by David Blixt
October was hardly prime campaigning season, but it had been a nasty summer. First a scorching heat, then heavy rains that ruined crops all across the north. Meat and eggs began to run out, capons and other fowl died of pest, swine could not be fed because of the excessive price of fodder. Even bread wouldn't bake unless the grain was first put in a vessel to dry.
Up until the rains, the ruler of Cremona, a staunch Guelph by the name of Cavalcabo, had been a worried man. He'd heard the rumours that with the Paduan wars suspended, Cangrande would be looking to expand west. The Scaliger's excuse would be an old claim that Mantua had rights in Cremonese territory. But without food, it would be madness to march.
In the first days of October Cangrande showed signs of madness. Staging his forces out of friendly Mantua, he swiftly took Ponte di Dossolo, Viadana, and Sabbionetta. This last was a huge blow, for it was where Cavalcabo had sent his money and women for safekeeping. Cangrande sent Cavalcabo an offer — food in exchange for his family. Cavalcabo cursed and, stalling Cangrande's messenger, secretly prepared Cremona for a siege.
Meanwhile Cangrande's soldiers survived on the supplies captured from each town, though the Capitano promised that any surrendering town would be allowed enough food to survive. Towns that held out, like Viadana, were left without means to last out the winter.
Even with the confiscated food, Cangrande knew he couldn't remain in the field long. To his good friend Passerino Bonaccolsi he said, "We have to strike like lighting. If we stall, we're through."
Cangrande's partner in this enterprise, the lord of Mantua had the promise of ruling over all the captured towns. Thus he was eager to keep the campaign moving. A week after taking Sabbionetta he led the attack that opened up Piadena, a bare fifteen miles down the road from Cremona itself.
The next city on that road was Calvatone. By now the combined armies of Verona and Mantua with their many mercenary condottieri were well accustomed to siege work. But the hardy Calvatonesi resisted mightily. Three times Cangrande himself led the assault, and each time he was repulsed just as he was on the verge of scaling the walls.
This morning Cangrande had pulled Passerino aside. "We're stalled. Another day and we'll lose our momentum."
"Do we want to make an all-out attack?" suggested Passerino. "Split our forces, hammer them on two fronts?"
"I'd rather not have a slaughter on our hands. I'm going to make them an offer."
"What kind of offer?"
"If they surrender, they can keep their provisions. I know, the men need food. But it's why they're holding out so fiercely. They don't love Cremona or Cavalcabo, and it's not pride, it's fear. We'll remove their fear, promise not to hurt a hair on their heads, just let us garrison the city and move on."
Passerino saw the sense in that. "Who should we send?"
Cangrande grinned. "Who's the most practical man we know?"
The offer was made by Nico da Lozza. Standing before the town gates under a flag of truce, the Paduan turncoat proposed the Scaliger's terms. "In return for your submission, the honourable Cangrande della Scala, Capitano of Verona and Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, promises to spare the lives of every Calvatonesi, be he old or young, Guelph or Ghibbeline! Moreover, he promises that the food and water that is currently yours will remain yours! There will be no looting, no rapine! Every man within Calvatone will remain unharmed, every woman virtuous, all property in the hands of its current owner."
The spokesman for the town called down from the wall, "We must be assured! There must be no reprisals!"
"There will be none! On that, you have the Scaliger's own word. And he is, as you all know, an honourable man! He has never broken a bond! But know this — if Calvatone refuses this generous offer, he pledges to remove your town from the face of the earth. No one will ever know you existed. The land will be salted, nothing will ever grow here again."
"He would lose the war with Cremona!" protested the spokesman. "We are not worth such vengeance!"
"His honour is! If you refuse his generosity, it will soil that perfect honour! His honour could not bear to let you defy him. He would not eat, not sleep, until that stain was removed! Citizens of Calvatone, why risk the wrath of the Greyhound of Verona? Why try his patience, when he wants nothing more than to garrison your city for as long as it takes him to smash Cremona? What do you owe the Cremonese? Is Cavalcabo a close ally, or a tyrant who taxes you and leaves you defenseless before his foes? Use your sense! Hate the Greyhound if you must, but do not stir him to anger! For I assure you, this hound has the both the teeth and the will to bite!"
