The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  The sun now broke the horizon, glinting off the bloody armour of the Paduans and Vicentines battling for possession of the city's heart. Pietro could hear Carrara urging on Asdente's reinforcements pouring through the widening gap. Then the Paduan turned his mind to the bowmen, pointing at torches in brackets along the city wall, still lit from the night just ending. "Burn them! Burn them out!" Carrara lifted a hanging torch from its bracket and, riding to the side of a building full of snipers, tossed the firebrand into a window on the first floor. Carrara's men immediately caught on, grabbing anything flammable and holding it against the structure.

  With the unseasonable dryness that had plagued the Feltro this year, the flames were quick to spread. In minutes the ambushers on the second and third floors would find themselves shooting through smoke.

  Other Paduans quickly applied the idea to other buildings. Smoke filled the courtyard, ending the effectiveness of the crossbows. They could shoot, but the Vicentines had no idea if they were aiming at friend or foe.

  Pompey slipped on cobblestones made slick with blood. Pietro lurched in the saddle, just avoiding the pike that drove upward for his head. Morsicato speared the pike's owner, calling out, "We're in trouble!"

  "We'll hold!" Pietro glanced around. There were about twenty of his thirty men left in their saddles — not bad for being so horribly outnumbered. The element of surprise had worked for them, and the bowmen had kept most knights too busy to fight back. But now, with smoke blocking their covering fire, Pietro was sure that the Paduans would rip apart the 'traitors' in their midst.

  A blow on his shield rocked him back in his saddle. He returned the blow with all the strength he owned. The attacker reeled back, then lunged again. Pietro dodged, swallowing smoke that had drifted into his helmet. His eyes were tearing up, his lungs were choked. He swung his shield, felt it connect, and used the respite to tear off the borrowed helmet. Already his adversary was back, but Pietro got there first, throwing the hereditary helmet of the San Bonifaci clan at the man's head. As the man ducked, Pietro got his sword around to bash in his skull. The Paduan sagged sideways in his saddle, then his face disappeared as Pietro's well-trained horse opened his mouth and clamped down on a target. The Paduan screamed in his throat as he died.

  Pietro was already on to his next opponent, blocking a mace aiming to remove his head from his shoulders. "Where's Cangrande?"

  "Don't! Know!" said the doctor, hacking with each word. Pietro let Pompey bite another horse's neck, then pulled the reins. In the melee the destrier managed to turn enough to let Pietro face the tavern. It was obscured in smoke, quick to burn because of the barrels of alcohol within.

  Pietro's men moved to cover his back, several chanting a fighting song as they beat at the Paduans around them. Some of those Paduans began singing as well, and both sides of the struggle set up their cuts and parries to the sound of their mixed voices united in song.

  A gust of wind cleared the smoke, inviting a hail of crossbow bolts from above. The archers had decided to risk the flames in order to snipe away when opportunity presented itself. Fifty Paduans dropped away in a hail of blurred streaks. Suddenly unopposed, Pietro looked up to wave his thanks.

  Suddenly he spied Cangrande. Still atop the tavern, the Scaliger was hopping away from spears and pikes thrusting up at him from below. He'd run out of missiles to throw, and the untiled patches in the rooftop now blazed with fire. Any moment now the roof would collapse under him. The Paduans saw this and penned the Capitano in, jeering darkly.

  Far from looking concerned, Cangrande called back lighthearted insults to his assailants below. A few Paduans ignored the flames and climbed the roof to confront him, hoping to claim the honour of having killed the great Scaliger lord. Unencumbered by armour, he danced around their slow and clumsy attacks, kicking them from the flaming roof. One, more determined than the rest, rushed at him with sword low, ready to eviscerate the Scaliger from groin to chin. Cangrande skipped backward across a piece of roof that was already showing some sparks flying up through a hole. It held — barely. When his attacker reached it moments later, the weight of his armour sent him crashing through the timbers and into the inferno below.

  The Capitano picked up the tune the soldiers sang and blared it loudly, defying the smoke that billowed around him. The fire was burning so hot now that the Paduans had to cease their harassment and back away from the blazing tavern. Cangrande could only have moments before the timbers collapsed under him, too.

  Pietro turned to Morsicato. "Pull the men back to the Nogarola line! We'll be slaughtered if we stay here!"

  Morsicato was putting down a pesky Paduan. By the time he turned, Pietro was driving though the Paduan soldiers towards the tavern. "Pietro! Where are you going?"

  Pietro didn't bother with his sword and shield. He dodged his mount between the Paduans, calling out as he did so. "Francesco! Francesco!" By using the Scaliger's baptismal name he hoped the Paduans wouldn't realize whom he was trying to rescue.

  A thunderous crash came from the tavern. Clouds of sparks and great billows of smoke rose from the building. The Paduans let out a massive cheer. Still Pietro called. "Francesco! Francesco!"

  Another gust of wind revealed the Scaliger. He was standing on the lip of the roof, covered in soot and smoke that made his dyed skin even darker. He coughed, staggering and half blind.

  "Francesco!"

