed Pietro and Marsilio side by side at the back of the pack. "Neat trick with the flag!" If Carrara heard he didn't reply.
It wasn't Marsilio but a Veronese rider who raised the next obstacle. This cavaliere was by far the oldest of the racers still in contention, closer to forty than thirty. On the last pass he'd seen the stack of barrels by the waterfront. Lashing out with his foot, he dislodged one of the lower wooden containers, creating an avalanche of malmsey casks.
The other riders were too far along to be incommoded. It was only Marsilio and Pietro who had to contend with the barrels. They'd have to slow to navigate their way. Or else…
Marsilio's tall, beautiful, hot-blooded horse made the leap with ease.
Damn his eyes! Pietro's little palfrey was too short. It was sure to catch a hoof and send him toppling end over end. But he was going too fast to turn or halt! His breath caught, recalling the sound at Vicenza as the horses had toppled over each other. Under him the beast's hindquarters tensed. With a mighty heave they were airborne. Pietro's eyes clamped shut. The next thing he'd hear would be the crack of a rear hoof catching a barrel. Then there would be pavement and mud and the horrible crunch of his bones shattering.
The jolt sent a chill through him. The front hooves connected with the mud. And then nothing but the rhythm of the running horse. He heard the cheer from the crowd before he realized that his palfrey had made the leap. Opening his eyes, he patted the horse vigorously. "Good boy, Cunnus! Good boy!"
He was hardly out of step with Marsilio. Looking back in disbelief, the Paduan gave Pietro a mocking salute.
Pietro wanted to give the palfrey the praise it deserved, but the race wasn't over. Out of gratitude, he didn't use his spurs, just squeezing his thighs inward instead. The noble beast understood. Ducking its head low, the lathered mount chased after the figures hurtling towards San Zeno.
It was as they were coming up the slopes towards the church that Pietro hissed out a breath of awe. There was no flag! The flag had gone! All the riders checked, cursing. There was no flutter of crimson anywhere. Could it have fallen?
Pietro's eyes automatically sought out Marsilio. The Paduan was looking in as much confusion as the others.
"Do you see anything?" called Mariotto.
"Nothing!" Pietro called back, scanning the skyline. They'd ridden directly across the front of the church last time. There had been a series of flags, marking each turn in the piazza. But if not there, then where…
"There!" A wind was stirring a flag on the opposite corner, leading left down a narrow winding street.
Pietro remembered the Scaliger's grin as he'd mentioned surprises. The route for the second leg of the race was different from the first! The Capitano's servants were in the crowd around them waiting for the participants to race by so they could move the flags. It was a whole new race.
All seven men hesitated as this sank in. It was another new knight in the purple and silver who turned his horse and whipped it forward. The others instantly followed, riding two-abreast down this narrow lane.
"Wonderful!" Mari yelled.
"I love that man!" Antony called into the air.
"Move your podex!" Pietro used his elbow in as friendly way as he could.
"Move yours!" Antony's gloved fist flew at his shoulder, but Pietro was gone, moving up the line to second place. Behind him he could hear Mariotto and Antony slapping at each other. To their rear was Marsilio da Carrara in his white farsetto — the pride of Padua, fifth in line among the remaining seven knights.
Pietro could see the next flag far ahead. Instead of turning right onto the Strade di San Bernardino, as they had before, the flag's position called for them to make a left on the Strade di Porta Palio. Pietro doubted they would travel far before turning right again. Otherwise they would ride the way the misled horsemen had and find themselves down the Corso Mastino, in the marketplace by the Scaligeri palace.
For the first time Pietro imagined winning. If a sharp right turn was coming directly after the next left, it made sense for him to be on the right-hand side. He would lose a little ground on the left turn, but if he hung in, he could be the first to make the right turn he expected would follow. He might even be able to block the others from making the same turn until they were past, forcing them to stop and retrace their steps. If that happened, his lead would be almost impossible to beat.
He edged the palfrey right. The crowd was running alongside to watch the final lap and cheer for anyone who looked handsome on horseback. Pietro hoped he cut a dashing figure, though he rather doubted it. Mud from the riverbank jump had spattered his breeches, his fur was gone, and he was unable to stand in the stirrups the way other knights did.
Behind him Mariotto said something that sounded like thunder. "Hear that?"
Pietro did hear it, but excitement made him ignore it. "Come on, Cunnus. Get ready, boy!"
He had an instant of warning as he neared the intersection, seeing heads turn in the crowd. People moved away, looking east and pointing. One man started to wave his hands at the riders to stop. He was pulled aside by friends, yanking him back in time to save his life.
The thunder. Too late, Pietro realized what it was. The horsemen duped by Carrara had finally realized their mistake and reversed their direction up the Corso Mastino where it became the Strade di Porta Palio. Chance brought them to this intersection at the same moment the leaders were trying to cross it.
The knight in front of Pietro was about to break the plane of the building and cross the street. Pietro tried to shout a warning, but it was too late. The instant the knight burst out on the street he was struck broadside by another horse. The horse began to fall sideways, steam from its last breath escaping from its nostrils.
If that had been all, the knight might have lived. But two more sets of riders rode over him, mauling him with punishing blows. Then five more horsemen, pulling frantically back on their reins, reached the wreckage and became a part of it. The new knight fell under his horse as it was pitched onto its side and then trampled. Crimson darker than the flag above speckled his Tyrian purple.
Horses kept streaming past the mouth of the alley, and Pietro was still racing for them. He yanked frantically on his reins as a sound rose between the four and five-story buildings that ringed the intersection. It was a horrible noise, thick and wet, a cacophony of limbs twisting, shattering, disintegrating. In the chill air the noise had a bizarre resonance. Horses screamed. Men yelled. Forty-one riders collided, brought from full gallop to dead stop by the living barrier across their path.
Pietro's horse wasn't checking fast enough. He was about to be thrown into that swirling mass of flailing hooves. Just a length behind the lead rider, he was along the right-hand side of the street. Desperately he steered left, still heaving on the reins. As momentum carried him out of the sheltering alley Pietro changed direction again, steering right to join the flowing river of men and beasts. He jostled hard in self-defence to avoid being rammed into a wall. The horses around him were frightened. They had heard the screams of their kindred. It was all the remaining riders could do to keep them from rearing.