As the spokesman withdrew, Nico turned to the page behind him and grinned. "How did that sound? Too strident? Did I give myself away? If they say no, he'll probably leave. He's never been one for slaughtering innocents, bless his soft little heart. Here, pass me that wine."
Jacopo Alaghieri shifted the flag of truce to one hand and passed his commander the wineskin. Dante had begged Cangrande to take his younger son on this campaign. "Make a man of him the way you did with Pietro."
"Pietro was already his own man," was Cangrande's reply. "But as you will."
Assigned Nico's service, Poco knew his commander wasn't well pleased with his performance so far. It was just that Poco couldn't see the sense in polishing something that was going to tarnish again within an hour, or in oiling the joints of some armour that wasn't even going to be worn today. His brother hadn't had to play the page. No, one madcap ride and Pietro was a knight. Poco longed for that kind of action, the moment when he could prove his mettle. Today might be the day. Consequently, seated atop a horse, riding with his master to an enemy gate, he behaved perfectly.
Now he pointed over Nico's shoulder. "My lord, look! They're opening the gates!"
"Of course they are. They're not fools." Nico passed the wineskin back to his page, who was so eager-eyed Nico couldn't help laughing. "Yes, yes, you did well! If by this afternoon my horse is properly rubbed down and my helmet so shiny I can see my reflection, you may join me in the command tent for the inevitable celebratory dinner. Now come on. And remember to look grave and respectful. These poor bastards may have done the wise thing, but it's hard for some men not to feel like a coward." Nico chuckled. "Not clever fellows like myself, you understand. I mean men with less imagination."
Poco went along to present the Calvatonesi leaders to Cangrande, then rode in the perfunctory tour of the town that was more about showing the Scaliger off to the people than to look over the battlements. An hour later they were all back in camp, with only some of Cangrande's German mercenaries garrisoning the town.
In Nico's tent, Poco rubbed, scrubbed, polished, and shined everything he could see. He accidentally ruined a finely engraved leg-greave by scrubbing with the wrong wire bristles, but he hid that at the bottom of a trunk. When Nico came to dress for dinner he was suitably impressed. "This is more like it. Go on, wash yourself up and change your shirt."
Soon he was standing behind Nico's place at the table in the command tent, watching as Cangrande and his four generals took their seats. Castelbarco sat across from Nico, and Bailardino Nogarola beside him. Cangrande took the head of the table, and Passerino Bonaccolsi the foot.
Cangrande lifted his goblet. "To the wise Calvatonesi. I am so very pleased I was not forced to emulate Otho. Passerino, if I killed myself in despair, would you do as his captains did and throw yourself on my funeral pyre?"
"I would throw Nico on it," said Passerino.
Cangrande nodded. "That will do."
Nico sneered. "Oh oh! Nice talk, considering it was my silver tongue that opened Calvatone like a woman's flower."
"If Calvatone is a woman, she's a cheap whore to open up to your tongue," said Bailardino.
"An ugly cheap whore," opined Passerino. "Did you see the state of their town hall?"
"Poverty is not a sin," said Castelbarco.
"Lack of civic pride is."
"I blame Cavalcabo," said Cangrande. "A skinflint and zealot. And h
is heir apparent, Correggio, is ten times worse. Say what you will about the other Guelphs, they aren't stingy. You'd never see Florence's smaller cities in such a state."
"Oh, Correggio's not a bad fellow," protested Bailardino. "His niece is going to marry my brother."
"Well, that makes him the salt of the earth," scoffed Nico.
"Speaking of Florence," interjected Castelbarco before Bailardino could rise to Nico's bait, "Jacopo, what's this I hear about a pardon for your father?"
Cangrande started laughing. "Yes yes! Tell them!"
Grinning, Poco took a step forward. "My father got a letter in July-"
"Addressed to 'Durante Alighieri, of the Guild of Apothecaries,'" interjected Cangrande. "No mention of poetry. Sorry, Jacopo. Go on."
"Well, the letter offered amnesty. Father is free to return to Florence whenever he likes."
