by David Blixt
Broadsword fighting was not a matter of finesse. It was more a question of bashing your opponent enough to crush a bone or drive the wind from them. Broadswords were not even particularly sharp. They were, in effect, huge metal clubs to beat each other with. Alaghieri and Carrara hacked and slashed at each other, trading blow for blow. Their attacks brought them closer to the Scaliger balcony in movement that resembled a crescent. Pietro would block a strike to his left that would stagger him sideways. He'd then deliver a blow to Marsilio's right that would have the same effect, returning them to even footing.
After seven minutes with no decision, both men pulled back, desperate for air. The battle had to end soon. Both felt it. They were past the first rush of battle, the excitement and fear that made the humours flow and wounds easy to ignore. Fatigue was setting in, and fear was causing little hesitations. The falling snow had thickened, the sun was setting. Soon it would be too dark to see. Cangrande had refrained from sending torchbearers into the Arena, probably to force an early end to the duel.
But both men were determined to finish it with a victory. Carrara was the first to return to the attack. Drawing a long breath, he ran forward, his broadsword spinning in his grip, flicking this way and that in a skillful series of mollinelli, the windmill attacks.
Pietro could only watch and retreat, unsure where Carrara's blade would fall. His hands shook, his vision blurred, his stomach tightened. He might faint soon. He had to end this. For a deadly moment his mind froze. He couldn't think what to do.
Again an image came to Pietro's mind. Cangrande, mace in hand, using the handle to block while he spun and struck. The murder stroke. Gripping his sword near the point with his gloved hand, he used his guard to beat aside Carrara's arcing blade and spun around. With a hand at either end of his weapon, he intended to put all his weight behind the naked tip above his left hand and drive the tip straight through Carrara's breast.
Carrara blanched, instinctively bringing his blade down to parry. But too late. There was the tip of Alaghieri's sword, inches from his chest.
Then the traitor in Pietro's body made itself known. His weakened leg buckled, and Pietro's sword merely scraped across Carrara's breastplate, sending sparks flying into the snowy air. It was Marsilio's luck that it didn't pierce the metal, but that was all the luck he had. Sheer chance had trapped his sword's cross in Pietro's own guard. The force of Alaghieri's strike sent the Paduan's sword flying.
Pietro's vision was so blurred he didn't see it. He'd wagered everything he had on this thrust. When it failed to drive home, he thought he was finished. Then, blinking, he saw his opponent was disarmed before him. It was as if the Virgin herself had descend to kiss his hands.
He extended his swordarm, aiming the point at Carrara's throat. He barely had the breath to say, "Yield."
"Never!" Carrara turned. Ducking low, he threw out a hand to balance himself on the cold dirt of the Arena floor. His armoured leg shot out, driving into the fold of Alaghieri's right leg, just above the knee.
The pain seemed to start from the ground, rising through Pietro like water through a geyser. From the elation of victory, Pietro's world turned to agony. All he knew was pain. The snowflakes seemed to hold still in the air, as if time had ceased to flow. Each flake drifted into his sight, unique creations of a benevolent God who would surely now call Pietro to his bosom.
Then the ground hit him, face first, slamming his forehead with a stunning blow.
As one the crowd was on its feet, howling. To strike a man's wound received in the duel was an accepted practice. To strike a cripple's bad leg was decidedly unchivalrous.
Pietro struggled to rise, but his body wasn't answering. He felt himself being rolled onto his side. Above him was the tip of a miseracordia, a thin dagger meant for driving into the chinks of a wounded man's armour. Marsilio lifted Pietro's wounded shoulder to drive the needlelike blade through his armpit, into his heart.
On the very edge of consciousness, Pietro's breathing was laboured. His left arm was growing numb. Carrara was about to murder him and he was helpless to stop it. He saw the arm draw back, ready to drive in the killing stroke. Pietro's right hand fumbled towards his own dagger, strapped to his right hip. The Paduan slapped the hand away with a scorn.
This is it. I'll die in battle. A battle over love. One jilted amour. How stupid.
