"The scarecrow? That's a good name for him," agreed Cangrande. "And I believe the oracle's death was his message to us."
Pietro said, "How so?"
Villafranca told them about the oracle's head. Cangrande snorted. "An excellent contrapasso. Someone's an admirer of your father's work, Pietro."
"What's that?" asked Antony.
"The twisted head," Pietro explained, "making her face backward. That's one of my father's tortures in Hell. It's the price seers and diviners get for trying to see the future."
"So whoever killed her was making a statement about her prophecy," deduced Morsicato.
"Or has a sick sense of humour," supplied Cangrande.
"Who is this scarecrow anyway?" demanded Antony. "What did he want?"
"Who he is will take some tracking, but we have a clue. The child ripped something from around his neck. A medallion I've never seen before. As to what he wants, we'll ask him that when we find him."
The Constable ventured an opinion. "Perhaps he thought to kidnap him for ransom purposes. The Scaliger's son." If he'd expected Cangrande to rise to the bait, he was disappointed.
"Should I go join the searching parties?" asked Pietro. "I got the best look at him."
"God forbid," said Cangrande before either physician did. "Go to bed. Rest. That was a nasty clout you took. When you awaken tomorrow, come see me. Don't rush, though. I have a feeling I'll be busy." The Scaliger closed his eyes.
"What happened to the leopard?" asked Morsicato.
"Del Angelo thinks it should be destroyed. I think the animal was defending itself in a frightening circumstance and should therefore be allowed to live. We'll have it out tomorrow."
"What I don't understand," fretted Pietro, "is how he got down to the street so quickly."
"We'll look into it." The Scaliger's tired eyes half-opened. "So much has happened tonight, Pietro, that my manners have slipped. Tomorrow, remind me to thank you. Again."
Pietro flushed slightly. Antony winked at him. The Scaliger's eyes closed as Fracastoro dug his needle into the scarred and bloody back.
Morsicato had a few quiet words of advice for Pietro regarding the cuts on his forehead, which he listened to. Saying goodnight to everyone, he balanced on his crutch, preparing to go.
A pluck at his sleeve pulled him down so Antony could ask, "Where was Mari? Why didn't he help you?"
"He was talking to-" Pietro hesitated. "He was talking to your fiancée. They were across the loggia. He probably didn't realize what was happening until it was over."
Antony grunted. "Well, at least they get along. That's good news. Could you imagine it if they didn't?" He settled back, elevating his broken leg, waiting for a litter to transport him to his father's house.
Pietro exited the makeshift sickroom and crossed the hall towards the front door. He found Bailardino Nogarola there, stomping the snow off his boots. Seeing Pietro, the large man smiled tiredly. "I swear, I'm moving to Rhodes, become a Hospitaller. Too damned cold here. Glad to see you up and about, boy."
"Glad to be here, my lord," replied Pietro.
"Word is a leopard cracked your skull."
"Yes, my lord."
"Damn stupid of you to let him."
"I guess I'm just not that bright." Pietro gestured to the bandaged claw marks just over his eye.
"God's wounds! An inch lower and you'd be blind!"
"He just swatted at me. No sign of the kidnapper?"
Bailardino shook his head. "None. At least, not in the houses west of here. My men are still searching, but I promised Kat I'd check on you. Yes, you! You've got to stop risking your neck for our family. It's giving her grey hairs." He laid a beefy hand on Pietro's shoulders. "She's taken a liking to you, lad. She'd hate to see anything happen to you. As would I."
A nearby tapestry shuddered. As there was no wind in the hall to make it do so, Pietro and Bail both looked at it, their tension rising. A tiny lump in the tapestry was half hidden by shadows.
Bailardino raised his eyebrows at Pietro, who lifted his crutch. "Yes," said Bail loudly, easing his sword from its scabbard. "We've all taken a real liking to you, Pietro."
Pietro moved closer and, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall beside the tapestry, he struck the lump hard.
"Ouch!" yelped the lump. From underneath the tapestry bolted little Mastino della Scala, rubbing his shoulder and looking mutinous. "Uncle Bail, put your sword away!"
Pietro lowered his crutch and shook a fist. "You've already been told. Don't spy."
Mastino glared daggers at him. "I'll fix you!" he cried, then ran through a door under the staircase.
Bailardino resheathed his weapon. "Fut. Little puke. Needs to be walloped more often." He shivered. "Damn, it's cold!"
"It must be hard, going out after the race."
"That reminds me," said Bailardino, "tell your friend Montecchio that that was the slickest move I've ever seen. And I've seen them all."
Pietro frowned. "What move?"
"What he did in the Palio. Slicker than goose shit."
"What did he do?"
"Heh. The little Capuan was going to win. Your boy knew it. So he kicks out at just the right moment and barks Capulletto right on the shins. Took him down, leaving the field clear to win." Bailardino chuckled. "Well done."
Pietro's blood was in his boots. "How do you know?"
"Damn if it wasn't me the Capuan fell on! Mind you, if I could have done it myself, I would have. Those two are just too young for me. But I put up a good race for an old coot. You have to admit that!"
"Yes," agreed Pietro absently.
"Is Cangrande in the salon? I'll go in and tell the peacock we're still holding our dicks, then I'll go over to our house and tell Kat you're unhurt. She wants to see you, by the way. Come by tomorrow, but not before noon. She's not at her best in the morning."
They bid each other goodnight, and Bail went off in the direction Pietro had come. It had been Pietro's intention to cross the Piazza della Signoria, climb the stairs to his father's room in the Domus Bladorum, and crawl into bed. Instead, tired as he was, Pietro stayed to search the Scaligeri palace. But there was no sign of Mariotto, and he drew the line at knocking on the door the Paduans' suite of rooms to ask if Gianozza was in.
At last Pietro staggered into his father's suite across the plaza. Poco was still out reveling, but Dante was writing by lantern light. "Will the light bother you? The muse is upon me."
Apparently the poet had missed all the excitement — not surprising, if he was in the midst of penning new verses. He'd even failed to notice the new bandage that graced his son's forehead. Pietro grunted and simply fell into bed without removing his clothes. Within moments he was asleep.
Dante stood from his littered papers and ink and, crossing to his son's bedside, he pulled a coverlet over Pietro to keep him warm. He waited a moment, watching his son's sleeping form, then returned to his Purgatory.
Had Pietro's search extended to the chapel across from the Scaligeri palace, he would have found his quarry. The candle had lowered but was still burning bright as Mariotto reached the second circle of Hell.
I began: 'Poet, gladly would I speak
with these two that move together
and seem to be so light upon the wind.'
And he: 'Once they are nearer, you will see:
if you entreat them by the love
that leads them, they will come.'
Gianozza was an excellent audience. Every now and then she made small noises of delight that encouraged her reader to continue. The rest of the time she kept her breathing audible but not rhythmic so he could be certain she was not asleep.