  The Scaliger's head came around. Seeing the friendly face, Cangrande's eyes flickered about him. One Paduan was edging closer to jab upward with his spear. Ducking low, Cangrande grabbed the spear with both hands and kicked the shaft. The Paduan's grip slipped, allowing Cangrande to yank the spear free. Reversing the spear in his hands, Cangrande leapt.

  How he saw where to place the spear's tip through the smoke Pietro couldn't tell, but the spear landed in a space between two cobblestones. Cangrande swung his body around the spear and vaulted like an acrobat three feet from Pietro. "Ride!"

  Pietro was already giving Pompey the spur. Cangrande ran alongside, his hands clutching at the second arcione of the saddle. With a heave, the Scaliger leapt up across Pompey's rump. "Go go go!"

  Shock held the Paduan men-at-arms in place for a few seconds. Then as one they howled their pursuit. A sword edge came flying at Pietro's head. He took the blow on his shield even as his armoured horse drove on through the furious Paduans.

  In his ear, Pietro heard a muttered, "Gracias, señor." He was too busy to reply, weaving in and out of the clusters of Paduan soldiers. He felt some movement in the saddle behind him as Cangrande dragged a weapon free and busied himself parrying blows from behind. There were too many, though — blows were coming faster and faster. Pietro could feel them glance off his armour. He was absurdly grateful for the extra padding of his disguise. It was far worse for Cangrande, who wore no armour and had to twist to avoid every blow.

  Seeing a gap in the Paduan lines, Pietro urged his mount on. Faster! But destriers were bred for endurance, not speed. Only the smoke and Cangrande's quick hands kept them from mortal harm. Pietro saw more horses, closing in on them from the front. He caught a spear-tip on his shield, but saw a longsword descending for his skull. Father, forgive me...

  A falchion intercepted the weapon. Pietro slashed his attacker's face, not seeing but feeling the Moor riding beside him. There was a rumbled noise from deep within the black man's chest as his wicked point found an exposed throat.

  Suddenly Cangrande shouted, "Veer right!"

  The command turned them directly into a new line of oncoming knights, but Pietro's trust in Cangrande was unhesitating. He braced himself, but felt only a rush of air as the mounted knights raced past them. Suddenly Pietro found himself riding in the clear.

  He looked back. Morsicato had led a charge of Pietro's men, protecting his retreat before wheeling around and sprinting back for safety themselves.

  The Paduans decided not to give chase, choosing rather to reform their lines for the next attack. For the moment Pietro's party
was safe. They were between the Paduans pressing Nogarola's men and Marsilio's force by the gate. It gave Cangrande a moment to assess the condition of the battle. "Pietro, Tharwat, get your men into the mouth of that alley!"

  Pietro obediently steered for the alley indicated, the Moor protecting his flank. Morsicato and the men who had survived this latest ride followed. There were only a dozen now, a third of his original force. Pietro was pleased to see the face of his neighbour's son. "Glad you're still alive!"

  "Wouldn't have missed it for the world," the boy replied. He was just Pietro's age, yet he seemed to think Pietro some sort of hero and not just a lucky fool. His eyes traveled to Cangrande and opened even wider. "You — you're the Spaniard!"

  "At times like this, I wish I were." It was a lie. The Scaliger had never looked so alive. He addressed Pietro's men, the same men he'd fooled for three days with his accent and his drunken manners. "My name is Cangrande della Scala. This is my city you're protecting. If we live through this day, I promise you all women, honours, and riches. Until then, obey Alaghieri like you would obey God and, for the love of the Virgin, enjoy yourselves!"

  They cheered. Cangrande turned to Pietro, beckoning Morsicato and the Moor also. "The Paduans brought more men than we anticipated. A lot more. We'll still win this, but we have to hold. You understand. We must hold! Uguccione is coming, but he'll have to cut his way through the Paduans on the other side of that gate and break through to us."

  Pietro asked, "Where do you want us?"

  Cangrande nodded to the alley. "Right here. Pretty soon Marsilio is going to think of Thermopylae — he's going to use these alleys and side streets to cut around and bash Bailardino and Antonio from the sides. They'll be massacred unless we can hold these alleys for them."

  "We'll hold them," said Pietro grimly.

  Cangrande nodded. "Good to see you."

  Pietro laughed. "I've seen you for three days but was too blind to know it. What did you dye your skin with?"

  "Nutmegs." Cangrande flashed his perfect teeth. "You realize, if we live through this battle, my sister is going to have me eviscerated for letting you risk yourself to save me. Again."

  "I won't tell her if you won't."

  "A deal!" Cangrande lifted his stolen sword and glanced out into the main fray. "I'll send reinforcements when I can. But first I have to make sure the signal is given. That dimwit Bailardino let himself get cut off from the bells."

  "No hurry," said Pietro, raising his voice to add, "We can hold the gates to the inferno!"

  His men cheered again. Cangrande clapped the doctor on the shoulder, bowed to the Moor, then dashed out into the blood-slick streets. Grasping the mane of a passing riderless horse, he swung himself into the saddle. His blackened face looked like something from the netherworld. Cangrande saluted with his sword, then spurred towards Nogarola's men, slicing through the threefold lines of Paduans to get there.

