Antony heaved a sigh. "Then he does like her! Good. I was worried when he wandered off like that. But he's right, she certainly is a Giulia. I don't mind telling you now, I was a little worried."
Pietro laughed. "A little? You were afraid she'd be cross-eyed, buck-toothed, and drooling!"
"Shhhh! She might hear you!" Antony looked up to find Lord Carrara beckoning him as well. "Excuse me," he said, dashing off to his betrothed's side.
Pietro turned back to his father's reclined form. "Next time you see them you'd best have your quills ready."
Sotto voce, Dante said, "I should have drowned you at birth."
Outside the palace, the crowd was waiting for the feast to end, which would mark the start of the Foot Palio. They clustered in little clumps facing fires, sharing warmth. Among them but apart from one another, two cowled figures watched and waited.
Indoors, the festivities reached an irreligious pitch. Yet everyone was sober enough that when Cangrande's Grand Butler entered, all eyes trailed his wending path up to the top table. Tullio d'Isola whispered in Cangrande's ear, and the Scaliger stood up. "Would all the ladies please retire to my loggia, along with all of us too old or too inebriated to run." He glanced sideways to the prone figure of young Carrara, who was snoring loudly. The winner of the first race was in no shape to enter the second.
Clever Cangrande, thought Pietro. There'll be no accidental slips, no revenge from an overeager Veronese.
"How come all the women go to your room?" shouted Nico da Lozzo from down the boards.
Cangrande ignored him. "On the other hand, those men who think they are still able to stand, please move to the square outside! It is time for the foot Palio to begin!"
Rising, Antony carefully took Gianozza's hand in his and bowed again. This time, though, Pietro thought he saw the lips actually brush the tiny wrist. He couldn't hear what was said, but the cadence indicated more poetry. The young lady smiled, wished him a good race, then quickly joined her hostess as the women were driven from the hall by the sight of the men beginning to strip.
Strip they did, down to the raiment God made for them. That the Palio was happening this early in the year made no difference. The runners would have to endure the cold and the four inches of snow that had fallen since midday. Not rain, nor snow, nor flood could stop the foot Palio from being run.
Antony was red with anger that his fiancée had been exposed to so many disrobing males all at once. As soon as she passed out of sight, though, he began to tear at his own clothes. "Where the hell is Mari?"
Shrugging, Pietro leaned over to shake his father's shoulder. The poet pretended to wake up. "Is it time?" he asked innocently. Then the shrewd marble eyes glanced about. "Where's Jacopo?"
Pietro's brother was indeed nowhere in sight. "He's probably set on entering. Should I stop him?"
Dante paused, thoughtful. "I suppose not. He's in a desperate rush to grow up. All we can do is let him go and hope he doesn't get himself killed." Dante grimaced. "Your mother would flay me alive."
Pietro's eyes settled on Carrara's unconscious form. "He'll be fine. Do you want to watch the start of the race, or go straight to the Scaliger's loggia?"
"Doesn't matter." The poet was focused on not being knocked aside by one of the many young men stretching their muscles around the hall. He sensed his son's inclination. "Let's watch the start, then go inside where it's warm."
In the naked throng pressing through the doors, Pietro finally caught sight of Mariotto. He was outside the hall, waiting in complete undress beside the front doors. Pietro waved. Mariotto nodded brusquely. When Antony appeared, Mari turned immediately to walk ahead out the main doors. Antony raced to catch up to him. "Where did you go?"
"I wanted to get ready for the race," said Mari plainly.
"I could have used your help. I'm really bad about poetry."
"Maybe you should try reading some."
Antony's grimace was amused. "She wants a copy of Pietro's pap's pap!" Antony paused, quite pleased, then continued. "I promised I'd get her one — do you have one? I'll pay you back! She's really not all bad, is she? I mean, I know she's a Carrara, but they can't all be Marsilios, can they?" Antony continued in this vein as they passed out through the doors into the Piazza della Signoria. As he talked, Mariotto's eyes set in a determined squint that would have made a stone griffin proud. Pietro watched them go.
"Did you like her poem?" a keen voice said in his ear.
Pietro dragged his attention back to his father. "What?"
"The girl. Did you like her poem?" Dante reached up to adjust his long cap, jostled in the crush. "I enjoyed her recitation. She has a fine sense of the dramatic."
"I was going to ask you about it," said Pietro. "I didn't recognize it."
"Ah, but I did. Isn't it strange that she quoted it so perfectly, then all at once forgot the words?"
"Who wrote it?"
"Oh, it was anonymous just as she said, but that's because it was written by a woman. I happen to know which woman, in fact." His twinkling eyes told Pietro that the poetess' identity was going to remain a secret. "But it's the lines she left out that fascinate me."
They emerged last out into the square. Pietro was getting used to being at the back of the crowd. Beneath their feet the snow crunched. It was falling harder than ever, yet the crowd outside was as large as any that day.
"The animals are gone," observed Dante, mischievously changing topics.
"Probably to make room for the racers."
"Look," said the poet, pointing. "I was mistaken. One leopard remains."
It was true. A single leopard was visible on the steps to the Giurisconsulti, chained to a post. "I wonder why," said Pietro.
"Oh, I think keeping it there day and night from here to eternity is a brilliant notion. Only a just lawyer will risk being mauled just to pursue a case. And we both know such a thing doesn't exist."
Pietro laughed. "He looks to be in a foul temper."
"Wouldn't you be, kept out in the cold all day? Look at him pace to keep warm. Those runners ought to be doing the same."
"They'd better keep away from him." There was a pause, then Pietro gave in. "What were the missing lines?"
Grinning, Dante opened his mouth only to be interrupted by the Capitano's voice. "No speeches! I don't want to keep you standing still for long!" He was a dark shape in the falling snow, lit from behind by the steward holding torches. "Follow the torches, and try not to frighten the womenfolk."
Amid the laughter, all eyes scanned for the first torch. It hung on a corner of the walls of Santa Maria Antica.
"The finishing line is my loggia, so keep your hands nimble enough to climb! When I give the signal, start running!"
Open to all comers, there were noticeably fewer knights participating in this trial, though if this was due to modesty, drunkenness, or weather Pietro didn't know. The numbers were swelled by the common citizens. Excluded from the first Palio because they owned no horses, they could still rely upon their legs to carry them through the second. Several of the watchers in the crowd, on impulse, tore off their clothes and joined in.
Pietro had difficulty seeing in the falling snow. He thought he spied Antony and Mariotto taking their places in the line. Poco was probably among the three hundred men in the crowd. Pietro wished he could be, too. But a man had to know his limitations. Pietro could not run. Hell, after the horse Palio I can hardly walk! Instead he stood beside his father, leaning thankfully on the crutch. His other hand held Mercurio's leash. Otherwise the dog might run the race for him.
Cangrande dropped a flaming torch into the snow. With a gust of excited breath that smoked the air the runners started, slipping and falling in the initial steps. There were shouts of encouragement and curses, hands grappling at ankles as the fallen tried to trip the upright. One fellow was thrown towards the angry leopard. He barely rolled away as a huge paw slashed at his head.