"Big of them," said Passerino.
"No, no, wait! It gets better," said Cangrande. "There are conditions."
"Conditions?"
Poco rolled his eyes. "The conditions are, one, he pay a huge fine and, two, he submit himself to an oblation."
"What kind of oblation?" asked Passerino.
Before Poco could answer, Cangrande burst in. "He has to enter a city jail on his knees and from there walk clothed in sackcloth and a fool's cap with a candle in his hand through the city streets to the baptistery of San Giovanni — the saint that shares a name with Dante's dead eldest son, whose burial the city fathers refused, by the way. At the baptistery he has to declare his guilt and his repentance and beg the city fathers for forgiveness."
"I take it he refused."
"Astonishingly, yes." Everyone grinned. Annoyed that the Scaliger had taken away the best part of the story, Poco was about to step back to his place behind Nico when Bailardino asked, "What about your brother? How is he doing?"
"Is that you asking," said Cangrande, "or my sister?"
"I do have the occasional independent thought," said Bail. "Jacopo, how is Pietro doing?"
"He's settled into the University at Bologna," said Poco. "From what I hear he's doing well."
"I've just arranged an income for him, not far away from his studies," added Cangrande placidly. "A little benefice in Ravenna."
"You know, you could just recall him," said Castelbarco.
"Or I could banish you. That would end the conversation even more easily."
An awkward silence ensued. Finally Nico broke it. "I'm glad we're moving on. If we take Cremona, it will eclipse all the talk about Montecatini."
"Be fair, Nico," said Passerino. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is a friend and an ally. We can't begrudge him his victories. Besides, he needed one much more than we do."
Bailardino whistled. "Ten thousand dead and seven thousand prisoners. Not too shabby."
"He couldn't have done it without Castricani's men," said Castelbarco. "Does it ever occur to you, my lord Scaliger, that these floating condottieri may lead to trouble? Each season they are free to hire on to whatever war suits their fancy. Some are making a habit of fighting for one side this year, and the opposing side the next, thus keeping the war from ending. We're spending vast sums on these hired swords, but gold does not purchase loyalty."
"True," said Cangrande. "Nico, what does buy loyalty?"
"Land," replied Nico at once. "Land, land, and land. Some men will fight a battle or even a war for a prince or for God. But if you want a man to fight for you the rest of his life, you have to give him land. Look at Capulletto. You could have filled his purse to overflowing, heaped him with titles, but nothing could have bound him to you more than the land you gave him near Bardolino. He's now bound to you more than if you were his father."
Cangrande appeared dubious. "Hmm. We'll see. Certainly he was generous enough in return. The feast he threw in honour of San Bonaventura was magnificent. I haven't danced like that in years."
Castelbarco passed across a tray of food. "The whole affair was definitely a triumph. Ludovico confided to me that he's planning on making it an annual event."
"The only shame was that Gargano wasn't there," said Bail.
"He was invited," said Cangrande. "I made sure of that. But he chose not to come. Said it might mar the occasion. As you say, a shame."
Swallowing, Nico pointed his knife aimlessly. "You know who I liked that night? Bonaventura and his wife. I'd heard she was mad, but I don't think I've ever heard sparring the like of theirs."
"Well, they were on display, weren't they?" said Bailardino, reaching over to fill Nico's bowl of wine. "As a Bonaventura, young Petruchio shares the name of the feast's saint. That mad wife's a Paduan, no?"
Cangrande said, "Yes, we seem to be stealing all the Paduan brides."
"I hear she's pregnant," said Poco, earning him a sour glance from Nico. None of the other pages would have spoken without invitation. But his news was enough of a pleasant surprise that the others overlooked the poor protocol.
Bailardino clapped his hands. "Excellent! A year of children! Where did you hear that?"
"Yes, where?" asked Cangrande in a droll tone. "Your spies must be better than mine."
Trying to disguise his pride, Poco said, "There's a girl in Ser Bonaventura's house, I've gotten to know her…"
He was answered by mockery and sly looks. Bailardino in particular was gleeful. "Well done, lad! Are there any other pregnancies we should — what the devil?!"
