The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  The buildings, ornaments, and men were all impressive, but Pietro's eyes were drawn to a central pillar flying a banner. A leap of torchlight caught the flapping flag, revealing an embroidered five-runged ladder. On the topmost rung perched an eagle, its imperial beak bearing a laurel wreath. At the ladder's base was a snarling hound.

  Il Veltro. The Greyhound.

  Suddenly the crowd parted to reveal a man standing at the center of the square, looking like a god on earth. Massively tall, yet thin as a corded whip, his clothes were of expensive simplicity — a light-coloured linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck. Over this he wore a burgundy farsetto, a leather doublet of the finest tanning, soft yet shimmery. Instead of common leather ties it bore six silver clasps down its front. His hose, too, were dark, a wine-red close to black. Tall boots reached his knee, the soft leather rolled back to create a wide double band about his calf. He wore no hat, but was crowned with a mane of chestnut hair with streaks of blond that, catching echoes of the brands, danced like fire.

  Yet it was his eyes that most struck Pietro. Bluer than the midday sky, sharper than a hawk's — unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world.

  Cangrande della Scala, the master of Verona, walked forward with his arms outstretched to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. a man whose only wealth was language.

  Releasing Pietro's arm and drawing himself upright, Dante walked with dignity to the center of the square. He took off his hat with the lappets and, just as he had done a hundred times during his exile, placed it at the base of the plinth at the center of the square. The silent gesture was eloquence itself. From Dante the crowd might have expected speeches. But Pietro's father had a keen sense of drama.

  Pietro watched with the rest as Cangrande stooped for the limp old-fashioned cap. As he rose, Pietro caught his first glimpse of Cangrande's famous smile, his allegria, as the lord of Verona twirled the hat between his fingers. "Well met, poet."

  "Well come, at least," said Dante. "If not well met."

  Cangrande threw back his head and roared with laughter. He waved a hand and music erupted from some corner of the square. Under its cover Dante spoke. Pietro was close enough to hear. "It is good to see you, my lord." The poet bobbed his chin at the ornate decorations all around the square. "You shouldn't have."

  "Sheer luck, I must confess! Our garlands are for tomorrow's happy wedlock. But I feel the hand of Fortune, as they are far better suited to grace your coming."

  "Silver-tongued still," replied Dante. "Who is to marry?"

  "My nephew, Cecchino." Cangrande gestured to a not-so-sober blond fellow, raising his voice as he did. "Tonight he takes his last hunt as a bachelor!"

  Dante also pitched his voice to carry. "Hunt for what, lord?"

  "For the hart, of course!" The crowd broke with laughter. Pietro wondered if they were indeed hunting deer, or girls — he'd heard of such things. But he spied a handsome young man, dark of hair, well dressed, who carried a small hawk. So, deer. Pietro was both relieved and disappointed. He was seventeen.

  Dante turned to face his sons. "Pietro. Jacopo." Jacopo tried to flatten down his hair. Pietro stepped eagerly forward to be introduced, ready to make his best bow.

  But his father forestalled him with a gesture. "See to the bags."

  With that, the poet turned in step with Cangrande and departed.

  Two

  Vicenza

  17 September 1314

  Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, sat on horseback atop a hill overlooking the walls of suburb of Vicenza called San Pietro. Beneath the metal protecting his arms the muscles were thick from years of slinging a sword. The beefy hands inside the gauntlets were callused from fire and leather. The stout legs were well used to the combined weight of plate and chain armour. A large man, he sweat freely and now mopped his forehead with a cloth. His aged visage was round and cheerful, a face belonging to a merry friar or a troubadour with a fondness for German beer. It seemed sorely out of place atop the body of a knight and soldier.

  Beside him was the Podestà of Padua, Ponzino de' Ponzoni. Not only an unfortunate victim of alliteration, but a poor man's general. At the moment the Podestà was visibly sickened by the destruction of his honour. "Is there nothing we can do?"

  Daubing his face with a handkerchief, the Count shook his head. "Nothing until they've spent themselves. If we try to stop them now, we'll get a spear in the back and be robbed of our armour."

