One of the onrushing knights leapt from his saddle and landed sideways across the tail of Pietro's palfrey. Pietro shot out a hand and hauled him up. It was Pietro's friend from the tunnel. "My thanks," he murmured, clinging to Pietro's shoulder as he looked back at the carnage.
"Are you hurt?" shouted Pietro.
"Dear God!" cried the man, unhearing.
All around there were screams under the clatter of hooves. Pietro gagged as the smell of blood assaulted his nose. On a battlefield it was one thing to taste the metallic tang in the air. It was quite another on a holy day, surrounded by friends and allies. But he was being swept along, his horse instinctively pushing to get clear from the horror. In a moment he was out of the press, the rescued man hanging on behind the saddle.
Pietro lifted his head to the open sky above, his whole body trembling. I'm alive. Jesucristo, I'm alive.
His next thought was of the race. Could it still go on? He glanced back. The horses were steadying. There was the gap in the alley, crowded by horsemen trying to clear themselves off the corpses of the fallen men and beasts.
Suddenly he saw Carrara trying to thread his horse through the carnage. After causing this, the bastard was trying to win! Pietro couldn't allow that.
He tried to turn his horse but was too far away to reach the alley. He saw Mari and Antony just behind Carrara and said a quick prayer for their victory. "See that cunnus loses, boys."
Pietro's horse lifted its head. "Not talking to you," soothed Pietro, rubbing the palfrey's neck. "We're done."
Pietro missed the scene in the alley moments before when Marsilio had kicked his way past Antony and Mari, who had both stopped short at the mouth of the alley. "Move, dullards!"
"Bastard," growled Mariotto. "After this he's still thinking about winning?"
Antony smiled, his hands open. "Well, are we going to let him?"
Mari shot his friend a searching look, then smiled back. Together they edged their mounts away from the pulped carcasses and into the street.
Antony now caught sight of his elder brother in the milling masses. Luigi called out to him to stop. Antony hunched his shoulders. Though not far apart in age, they'd never been close. Perhaps it was because of young Antony's ambitions. By rights, the second son should have been studying for the priesthood or law, as Pietro had done before becoming Dante's heir. Instead Antony trained for war as an elder boy would and took great interest in the family commenda — legal and illegal both. To achieve this, he'd created a strong bond with their father. They laughed and drank together, much to old Capecelatro's doctor's dismay. It helped when Antony could make himself stand out through some event or other. It was why he'd agreed to marry the Carrara brat. The knighthood was a blessing to him in a way it could never be to Mariotto or Pietro. For he was determined not to let the order of his birth deny him his rightful place.
Aware of all this, Luigi hated Antony for it. Now he called out, "Antonio! Come here!"
Luigi didn't look hurt, so Antony turned a deaf ear as he and Mari entered the far alley that led to victory. Behind them was another young noble, not clad in the purple of the day. The older knight who had released the barrels was fourth. Last, because of the hard jostling in the street, was a furious Marsilio da Carrara.
The remaining racers thundered down the open alley. The Via Scalzi was at an odd angle to the street they'd entered from, slanting southwest. It then curved east. The five horsemen chased each other around the curve fairly uneventfully. The tremendous speed of Marsilio's courser was countered by the greater weight of the other horses as they banged against each other. He passed the fortyish Veronese, whose horse was close to exhausted. Nothing could urge it on. He'd run a good race, but for him it was over. He dropped back a length, letting those in close contention fight for the last few strides.
The curve led them back towards the Arena. Antonio and Mariotto were joint leaders and had it in mind to block out the others behind them. One of them was going to win. It was just a question of which.
Carrara had other ideas. He shot past the rider in third place whose horse was blown and lagging. The street finished its curve. Only two more blocks and they would emerge into the Plaza Bra. Far ahead flew the flag signaling the turn that would take them into the Arena itself.
Mari and Antony radiated excitement. In only a minute more one of them would be victorious. Neither noticed Carrara until he pressed his courser between their two horses just as they emerged into the Plaza.
"Give up, boys!" called Carrara.
As one Mari and Antony pulled their leather reins inward, cutting off the Paduan before his courser's nose reached the level of their saddles. Carrara let the Capuan butt into him. This sent him bouncing into Mariotto's left flank. He let himself rock a little in the saddle, leaning far right. Something in his hand flicked to the underbelly of Mariotto's horse. Montecchio saw the silver glimmer just before he started slipping sideways. The Paduan had slit the straps of his saddle. "Antony!"
Antonio saw his friend's arms flail even as Marsilio plunged between them into the lead. Confused at the shift of weight, Mari's horse began to veer off. Mari threw his weight right to counterbalance the slipping saddle, but he was about to lose the struggle and fall.
Antony stretched out a hand. Mari grasped it and fairly leapt onto the back of Antony's horse. Even before he was settled he cried out, "Catch that bastard!"
Too late. It had only taken four seconds for Mari to transfer himself from his horse to Antony's, but already Carrara's lead was too great. They rode into the Arena just behind him and saw the crowd leap to its feet and fill the air with petals of winter flowers.
A length of red silk floated to the ground, released from the Capitano's fingers. Dismounting, Marsilio lifted the red cloth to his shoulder for all could see. Then he knelt, bowing his head very slightly. Raising his head he met the Scaliger's eyes. His lips moved, the pride of a city and a people summed up in a single word:
"Patavinitas."
Eighteen
In a darkened passage under the Arena a stout man strode with purpose. His name was Massimiliano da Villafranca, his office Constable of Verona. He was pushing his way past barrels and servants with determination. The moment the Palio had begun, Cangrande had pulled his constable aside and ordered him to bring the oracle to the Tribunale for questioning. Massimiliano thought he knew why. That prophecy had been unusual. Someone was delivering a message to the Greyhound via an unique medium. Villafranca was a soldier and not skilled at palace intrigue, so he had no idea which of the Greyhound's enemies had arranged this, or why. But he was eager to find out.
Ducking past the men running to view the horse Palio, bobbing around the torches hung on brackets in the walls, the Constable approached a curtained doorway. He noticed the torches were recently extinguished. Still smoking, having been doused in water. A distinct metallic smell assaulted his nose.
Smell and taste are closely related. It was the recollected taste that told him what it was.
"Hello?" he called softly. No answer. Lifting a dead torch from its bracket, he marched back down the hall and relit it from one of the active flames. It took time, but the Constable was in no hurry. When he returned, the torch's illumination reflected on a pool outside the curtained doorway. Thicker than water, and darker.