The tent flap was thrown wide by one of Cangrande's soldiers, who burst in. "My lord — trouble!"
Throwing aside the benches the five generals followed the soldier outside, Poco and the other pages at their heels. "There, my lord," said the veteran, pointing. Tracing the line he indicated, all heads turned towards the town walls. They were glowing red.
"Treachery?" asked Passerino.
"I'm afraid so," said Cangrande in a grim tone. "But I don't think the kind you mean."
"What is it, then?" demanded Castelbarco. "Is Cremona attacking?"
"No. Someone has taken it upon themselves to break my word. Horses! Arms! Let's see if there's any way to salvage this!"
Nico rounded on Poco, who stared with horror at the growing flames. "Move it, boy! Don't bother with the fancy stuff, just gambeson, helmet, and sword. Move!" With a shove Nico sent him running.
Fifteen minutes later Cangrande led his personal guard as they galloped into chaos. Men on fire, women screaming under the weight of armoured men mercilessly having their way. Not all the women screamed — some had had their throats cut before they were violated. A lone child wandered into the road to be trampled by a mad horse running wild. Blood pooled in the streets, sprayed the pitted stone walls, bubbled in the mouths of blackened corpses.
Poco felt a shiver run from his forehead to his fingertips as he stared wide-eyed at the carnage. But it was the sudden smell of burning human flesh that made him turn his head and vomit down his horse's side. His stomach heaved, then heaved again. He looked around, embarrassed, his eyes watering in the smoke. He saw Nico kill a rapist as Cangrande used his sword to bring final peace to a burning man. Drawing his sword, Poco followed the leaders up and down the street, helping those they could, killing those they could not. It was a kind of mercy.
Entering one bloody and smoking piazza they heard a voice cry out, "Havoc!" The shout was echoed from mouth to mouth among the garrison of German mercenaries Cangrande had left within the town walls. The havoc cry was famous, a foreign idea that had quickly translated into a simple rule — there were no rules. For the duration of one day, theft, rape, even murder would go unanswered at law. It was the free pass that allowed soldiers to vent their basest desires, enriching themselves or taking out their revenge against the world. Generals sometimes allowed their men to wreak havoc on a town as a reward for their efforts. Sometimes soldiers raised the call themselves.
"Round them up!" shouted Cangrande to his men. "Kill anyone who doesn't instantly fall in!"
His men responded with vigour, turning their bl
ades on their allies with a feral fury that matched their commanders eyes. They worked to secure one piazza at a time, leaving soldiers behind to guard the few survivors. It took almost an hour to gain control of the situation, that being achieved mostly because by then there was no one left to save. Cangrande never seemed to rest, racing from place to place, a whirlwind of tightly controlled violence. Terrified, Poco trailed along, barely swinging his sword as he watched each grisly scene open up before him. The worst was when they came across a square where the mercenaries were playing some sort of game, using burning poles to hit balls into overturned baskets. A closer look revealed the balls to be human heads. Some were very small. Poco wept and, in that square, he killed his first man. None of the mercenaries in that square survived.
Recognizing that the town couldn't be saved, Cangrande abandoned the idea of fire brigades in favor of rescue parties. Only when the smoke threatened his men as much as the fire did he call for the withdrawal of his troops.
As the sun set its burning eye, the town of Calvatone was a smoldering ruin. Lined up before the collapsing gates were the last remaining mercenaries, forcibly dismounted and down on their knees. None had escaped some kind of injury. They looked up at Cangrande, sitting atop his magnificent horse and watching the last timbers fall inward, sending up a spray of sparks and ash. He remained there a good deal longer, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned and murmured an order to Castelbarco, who whipped his horse back towards the camp.
From his knees, the German leader called out to the Scaliger. "Der Hund! Why do you persecute us? We were only following your orders!"
Cangrande leapt from the saddle and ran over to the man, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. "My orders? To murder, to despoil, to ruin my own honour? I vowed that I wouldn't have them harmed! Who gave you these orders?" The leader of the condottiere swayed and shook his head, mumbling something. Cangrande struck him again. "Who!"
