As the racers disappeared in the curtains of snow, Pietro gestured towards the open doors. "Let's get warm." Beard frosted with snow, Dante nodded vigorously. They climbed the slippery steps back to where braziers burned and hot spiced wine flowed. "Come on, Mercurio," said Pietro, urging the dog inside.
As Pietro waited in the doorway for the hound to pass, he glanced back. Alone in the center of the square stood the Capitano, head back. Snow fell on his face, into his mouth. His eyes were open, looking into the sky that was obliterated in a sea of white on the darkness. Tonight there were a million-million stars, all falling earthward to melt and disappear into every living thing they touched.
A rough elbow in Pietro's side abruptly ended his study of the lord of Verona. A huge man in hooded robes cut across his path. "Excuse me," came a voice from within the folds of the cloak. It was a painful voice to hear, rasping as if it had to scrape its way out of the man's throat. The words were strangely accented. He wore what looked to be a thin cottony material that wrapped Eastern-style around his midsection. His hood was up, but above the wide scarf wrapped around his face the skin was dark as soot, eyes black as night. It was the face of a Moor.
The creature moved off into the crowd, leaving Pietro wondering. Moors were not uncommon here in Verona, but they were mostly servants or slaves. Few were free men.
Dante was inside already, halfway up the wide stairs leading to the rear loggia. Dismissing the startling figure, Pietro gritted his teeth and started the long ascent.
Moments later a panel slid shut on the noise of the street and a hooded figure dusted the snow from his shoulders before beginning his own climb. He left the secret door slightly open for his escape, but after the first few steps all light vanished. He had to use his left hand to feel his way up the spiraling staircase. His right was filled with steel.
Twenty-One
The noise was deafening even before Pietro reached the top of the stairs. Two hundred men and women were pressed into a space that was meant to comfortably accommodate half that. A dozen braziers were scattered about, taking up space even as they warmed the air. Pietro could see that shutters had been affixed to the tall windows to eliminate the chill wind. In the center of the east wall of the palace, two lone arches were free of shutters. Pietro counted from the edge of the loggia and decided that those were the very arches that the Scaliger had leapt through five months before. Now they were the finish line for the race. Pietro grinned.
Tonight none of the guests were made to doff their shoes in favor of soft slippers. With all the people packed in here, there probably weren't enough to go around. Or else the Grand Butler had acknowledged it a lost cause.
Before he entered the hall, Pietro was stopped again by Giotto's fresco of the five Scaliger lords. This time, though, it was the first knight who drew his attention. This man was noticeably lacking a regal bird atop his scala, and his visage was odd as well. His face was not as clear as the others, his features obscured in the shadow of his simple helmet.
"Leonardino della Scala, detto Mastino," said his father in his ear. "The first of the Scaligeri lords."
Pietro continued to study Mastino's face. "He seems different from the rest. He looks — I don't know…"
Dante cocked his head to one side. "No one remembers much about him."
"I saw his tomb this morning. It bore the title Civis Veronae."
"A common citizen," observed the poet. "Remembered more for his humility than his deeds. It is known he organized a rewriting of the city statutes. And though he is generally acknowledged to be the first great Scaligeri, he was never lord of the city. Not officially. He never held the two major offices that the rest of the family have."
Pietro changed his gaze from the painted wall to his father. "Which are?"
Dante looked grave, as though it were Pietro's duty to have already ferreted out this information. "Capitano del Populo and Podestà of the Merchants. The two are technically separate. Together they combine command of the military with the merchant's financial power, creating the most secure power base of any family in Italy. Better by far than being king."
Pietro returned his gaze to Mastino's fresco. It wasn't the shadowy face that bothered him. It was something else. All the Scaligeri shown were surrounded by armed men. In the other four portraits, those men's spears and swords and halberds pointed out at unseen enemies. In Mastino's portrait, though, those arms were turned in towards their lord. "Why are the swords pointed inward?"
Dante's eyes narrowed as he examined the painting more closely. "I hadn't noticed that. It is disturbing, isn't it? Perhaps it's because of the way he died. Mastino was murdered not far from here. He and Bailardino's father were riding through the Volto dei Centurioni on their way back to the palace when they were ambushed and slain. In fact, the story goes that their bodies were thrown into the well that stands outside our current residence."
Behind them a man coughed, as they were blocking the hallway. Entering the loggia people made way for Pietro, recognizing him by the fine clothes that marked the new knight. Men he did not know called congratulations to him. "Hey! Alaghieri!"
Pietro found his arm held in a steely clasp and a moment later he was embraced. He tried to identify the man, who did look familiar…
"We met today — though I'm afraid I was something of a cad. Sorry about the tunnel."
Oh! "I was a little evil myself. Don't worry about it."
The man let out a breath of relief. "Good. I was afraid you'd want to duel or something. My name's Ugo de Serego!" Again Pietro's arm was encased in that strong grip. "Some friends of mine are over in the corner — we've had enough racing for one day. Come and join us! I want to introduce them to the man who saved my life."
Pietro was embarrassed. "We were both lucky."
Serego was roughly scruffing Mercurio's neck. "Come over anyway. I want to hear what it's like to be descended from a great poet."
Pietro saw someone he'd longed to see all evening. "Can I catch up with you? There's someone I need to talk to."
"Of course! We'll be over here when you want to celebrate." Serego strode back to his friends while Pietro and Mercurio made for another corner of the loggia.
Katerina della Scala in Nogarola was seated away from the crush of men and women. Pietro had expected her to hold court in the style of her brother and sister-in-law, surrounded by the best and the brightest, making use of her wit and her grace. But with the exception of a serving girl, there was nary a soul by her, a feat on this crowded loggia.
The reason for her solitude was cradled in her arms. Pietro was amazed she'd brought the boy to Verona, let alone here in public. It was tantamount to slapping Giovanna della Scala's face. Here is the son you could not give him, Cangrande's sister was saying, and I will raise him. We cannot even trust you to do that.
Cangrande's wife was across the loggia, holding a boisterous court. Men and women kept their eyes deliberately averted from the stately woman and the child she held, a child that bore such a strong resemblance to their lord.
Katerina passed the time by chatting with her girl, who must have been the child's nurse. Pietro looked around. Bailardino was nowhere in sight, which was unfortunate. Pietro required a chaperone, otherwise it would be improper — even if only he knew it.