The Constable pushed the curtain aside and stood in the doorway staring down at the oracle. She was sitting upright against the wall of the small chamber. Her dark hair, so long and lustrous, was matted to the body, soaked in her own blood. Mercifully, her face was hidden in those long tresses — or so Villafranca at first thought. Upon examining closer, however, he found that her head had been twisted back to front, so now her eyes gazed behind her.
The Scaliger would have no more answers from the oracle.
A fistfight on the floor of the Arena was unseemly. Yet in spite of the presence of both Carrara's uncle and their own fathers — not to mention the Veronese lord — this was exactly what Mariotto and Antony had in mind. They dropped from the back of the sweating horse and strode towards the kneeling Paduan, fists clenched.
Cangrande was no fool. Though it might prove amusing, it could become a political nightmare. The peace with Padua was fragile enough, and though he wanted it broken, this was not the way. So he swung his legs over the edge of the balcony and dropped. His knees barely buckled as he touched down. In a moment the Capitano was upright and moving forward, hands held wide. "A well run race!" By rights he should have been approaching Marsilio to congratulate him. Practicality dictated he intercept Mariotto and Antony instead. "It is your first winter with us, Antony. How does your Capuan blood like our cold air?"
"The air's fine, my lord!" spat Antony. "It's my blood that's hot! I want this bastard's head! I'm calling-"
"No!" said Mariotto abruptly. "I'm calling him-"
Both were attempting to issue a challenge. Cangrande beat them to it. "I'm calling him the victor."
"But my lord!"
"That son of a-!"
It was rare for the Scaliger to deliberately use his height to impress others. He did so now, stopping both them both in their tracks. "I'm also calling on him to dine with me this evening." He noticed two more riders entering the Arena. "It seems that this is one of those years where there are few victors."
"There was an accident." Marsilio managed to sound pained by the event.
If the duo had known what Pietro knew about the 'accident' they might have persuaded the Capitano that their challenge was necessary. As it was, they had only the deliberate cutting of Mariotto's saddle strap, which they began to describe with overlapping rage.
Marsilio interrupted them, tone airy. "If you have a problem, cavalieres, I will gladly face you in the Court of Swords. One or both, I care not at all. As the accused, I choose my weapon to be the longsword."
"Why not a crossbow?" Antony growled.
The smug look grew even more satisfied. "It is not my best weapon. If it were…" His right hand moved casually towards Mariotto.
The Scaliger cut off any retort. "There will be no challenges today. It is Sunday, and a day of Lent as well. You've run a good race and are here to speak of it. Others are not."
Carrara's uncle appeared, having taken the long way down. He strode over to face the young Veronese cavalieres, gripping his nephew's elbow as he bowed. His knuckles went white as his nephew's doublet, as did Marsilio's face. Il Grande and the Scaliger exchanged a few pleasant words, wherein the latter invited his Paduan guests to dine close to him at the table of honour. "But now your nephew must mount the victory horse in preparation for his ride around the city."
A groom was standing by with a pure white stallion saddled to carry the winner of the first Palio. Beside the magnificent snow-coloured animal stood a nag, his traditional companion. The nag was truly a sad beast, an ancient limping, farting animal with a sagging spine, sprained shoulder, swelled limbs, loose teeth, and sticky nose. That animal had no designated rider yet.
The crowd booed when the handsome winner in white started to mount the victor's steed. No fools, they had read the body language of the three knights who had finished the race. That the Capitano had interceded was a disappointment. They hadn't seen much of the race, and there was no better sport than watching one of the knightly caste engage another in a duel for God, Truth, and Justice. So they jeered.
Over the boos and catcalls Mari and Antony again tried to explain their wrongs. Listening, the Scaliger shrugged. "These things happen in the Palio each year. If I allowed personal retributions for anything less than a knife in the back I would be adjudicating duels all year round." He put an arm around each shoulder. "Be of good cheer, lads. In your first outing you tied for second. There will be many more in years to come — including the more important race this evening. Now go, greet your fathers."
More riders were emerging from the tunnel. Some waved halfheartedly to the audience. Most rode dejectedly towards the Scaliger to dismount and kneel, throwing angry glances at the winner as they did.
At the very rear of the pack rode Pietro Alaghieri. Having seen that all the wounded were being looked after, he'd ridden straight back to the Arena. He was the last to kneel, struggling to make the gesture smooth. Exhausted, his bad leg shook beneath him. Looking up he saw his brother and father watching him from the balcony. Mercurio barked.
The Capitano had an odd expression on his face, encompassing compassion, amusement, and sorrow. "You live, Pietro? My sister will be gratified. Now, straighten your doublet. You've another ride to make."
"I — what? A ride?" At this moment he never wanted to be on horseback again.
Cangrande indicated the empty tunnel. "You are the last one in, I'm afraid. New knight or no, you appear to be the loser. There's a horse waiting for you." The Capitano pointed at the nag that stood beside Marsilio's beautiful white stallion. A huge leg of salt pork hung from the nag's neck.
Aided by several steward, Ser Pietro Alaghieri found himself settled in the nag's saddle. A young groom took possession of Pietro's palfrey, patting it in a friendly way. "Hello, Canis. There's a good lad."
Pietro leaned down from the nag's saddle. "What did you call him?"
"Canis, ser. He's named for the Capitano's own horse, who was his father."
"Canis?" asked Pietro. "As in dog?"
"Yes. Why?" The poor stable boy stood amazed as Pietro laughed and laughed.
At the Capitano's signal, both the boy leading Marsilio's fine beast and the old crone tugging on Pietro's ugly one started moving. They led the two mounts in a slow circle around the Arena as flowers were strewn across their path. Pietro saw blurred faces as the spectators leapt up and down in their seats. He heard wry cheers for Carrara. He also distinctly heard jibes aimed at him. His face burned crimson. He wondered what Donna Katerina would think and reddened further. Catching sight of Mariotto and Antony, restored to the balcony, he thought they looked rather downcast. What do they have to be upset about? But at least they seemed not to take pleasure in his humiliation. Pietro watched Antony argue with his brother Luigi while Mariotto sat sullenly by his father's side. Then the nag turned and he lost sight of them.
They repeated this circular parade three times, Marsilio waving and shaking his clenched hands above his head. At the end of the third lap the boy and the crone led them out of the Arena and into the city streets. The crowd inside groaned its disappointment as the mob outside roared its approval.
"Quite a reception," observed Marsilio over his shoulder.
"Did you mean for it to happen?" blurted Pietro. He hadn't meant to ask. He hadn't wanted to speak at all.
"What? You mean the accident?" In answer, the Paduan shrugged elaborately, then glanced at Pietro's steed. "Nice horse." Marsilio turned back to the adulation of the crowd. Pietro gave him the fig.