The Master of Verona

The fellow was staring out the arched palisade at a rider galloping into the courtyard below. The Capuan's doublet and hose were very fine, but showed a reckless neglect around the elbows and knees. His muscles looked as slack as a sackful of horsefeed, which is to say not at all. Hearing footsteps on the marble behind him he turned, face haughty. "I'll be there in a minute." He must have thought they were servants.

"Ah, good day," said Pietro. "I'm, ah, my name is Pietro…"

"He's Pietro Alaghieri of Florence." Mariotto made sure to pronounce it correctly. "The son of the great poet Dante. I'm Mariotto Montecchio."

"Veronese?"

"Just like the best horses, I was born and bred right here."

After a brief pause, the sandy-haired stranger realized he had not reciprocated the introduction. "I'm Antony — Antonio Capecelatro, second son of Ludovico Capecelatro of Capua."

"Well met, Antony. We were wondering if you'd care to explore the city with us."

Antony frowned. "I thought you said you lived here?"

"I do," said Mariotto.

"Don't you know it already, then?"

Mariotto was flustered. "Well, yes — I do. But Alaghieri here is new to Verona. So are you. I thought we might go out after dinner and explore the city together. Maybe we can find some contests or games to take part in."

"Games?" said Antony, livening up. "Are there games here?"

"All the time, when the Capitano is in residence. He commanded games for tomorrow. Didn't you hear?"

The Capuan was skeptical. "All princes do that — and they're always pitiful!"

Mariotto smiled knowingly. "You haven't seen Cangrande's games. He held a Corte Bandita three years ago, and eight men died. Three more lost an eye apiece." His own eyes gleamed. "There are cat-battings and bear-baitings. And there's the Palio every year. The toughest race in Italy."

The Capuan was intrigued. "Inventive, is he?"

"You have no idea," said Mariotto. "Now, do you want to come with us tonight — or would you rather wait here with the old men and the women?"

Antony clapped Mariotto on the shoulder. "I should throw you over the balcony for that, pipsqueak!"

Eyes beaming, Mariotto said, "Try it! Look, we can find our supper in the city, and perhaps meet some women. Tomorrow there'll be knife fights and wrestling matches on the bridge — maybe even a goose-pull!"

To a mental list of Mariotto's attributes, Pietro added fickle. Feeling himself being relegated to the role of tagalong, he said, "Maybe we can have a swimming race in the Adige." Swimming was one arena Pietro excelled in.

Antony reached out a hand to grip Pietro's shoulder. Though not taller than either youth, his bulk and wide peasant hands made him seem gigantic. "I will follow you two to the end of the earth, if it means not another minute of poetry — no offense, Alaghieri."

"None taken," laughed Pietro, moving out of range of Antony's grasp and surreptitiously rubbing life back into his arm.

One of the huge falcons let loose a cry. The birds were all still on their perches, waiting for the Master of the Hunt to return them to the aviary. Having been disturbed by the noisy dance, they were still fidgety.

"Do you want to see my bird?" asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. "Dilios!" The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master's voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. "He's still small enough that I can hold him without protection." He indicated his arm, which bore only the sheath of leather from the light-coloured farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto's arm with its pounces. "Here, Dilios. There's a good boy."

"Dilios?" said Antony, puzzled. "What kind of name is that?"

"Greek." Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.

"The only survivor of Thermopylae," supplied Pietro.

Antony look a little embarrassed. "I'm a dunce about literature." Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.

Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios' leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.

Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger's greyhound, tail stiff, head low.

Something was happening. With a quick look among them, the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios' blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall, they watched and listened.