Gianozza was giggling too, and the other young girls moved closer to find out what was so funny. But just then a cheer rose up from outside. It was impossible to see beyond a few feet, but occasionally a gust of wind would open a patch of clear air before them. As the crowd at his back jostled Pietro towards the open air, he was pressed close against Gianozza. She smelled of orange blossoms, and the nearby torch marking the finish line lit her features as she scanned the street below them. She is lovely.
Gianozza pointed down into the snow-laden alley. "Look! Here they come!"
Twenty-Two
At the end of the alley blurry figures hurtled into view, shoving and pushing and tripping each other. A few in the back were limping heavily, and no one was running as quickly as he had at the race's start. Foot by dogged foot, they pressed on towards the Scaligeri palace.
On the balcony of Federigo della Scala's home across the way there was cheering and the waving of torches. "Stop waving those torches, you idiots!" shouted a man at Pietro's shoulder, but either they didn't hear or didn't care. Attracted by the cheers and the waving firebrands, several racers began to climb the wrong balcony in their blind desperation to finish. They were halfway up when they realized their mistake. Some dropped back to the earth to try again. Some found themselves bodily lifted up onto the open-air balcony and feted by a congenial host determined to ply them with drink and pry a story or two out of them.
Two figures in the snow approached the correct wall. They knew which was the loggia of the Scaligeri palace because they'd leapt from there five months before. Mariotto's dark hair was damp with melted snow and bore a crown of icy-white around the fringe. By his side ran the newly christened Antony Capulletto, whose hair was shorter, making the snow invisible. In the torchlight both their bodies glistened with snowmelt and sweat.
Pietro said, "Perhaps you should retire until the race is finished. It won't be long."
"I can endure the sight of a naked man," said Gianozza, her face turning red even as she smiled.
"I'm sure. But I doubt they can take being seen."
"Oh! Of course!" Taking pity, she stepped back to the far end of the loggia where most women had gathered.
Pietro turned back to the railing and called out encouragement. "Come on, you two! Get up here and have a drink!" He doubted they could hear him. In the street, on the loggia, on the balcony opposite, every man was shouting. Behind Pietro the jester Manuel was piping away like a madman, his tune high-pitched and frantic, an apt counterpoint to the action below.
At street level, Antony and Mari were both struggling to find a handhold on the icy walls. Antony got a firm grip on a post extending outward from the stable. A moment later Mariotto leapt into the air and clutched at a sconce above his head. Both got their feet under them and started the climb. Other men were beneath them now, trying to either mimic their actions or else dislodge them and bring them crashing back to earth.
Mari and Antony ascended, their fingers probing the wall for the next handhold. Finding one, Antony pulled himself higher, only to slip. He found himself dangling one-handed, his feet swinging free while he scrabbled at the wall for another grip.
Less than four feet away Mariotto found a place for some toes to grip, enabling him to stand as his hands quested. He looked to his right and saw Capulletto almost level with him. From above, Pietro glimpsed Antony's grin as he twisted around to face Mariotto. The Capuan kicked out at someone beneath him, knocking the fellow sideways off the wall and into the crowd. At the same time he stretched out a hand to Mari.
Pietro saw a momentary hesitation. Then Mariotto extended his own hand. The duo's fingers met and closed about each other, and Mari pulled Antony up to the next handhold. They climbed together, racing for the top. One of them was certain to win. A bare twenty feet below the window, Antony's joyous voice rang loud enough to hear over the cacophony. He had found a place to set his feet, leaving both hands free. This was even more dangerous. Leaning in towards the wall, without anything for his hands to grip, he could topple backward into the struggling mass of naked men beneath him.
Mariotto was higher on the wall, poised to clamber over the rail of the balcony and emerge victorious. If Antony was going to win he had to make a tremendous final effort. He balled himself up, tucking his knees under his chin, and launched himself up towards the balcony's railing.
His elated expression was instantly replaced by a sickening look of fear as Antony's angle of ascent changed. His chin banged against the railing of the loggia and his hands slipped off it. Pietro lunged forward to grasp Antony's wrists, but the cold wet hands fell away from his fingers.
Mari's hands appeared that very second. He was standing on the outer lip of the balcony, having heaved up from firmer footing.
"Mari!" yelled Antony, real fear in his voice, arms grasping at air.
Busy climbing over the rail, Mariotto didn't turn.
Pietro watched Antony fall, limbs flailing. There was a sickening crunch as he bounced off the wall, then a great thud as he landed among the breathless runners on the ground. Some had the sense to try to catch him. Others who hadn't seen him tumbling towards them were unwitting cushions. Then he was on the ground, holding his leg and shouting words it was best his fiancée not hear.
Pietro gave Mariotto a relieved smile. "He's hurt, but he'll live."
Leaning over to look down, Mariotto was ashen-faced. A blanket materialized around him and he was led swiftly away as more runners began to emerge. Pietro remained to help up the others who successfully completed the climb. Servants brought forward cloaks and socks. Bricks were already warm on the fires. The smell of mulled wine grew as vast tubs were brought out. Everything was ready to remedy the ills of the racers, who cheerfully huddled under blankets and gulped down drink so hot it scalded their tongues.
Tullio d'Isola came forward with a length of green silk, and also the rooster and the pair of gloves for whoever lost. Cangrande decided not wait for the loser. Pietro watched as the green ribbon was bestowed on young Montecchio, then pushed his way through to congratulate his friend. "How are you feeling?"
"F-f-frozen," said Mariotto, teeth chattering. "F-feels like a thousand n-n-needles in my feet. Ant-tony's n-nn-not hurt b-bad?"
"I don't know how bad it is," said Pietro. "Do you want to go find him?"
"We s-s-should, shouldn't we?"
"I think you should get warm, champion. I'll find Capecelatro."
"C–C-Capulletto."
"Right, I forgot." Crutch in hand, Pietro exited the loggia and plucked the sleeve of a servant. "Do you know where they took the injured runners?"
"I believe they're in the salon, ser."
"My thanks." Downstairs, Pietro opened several doors until he found the salon. Here the rushes were pungent, soaked by snow-covered boots tramping in and out. Candles lit, torches lined the walls. The men here were not particularly ill-tempered, just annoyed by their injuries. The Scaliger's personal doctor, Aventino Fracastoro, was here, as well as the ever-faithful warrior of wounds, Giuseppe Morsicato. The latter nodded to Pietro even as he massaged life back into someone's foot.
A cheerful Antony was stretched out on a long bench, wrapped in heavy blankets. His left leg stuck straight out in front of him, wooden splints embracing it. "P-P-Pietro! How is Gian-n-nozza? Is ss-she worried?"
Pietro felt guilty for not even imaging she might be. "I'm sure she is. Mariotto and I were. How bad is it?"
Antony groaned. "Broken! Badly, they say. Fracastoro put the splint on to keep me from moving it, but they still have to get everything back in place. I won't be riding for months!" He made a disgusted face. "And I was so close!"