  The day had not gone well for the Podestà of Padua. So auspiciously begun, it had turned into a waking nightmare. Too intellectual, judged the Count. Too devoted to the damn Chivalric Code.

  But then Ponzino was a disappointment in every regard. He'd wasted the summer campaigning months, insisting upon avoiding confrontation, concentrating instead on razing Verona's lands. Against a different foe it might have worked, but Ponzoni hadn't comprehended the vast resources at his opponent's fingertips. In the last four years the enemy had taken prime acreage to the north, south, and west. All that remained was the east — and Padua was the key to the east. The city elders had forced Ponzino to attack, raid, do something! So the Podestà turned to the Count. Vinciguerra's answer was this stealth invasion of Vicenza, meant to be Padua's salvation.

  Not that the fate of Padua concerned the Count of San Bonifacio. He couldn't have cared less about Paduans or their thrice-damned patavinitas, the exclusively Paduan code of honour that seemed to rule every waking moment in their benighted city. The Count was a foreigner, a guest, an advisor, an observer. Unwelcome, but necessary.

  The attack had started well. The army had arrived unobserved, silencing the guards at Quartesolo and skulking the four miles from there to the target. The strategy was to infiltrate the outer suburb called San Pietro. Like most city-states, Vicenza was a series of walled rings, with more walls between, like the spokes on a wheel. The outermost circles were the suburbs. Here dwelt the poorer classes, and here the less essential commodities were stored. The next set of walls enclosed the city itself.

  The Count himself led the first foray, scaling the walls, cutting down the guards in the tower, and opening the gates. Revealing himself to the peasants, he had been cheered. He wondered if they genuinely adored him or if they were simply in fear for their lives. Not that it mattered. He had taken San Pietro, the key to Vicenza.

  Up to that point, everything had gone according to plan. The presence of the Count of San Bonifacio precluded the need to slaughter the innocents, something the squeamish Podestà quailed at. Ponzino had led his army through the suburb towards the next ring of walls — only to discover himself surrounded by flame.

  That had been the first crack in Ponzino's armour. Though in fairness even the Count found the deliberate burning of part of the city surprising. Fire was one of the threats most feared in any metropolis, especially one more than half made of wood. Who would have thought Nogarola would be willing to risk the loss of the whole city rather than cede to Padua?

  Undeniably a setback, the fire was not fatal to their plans. If handled properly. But it took Ponzino too long to gather his wits. He'd wandered fecklessly, failing to call the Paduan leaders together and form a new strategy. It was the Count who convinced him to order the army back just outside the city wall, leaving a breach in it to renew the attack when the fires died.

  The army disobeyed. After four years of meaningless battles and a shortage of food, they were loath to relinquish a foothold in Vicenza. When the order to withdraw was given, the men revolted. They began to torch the parts of the suburb not yet ablaze. They plundered, robbing the inhabitants. The Count had been with Ponzino when they'd come across a dozen Paduans — not even foreign auxiliaries! — sacking a convent and violating the nuns there. Together they had put the rapists to the sword, but what could be done about the rest? The Podestà rode glumly out through the city gates and waited for his men's rage and bloodlust to die down, his hopes for glory cru
mbling around his ears.

  The Count of San Bonifacio could not have cared less for the plight of the citizenry — after all, they had supported the Pup. What he deplored was the wasted time. They could not let Verona marshall its forces.

  The family of San Bonifacio had been fighting the Scaligeri since before Mastino the First came to power. As a young man the Count himself had seen that first Scaliger leader of Verona. He remembered the dark brown hair and sharp features, and the massive Houndshelm, a war helmet with a snarling hound atop the head. He also remembered the Mastiff's eyes — light green with the dark ring about them. Otherworldly, as if the man had trekked through all the fields of Hell and seen all the unthinkable horrors there. Vinciguerra blessed the day his father, working through Paduan tools, had had the bastard killed.

  Recalling the fierce joy Mastino showed on the battlefield, the Count shivered. Almost four decades later he could hear the bastard's laugh. It was a trait Mastino's nephew shared. Laughing in the face of the impossible. Of all the Pup's danger on the battlefield, worst was his unpredictability.