A whistling pierced the air above him and something thudded into the ground. The hand gripping Pietro's arm faltered. Carrara was looking away from his victim, up towards the Scaliger balcony. Pietro was more interested in the little snowflakes that fell across his face, the feel of them as they melted into his skin.
Shaking his head angrily, Carrara pulled back his knife again. A second whistling sound followed by a thud at Pietro's feet. The cursing Carrara stumbled backward. He didn't seem to have any more energy than Pietro did. Denied his chance to finish the fight, the Paduan collapsed in a heap, eyes closed. Carrara's breath had a strange rattle to it as he breathed in and out.
Pietro lay still, feeling his own breathing grow easier. Rolling slightly he could make out two fletched arrows sticking out of the ground at his feet. From this angle, the Scaliger's balcony looked very tall. One leg perched on the edge of that balcony, Cangrande was lowering a bow.
The duel was over.
And, though with questionable honour, Carrara had won.
Twenty-Seven
Flat on his back on the Arena floor, Pietro considered passing out. Suddenly he was gripped under his armpits and lifted up. Sighing, he decided he didn't care where they took him. Eyes closed, he was aware of the journey back towards the Piazza della Signoria and the palace, but it was as though he traveled through a fog. The most urgent thing that pressed on his mind was the need to urinate. He did this the moment he was lowered from the shoulders of the Capitano's servants, even before they removed his armour. He stood beside the wall of the palace and relieved his bladder, knees trembling. Wonderfully, the servants did not protest or mock him. When he was finished he allowed them to strip off his armour and carry him to Morsicato, who dressed his shoulder wound. Morsicato talked, of course, but the words didn't make any sense. Since the tone was reassuring, not worried, Pietro didn't bother fighting the haze to listen more closely.
He only came back to himself when he was dressed and seated once more in the great hall in the Domus Nuova. A hand touched his shoulder. Dizzily, he turned to see his father, brother, and sister. They were seated on the bench beside of him. Dante was talking, but again it was hard to focus. "What?"
"You fought well and honourably," repeated Dante. "I'm proud, boy."
"What happened?"
Eyes on his father's lips, he was confused when Antonia answered. "The Greyhound stopped the fight. He said he would adjudicate the matter now, based on your actions."
"What?" For the life of him, it didn't make sense. How could little Cesco have broken up the fight? Or maybe she meant Mercurio. She couldn't mean Cangrande, he wasn't the Greyhound.
Pietro's head came around to his sister, but her eyes were fixed on the next bench over. Following her gaze Pietro saw the bandaged Marsilio staring at him through half-lidded eyes. Pietro's focus sharpened instantly. You honourless son of a bitch. Damn you, and damn this leg. Damn it all.
The haze lifted, and Pietro saw the crowd was back, this time hushed in anticipation. Antony was seated on one side, father and brother beside him. Opposite them stood Mariotto and Gianozza, with Lord Montecchio and Mari's sister at a slight distance.
A hush fell as Cangrande entered. He did not take his seat, instead standing at the center of the raised dais. "The duel is finished. Both men fought bravely. I declare the decision to be inconclusive."
Carrara's energy returned in an instant. "No! I won! If you hadn't interfered — "
"Marsilio da Carrara," interrupted the Scaliger, "you proclaimed that your great motivator this day was chivalry. It was your insistence that Antony Capulletto's lack of chivalric qualities made your
actions permissible. It is decidedly unchivalrous, Cavaliere, to use an opponent's infirmity against him when you are at a disadvantage yourself. I assume you were caught up in the heat of battle — these things happen, even to the best of us. Based on your earlier words, I felt sure when your head cooled you wouldn't want to have won the contest in so despicable a way. So I stopped the match. I declare the decision inconclusive."
Skewered by his own cleverness, the wind went out of Marsilio's sails. Had he not been so tired, had his side not throbbed in agony, perhaps he could have countered the Scaliger's decision. He turned to Il Grande for help. "Uncle…?"
"I have talked this over with our host," said Il Grande loudly. "I concur with him on all points."
Eyes blazing murder, Marsilio sank back in sullen resignation.
