"Don't you pay him no mind," said the old woman holding the nag's lead. "This here's a noble's horse! Yessir, a noble's! The Capitano borrowed it from Ser Bonaventura himself, he who's as noble as a noble, and mad to boot. Just ask his wife!"
For the next hour Pietro rode the nag through Verona. Carrara was marked as the pride of Mercury by the red ribbon across his chest, Pietro as the slowest knight in Verona by the leg of pork at his nag's neck.
Slowly the humiliation wore off. There was a celebratory feeling in the air, and even the loser could not help basking a little in its glow. None of the jeers were personal, nor were they heartfelt. He soon found it in him to call back insults and raise his fist and play the part he had been assigned — by the stars, by Fate, or just by luck.
There was a part of the ceremony no one had warned him of. Citizens brandishing knives rushed forward to carve a slice of the pork from its bone. Dogs chased after his horse, requiring several hands to fend them off. Every now and then the hacked pork leg was replaced by a fresh one by the crone. No one but the dogs seemed to be eating the salted flesh (it was Lent, after all), but everyone wanted their piece. Perhaps it was meant to be lucky.
They passed through several large city squares. In each one there were caged or tethered animals that had appeared like magic at dawn's first light. The more inebriated of the crowd took their sliver of salted pork and taunted the animals with them. These men were sometimes bodily lifted by Cangrande's men and thrown towards the animals they were offending. Only when they had been frightened sober were they rescued.
Snow started to fall lightly, dancing through the air around the vast crowds. The terrific cold caused Pietro to miss his fur shoulder-cloak. Up on horseback he was more exposed to the bitter winds whipping around the corners. Little mists breathed in and out over the throng. Pietro wished he were among them just for the warmth. But not for their smell. The nag smelled bad enough.
He was so focused on keeping warm he hadn't noticed his way was blocked. Two youths in heavy cloaks brandished a single knife between them. "I'll hold the horse!" called one. "You get it!" They grabbed at the nag's bit and bridle and neatly sliced large portions of the pig's flesh. The dagger they used was silver.
Pietro snorted. "Take what you like, Mari, I'm too tired."
Mari threw back his hood to reveal his grin. Antony got the sliver of pork off the bone and ripped a bite out of it, forgetting it was a time for fasting. "Pleh!" he said, spitting it out. "Too much salt!"
"Most people don't actually eat it," Mariotto told him. "They hang it from their door to ward off evil spirits."
"Does it work?"
"Mainly it collects dogs."
As they fell in on foot either side of Pietro's steed, he grinned. "Glad to see you."
"We're glad to see you," said Antony gruffly. "You weren't hurt?"
"No." The nag wasn't tall, and Pietro was barely a head higher than the bulky form of his friend. "You got through all right?"
"Yeah, we did," scowled the Capuan.
"Until that son of a bitch sliced my saddle to ribbons," said Mariotto, voice matching Antony's expression. Marsilio was busily waving, laconic smirk in place.
They related their near victory. Pietro was outraged. In turn he told them of the Paduan's trick.
"That bastard!" cried Antony. "I'd like to carve a piece of him, rather than the pork."
Mariotto slapped his hands together. "Let's trip his horse and strangle him with that silk ribbon."
Carrara glanced back, a look of delight on his face. "Boys, I think this belongs to you!" Mariotto caught the knife while Antony gave Carrara the fig. The Paduan simply waved in return.
They were moving among expensive mansions and palaces nestled into the top of the Adige's curve. Just to their north was the roof of the Duomo. Adjoining it was San Giovanni in Fonte, with its famous octagonal design.
Between these churches and the parade were several streets of private dwellings. These were recent constructions, the rise of the merchant class having created a new center of wealth inside the city. Those common citizens who had lived and worked near the Adige were now shuffled off to ever-expanding suburbs as the city center grew into a collection of homes for the prosperous. Pietro had seen the same phenomenon in Florence. Every prominent signore owned an estate in the country, but in recent years no one could do without a home in the city itself. In Verona this northern bend of the river had become the fashionable place to settle. Small private homes had been leveled to make way for grand three or four-story mansions with balconies, window gardens, and grand carved statuary. The Montecchi family owned a fine house near here.
Suddenly a man burst out onto one of the balconies high above. He was in his twenties, muscular and broad-shouldered. Pietro recognized him at once — this was the fellow who had bemoaned his chances of a wife back in September. Bonaventura, friend to Cecchino della Scala. The handsome beard he had sported then was now bushy and ill-kempt. Holiday ribbons hung extravagantly from his open doublet, over which he wore a long houserobe of the finest brocaded heavy red linen. But the linens were covered in meat and malmsey stains. His hat was askew. Under his hat a mass of dark curly hair was matted to his neck as if it were high summer. In spite of the cold the shirt under his doublet was open almost to the navel. Indeed, sweat was pouring past his eyes. The interior of the house must have had a hundred fires burning.
In his hands he clutched what looked like the remains of a lady's gown. It had been lovely once — lavender in colour, with a silver underdress and a delicate lace pattern woven into it. But as it dangled in his grip one could see an arm had been torn from it, and a huge rent was visible in the bodice.
Running to the edge of the balcony, he pitched the gown over the rail to the crowd below. "Not good enough!!"
Just as the ruined gown left his fingers a woman came shrieking out though the doors behind him, grasping at it as it fell. She was dressed in another fine gown, probably her Sunday best. This cream-coloured garment, though, had seen worse wear than the one now floating among the snowflakes. Spattered with mud past the waist, the brocade had begun to unstitch itself to hang limply at her breast and waist. The woman's hair was in as bad a shape, falling out of a roughly pinned bun. There were small orange blossoms scattered willy-nilly through her auburn hair.
She flung herself out after the flying gown with no thought to her safety. The man caught her about the waist to save her from diving into the sea of people below who now stopped to watch this extraordinary scene.
"Let go!" she cried, using her elbows and her heels to strike at the man behind her.
"As you wish," he replied happily. He released his grip and she slammed into the balcony's stone railing. The crowd flinched.
Slowly the lady rose and turned to face her tormentor. "I liked it, husband," she growled.
"It was a beastly thing, wife! I'll not have my bride parading around on a holy day in such a mockery of decency." He belched, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
"It was beautiful. And modest. And. I. Liked. It."
"And I say, my sweet dearest one — It. Wasn't. Fit. For. You. If you want to go out, we'll have to find you something worthy of you."
He'd taken a slight step to look over the rail after the gown and, like a well-trained soldier, she had countered his move. Now she faced him from her corner of the railing, a sly look crossing her face.
"Fine," she said. Her hands flew to the laces of her gown, ripping the seams apart where the laces were too caked with mud to be removed. Stockings and slippers flew down into the crowd, followed by the cream under-garment she had been wearing. A hand went up to her hair and removed the pins that held it in place. As she tossed the pins aside a cascade of red hair fell about her shoulders. To the amazement and overwhelming approval of those below, she stood brazenly naked, hands on hips like her husband, making no concession to cold or modesty, though her pale body showed the cold in the most obvious way. "Well? Is this better?"