  That had always frightened the Count. Until he realized all one had to do to win was offer the fool an impossible chance.

  Vanni Scorigiani appeared. Known as Asdente, the Toothless Master, he'd earned his nickname the previous year at Illasi by taking a sword in the mouth and living to boast about it. A mere look from the scowling, twisted face could make a hardened knight blench.

  Now his horrible countenance was grinning. "Well, that's a mess, isn't it?" Completely unfazed by the carnage around them, Vanni's disfigured grin looked like the rictus of a corpse. Blood soaked his left arm up to the elbow. "I do so love Dutch soldiers!" he chuckled.

  "And they love you," replied the Count ironically, passing Asdente a wineskin.

  "Can't you stop them?" asked the Podestà desperately.

  Asdente drank, then patted Ponzino familiarly on the arm. "Don't worry. They're good boys. In another hour they'll be tired and ashamed and back here for orders. Then we'll take that damn gate." He gave a snort of disgusted respect. "Have to admit, firing the houses — didn't think Nogarola had it in him."

  "He learned from the Pup," said the Count.

  "He never plunders," said Ponzino.

  San Bonifacio was silently scornful. Ponzoni didn't seem to realize that plunder was the reason most men-at-arms went to war. There was little talk of the 'just cause' among the common foot soldiers, or even among the knights. A soldier signed on with a troop for wealth and to vent his spleen on the world.

  Asdente shrugged. "It's just pragmatism. Nogarola has to fight. He's fixed himself too firmly to Cangrande's star to do anything but!"

  Pretending to cuff at a bead of sweat, Ponzino surreptitiously blinked back the dampness in his eyes. "Do you think the citizens will ever forgive us? After they welcomed us in the way they did, to be so betrayed?"

  Asdente looked at the Podestà in shock. "Who cares?"

  The Count changed the subject. "Do you think a rider got off?"

  Asdente nodded happily. "We saw one heading west just as the fires were starting." He washed out his mouth from the wineskin and spat, a difficult exercise without front teeth. Sometimes, as now, he forgot, and grinned abashedly as crimson spittle ran down his chin. "A child. Some of my boys tried to catch him, but I called them off."

  "Why?" demanded the Podestà, aghast. "The longer Cangrande is unaware, the better our chances!"

  Vanni Scorigiani looked at the ground, feigning embarassment. "Aw, well, my lord — you don't know the Greyhound as I do. No doubt he's brave, but he's reckless. Foolhardy. Thinks he's indestructible. He'll likely set out rapidly and poorly prepared." Asdente's twisted smile reached his eyes. "We'll make mincemeat out of him."

  Ponzino goggled at Vanni, whose tone was unmistakable. If Cangrande arrived, they wouldn't take him prisoner, as the rules of chivalry dictated. They would kill him outright. Murder? How much honour was he going to lose this day?

  The Count saw the struggle in the young general. "It's the sensible course."

  The Podestà wiped his brow again. "Vanni, get down there and calm this mob. I want the women protected and the men-at-arms rounded up and ready for the siege."

  "I'll try," said Asdente. The Count of San Bonifacio had no doubt he would. It was an excellent excuse to crack a few skulls. "But this kind of rage has to burn itself out."

  "Do it now or I'll feed you to the Greyhound myself."

  Vanni smirked. "Now, that's downright unchivalrous." He spurred off.

  Together the Count and the Podestà turned their mounts back to watch the rape and slaughter of San Pietro. The first hint of clouds began moving in from the east. Vinciguerra sniffed the air. Tomorrow it would rain, perhaps the next day.

  Ponzino is doubtless wishing for rain this very second, thought the Count in disgust. It would hide his tears.

  Verona

  "Alighieri! Holla! Alighieri!!"

  Weaving in and out of the midday crowd, Pietro turned at the hail and was at once knocked to the ground. He felt the trod of feet and a buffet of absentminded blows before a hand caught him by the shoulder. "Alighieri!"