Cangrande nodded his thanks to the elder Carrara. "As Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, as well as Capitano del Populo and Podestà of the Merchants, I have the ultimate authority in judicial matters in this region. I have made my decision regarding the duel. But before I proclaim that decision, I will hear once more from the parties involved."
He turned to Antony, whose eyes were fixed on Gianozza. She gazed back at him. Tears started at the corners of his eyes. The moment the first fell across his cheek, the girl strode across the hall to his side. Leaving her new husband confused, she leaned over her spurned suitor and kissed a tear away. In a voice so soft that none but Antony could hear, she began to speak. He shook his head. Kissing his cheek again, she leaned back. He stared at her, not bothering to wipe away the tears now flowing freely down his face.
Then he looked past her at his former friend. His voice croaked. "Mari, I cannot forgive you for what you've done." There was a long pause. "But neither can I blame you." Ludo began to speak but his son cut across him. "No, father. I can understand why he did this — though I can tell him I wouldn't have done this to him."
This scored a hit. Mariotto opened his mouth to protest, only to clamp it shut again. Antony continued. "I love her, Mari. I love her more than you ever will, ever could. She is my Giulia. But I only want her happiness. If you're the one she wants-" He took her hand from off his own and held it up for Mariotto to take. "I give her to you."
Pietro heard his sister's furious whisper. "She isn't his to give!" But Pietro was breathing easier. It was the best solution to a bad situation. The girl had said something to salve Antony's pride. He was able now to walk away from this horrible mess the bigger of the two men. His reputation would be immeasurably enhanced, all the more for his obvious fondness of the girl. It was chivalry at its height. All it required was one broken heart.
This was probably what the Scaliger had intended all along. Had Pietro not issued his challenge, had Marsilio not accepted, Cangrande would have brought about this same peaceful resolution. The whole duel was pointless, a futile gesture to perceived slights. The Capitano had seen past such things, angling towards a better, more stable, resolution. But hotter heads had prevailed, and blood had been shed. My blood, thought Pietro.
Now the ruler of Verona watched Mariotto and Gianozza as they removed themselves from Antony's side to stand before him. Their ordeal was not over yet. "I cannot express how pleased I am with this young man's words. Through his courage we have avoided a feud. It is obvious to me that Marsilio da Carrara was mistaken. Ser Antonio Capulletto is the very essence of chivalry. We are fortunate to have such a man in our lands."
"I agree." Grave-faced Gargano Montecchio stepped forward. "I commend his Christian clemency. I, however, am not at all satisfied. Mariotto Montecchio has shown none of his friend's foresight or nobility of spirit. Nor has he shown the courage evidenced by his other friend, Ser Pietro Alaghieri. I insist that my son be forced to pay for his transgression." He visibly steeled himself. "I move that Mariotto Montecchio be exiled from Verona."
This time there was no stirring in the great hall. It was as though one of the old gods had spoken, rendering everyone mute, dumb, and blind. Ashen-faced, Mariotto stared at his father. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect Gargano's outrage to be so extreme.
In the silence the Capitano slowly shook his head. "I cannot see exile as a reasonable punishment. He has not committed a treasonable offense. Besides, there is still the matter of the duel to contend with." The Capitano looked from Pietro to Marsilio. "With no definitive victor, it must be God's will that there be no final decision in this matter. I shall adhere to the will of the Lord. I fine Mariotto Montecchio a thousand silver soldari for the breaking the girl's engagement. Half will go to the Carrara family, half to the Capulletti." Sitting at last, he focused his eyes on Mariotto. "I have one more stipulation. You have not, in your haste, consummated this marriage, have you?"
Gianozza flushed. Swallowing, Mari said, "No, my lord."
"Good. Then I have reached my judgment. Marsilio da Carrara has said that he arranged for this marriage because he judged it a love too strong to deny. I mean to test that claim. Mariotto Montecchio, I appoint you my envoy to the papal court at Avignon. There you will emulate the Venetian Dandolo and act as my representative in the choosing of the next pope." Cangrande leaned forward. "You may not bring your wife. She is to remain in Verona, a guest of your father's house."