  "Alaghieri." Dazed, Pietro staggered to his feet, brushing dirt and filth from his best doublet. He turned about to behold a face no older than his own, with hair black as jet and eyes as blue as sparrow's eggs. The doublet bordered on frippery, but the hose, boots, and hat were of the finest quality. He was closely shaved, as if to show off a mouth a trifle too pretty.

  "Are you all right?" asked the handsome young man.

  "Fine," said Pietro shortly, aware that his best doublet was his best no longer. The teen looked familiar. The previous night had been chaotic — with all his father's luggage to bestow and his brother running about pointing out the windows, Pietro hadn't caught half the names thrown at him. Embarrassment mounting, he tried to remember…

  "Montecchio," supplied the comely youth. "Mariotto Montecchio."

  "Yes. You had the baby hawk."

  Montecchio's smile was dazzling. "I'm training it so I can hunt with the Capitano. Maybe you can join us next time?"

  Giving up on the doublet, Pietro nodded eagerly. "I'd like that." He'd missed the revelry last night, consigned to unpacking. The Alaghieri paterfamilias had, of course, participated, riding forth with the nobility on the midnight hunt. All night long Pietro and his brother had groused, and this morning he felt the pangs even worse, for everyone was talking of the sport.

  Not that Pietro really enjoyed hunting. Like soldiering, it was more that he wished he were the kind of man who did. It seemed to be something he should love.

  Montecchio looked him up and down, checking the length of his arms. "We'll get you a sparrow hawk. It'll match the feather in your — " Mariotto's brows knit together as he glanced at Pietro's head. "Where's your hat?"

  Pietro ran a hand up and discovered his head was bare. Looking about, he spied his fine plumed hat a few feet away, wilted and trampled.

  Montecchio leapt forward to snatch it out from under boots and sandals. "I am so very sorry," he said gravely, and he did look genuinely pained. Mariotto took attire seriously.

  Pietro did his best to smile as he took the limp cloth with its broken feather out of Montecchio's hands. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't a very nice cap."

  It had been a very nice cap. A trifle, surely, but Pietro was allowed few trifles. His father had an austere code that applied to all things, including dress. Pietro had barely managed to win the right to wear the doublet and hose, which his father viewed as extravagant and showy. The hat had been a gift from the great Pisan lord Uguccione della Faggiuola, who knew all about young men and their vanity. Pietro had convinced his father that refusing the gift would have been an insult. "I only wear the hat out of respect for your patron, Father," he'd said. Somehow the old cynic had bought it.

  Now that gift was crushed and covered with dirt.

  "I'll replace it," declared Mariotto.

  "You
don't — "

  Mariotto insisted. "It's your first day here! No, we're going to the best haberdasher in the city. Follow me!"

  Not to agree would have been churlish.

  The late morning sun warmed Pietro's back as he ducked and weaved through the myriad enticements of the Piazza delle Erbe, trying to keep up. (The finest whips and crops!) Men of all shapes and sizes jostled with each other as buyers and sellers called out their wares to pilgrims, palmers, Jews, even the occasional heathen Moor. (Fish! The fruit of sea, the Capitano's favorite!) Pietro's eyes encountered millers, fishmongers, barbers, and smiths, all crying their wares from tented stalls or storefronts. (Love potions! Dump the man you have and get the one you deserve!) There were many small nooks, but Pietro didn't have the time to even glance into one before Mariotto was off in another direction. (Skins, well cured! Don't let the heat fool you! Winter is coming! Stay warm!)

  It was so loud! Anvils chimed in their workshops. Monkeys hopped around in cages, hawks screamed, hounds barked, all underscored by guitars, lutes, flutes, viols, rebecs, tambourines, and the voices of the troubadors. It was Nimrod's Tower come to life, cacophonous pandemonium. A seller of headstones was immediately replaced by a purveyor of sweet pasties who held his samples in the air, enticingly aromatic. Under the law, a vendor couldn't physically accost a traveler, but this only increased the assault on the other senses, and the huge signs that hung over the stalls were worse than grabbing hands. Each proclaimed the trade of the stall owner, even as the owner shouted insults at the vendor across the way.

  Above the signs, in row after row of low balconies, men capered and shouted to friends below, watching the course of various arguments and fistfights, making loud bets as to the outcome.