Mari's face burned brighter. "For how long, my lord?"
"For as long as I see fit," said the Scaliger coldly. "This marriage was enacted with indecent haste. I want to see if it will last when the passion cools. You will not consummate your marriage until I relieve you of this duty. If at that time your love is as strong as it is today, you will live out your lives together unmolested. If, however, your ardor has lessened, there will be grounds for an annulment." He looked to all the parties involved. "Is that acceptable?"
"Quite," replied Giacomo da Carrara.
Ludovico was primed and ready to protest. Before he could, however, Antony's head moved once to the left, once to the right. Silently the elder Capulletto nodded his consent.
Lord Montecchio nodded gravely. "It is wise and well considered, my lord. Let us see if my son can maintain his passion while in your service. I want to further stipulate that my lord della Scala not be out of pocket for this embassage. My son must pay for this trip out of his own monies." Which meant, of course, that Lord Montecchio himself would be paying for it. He was determined to flog every ounce of penance out of this.
"So ordered. If that is all, I thank the city fathers for their time and dismiss this assemblage." Cangrande turned to face Pietro. "Ser Alaghieri. If you are sufficiently recovered, I would speak with you in private."
Oh damn. Quailing, Pietro watched as Cangrande exited, followed by most of his retainers.
The Capulletti were already moving, anxious to be gone. Antony looked like he wanted to say something more to Mari, but was hurried out.
Mariotto turned to his bride, meaning to take her in his arms. At once his father interposed himself, forcibly removing the girl's hand from his Mari's grip. Removing Gianozza to one side, Gargano Montecchio fixed his eyes on his son. With lightning speed his open hand came up to slap Mari's face. It returned, backhanded, across the other cheek.
Face a ragged sea of emotion, Mari was so startled he couldn't move. His eyes began to water, his breath to stutter. "Father-"
"I do not disown you," said Gargano. "Your shame is mine." He departed, daughter-in-law in tow. Frozen with shock, Mari had to be led out by his sister.
Having watched all this in silence, Pietro now cast about for something to say to his father. "Where did Jacopo go? I haven't thanked him yet."
"He's seeing to your weapons and horses." The poet meant his expression to convey sympathy, but it came across as stern. "You'd best go see the Capitano."
Pietro nodded. As he departed, Mercurio by his side, he heard Antonia say to their father, "Is it always like this?"
The poet couldn't help but laugh.
Tullio d'Isola was waiting at the door to the Scaliger's private office. "The Capitano will see you now." He
stepped aside to allow Pietro and Mercurio to pass, then closed the door.
The walls inside were of dark wood hung with tapestries. It was a warm and intimate workspace. The Scaliger's marble-topped oak desk took up the whole of one wall. Opposite it were two maps, one of Lombardy, one of the Holy Roman Empire.
Cangrande stood by a marble basin beside his desk, washing his hands and splashing some water on his face. Pietro remained standing.
From one side of the room came a rasping voice. "You should be proud, Ser Alaghieri."
Pietro jumped. Beside the Moor sat Ignazzio, holding some kind of gold disc, a medallion with an oddly twisting cross surrounded by small pearls. Some pearls were missing. "You fought well."
Cangrande's head came up from the towel. "That he did." Setting his towel aside he gazed at Pietro.
"I hear you've been talking to my sister."
In the rooms that belonged to her father and brothers, Antonia was busily bestowing her luggage. The bulk of it would go in the room next door, currently occupied by Dante. Upon returning from the Domus Nuova next door, Dante had announced his intention to write. "My dear, I am overwhelmed to see you, but the Muse is upon me. If you can wait, we shall do all our talking once your brother returns."
"Of course, Father. Nothing is more important than writing." Then, because she couldn't not, she asked, "Is it Purgatorio?"
Dante nodded gravely. "I am one third of the way through the sixth canto — the move and my duties to my new host have kept me from my quills."
"But Father," interjected Jacopo, who'd been waiting for them, "shouldn't we be doing something? I mean, Pietro just fought a duel!"
"And what, little Jacopo, do you think we should be doing?" asked the poet.