  Grinning, Pietro ordered his men to hurry up and find something to barricade the alley. The battle was far from over, and they had work to do.

  At the other end of the yard Marsilio was greeting Asdente, at the center of the formation just spilling through the gate. "What in all-fired hell is going on?" cried the Toothless Master, looking at the smoking carnage.

  "They were waiting! Bonifacio betrayed us!" Carrara slammed his mailed fist into his palm. "I knew it!"

  "The Count?" Vanni found it hard to believe the old fox would set them up this way.

  "I saw him," confirmed Marsilio. "He was here — even saved Cangrande's life, from what my sergeant said."

  Asdente brushed that aside. "What's to do?"

  Marsilio looked around. The bolts from the crossbows had ceased as all the fires took hold and archers leapt from windows to try and escape. Some managed to get away. Most were rounded up and pressed back into the burning structures to face their deaths.

  "Bring your men in here — all of them. If we take the Nogarola palace, we can press outward and take the whole city."

  "What about prisoners?" Last time they had come this way, Asdente had ruined his reputation by slaughtering innocents without orders. This time he wanted explicit instructions.

  Marsilio paused. What would his uncle do? Take prisoners, ransom them, show them all the mercy and generosity that Cangrande had shown three years before. "No prisoners. Havoc. Kill them all."

  Asdente loosed his twisted grin. "As you command." He returned to his men, crying, "Havoc! Havoc!"

  We were betrayed, thought Carrara for the hundredth time. Of one thing he was sure. The Count of San Bonifacio would not leave this field alive.

  Cangrande slashed right and left, trying to get through the soldiers barring his path to the church. His deadly smile was unchanged, but his thoughts were grim. If Uguccione didn't get the signal soon, the city would fall.

  He heard, as he often did, his sister's voice in his head, scolding him. You always leave it too late, Francesco. You never think things through. You play your little games, have your theatrics, and forget what needs to be done!

  Well, dear sister, his mind retorted in a parody of conversation, if you think I am too tardy, why don't you take care of it yourself?

  His head came up as he heard bells. For an instant Cangrande della Scala was utterly, completely, totally stunned. Then he began to laugh, for he knew — knew — who was ringing the bells, giving the signal to the reserve army.

  He turned his horse about and spurred back to the line being held by the Nogarolese. There was nothing more for him to do now but fight.

  "It's got to be time," said Benvenito. "It's got to be! They've been in there for half an hour!"

  "Fifteen minutes, more like," replied Mariotto, looking at the rising sun.

  "I'm getting fed up with waiting," announced Bonaventura, not renowned for his patience.

  "He'll give us a signal," said Uguccione softly. "He said he'd give us a signal."

  As if in answer came the pealing of bells. Uguccione clapped his helm on his head and shouted, "On! On! Kill the bastards!!"

  Bonaventura was already off. Mari kicked his heels as, down the line, Antony did the same, his brother Luigi right behind him. Nico whooped as he dug his heels into his horse's flanks. They led their forces towards Vicenza, towards the unguarded rear of the Paduan army.

  The Count saw them come. Just moments before, he'd been waiting impatiently, his horse moving from foot to foot in reflection of his rider's mood. The young soldier he'd sent had come running back with the news that Carrara's men had entered the inner walls. Now they stood together on the wall of San Pietro, watching the army of Verona ride to the rescue.

  "Dear God," breathed the red-headed soldier. "What do we do?"

  "We can either warn Carrara or save our skins," replied the Count calmly. "Make your choice, son, and stick to it."

  Benedick looked down at the Paduans still outside the walls. "I have to fight."

  "Eager for victory?"

  The red-headed young man looked the Count in the eye. "I don't have a title, or land, or prospects. If I'm going to make a name for myself, I have to fight, and be seen fighting."

  "I admire your honesty, Signore Benedick. But let me point out that we are about to be routed. Fight a little, be seen by a commander or two, then melt away into the city. In a week return to Padua with a dramatic wound or two. You'll be a hero."

  Benedick looked at the Count with distaste, then ran off to join the battle. "Poor fool," muttered the Count. Despite the danger he was in, he began to laugh. Everything was going according to plan. The Scaliger had indeed gotten word and set a trap for the Paduans. Vinciguerra was actually glad. If Cangrande came through this battle alive, he would find it a most bitter victory.

  Katerina released the bell rope and stepped back, nodding to her servants to do the same. "That's enough." She was dressed in men's riding breeches and a shirt and doublet, her long hair hidden under a cap. She was no stranger to male garb, having adopted it often enough in her yout
h. Today it assured she would not be singled out while running through the streets. A woman in such a crush could easily become a hostage, or worse.

  Knowing the plan as well as any of the commanders, she'd recognized when things went awry. The fighting sounded too desperate, her husband too busy fighting to spare even the ten men it took to ring the alarum bell. So, leaving Cesco and little Bailardetto in the care of their nurse and Pietro's groom, she'd run to give the signal to the waiting army herself. It took all her servants' strength to pull the bells, with her own weight added to it. Now she looked at the cuts the rope had burned into her hands and cursed her brother.

  Francesco, where are you? Why are you not here, protecting your city, your heir.

  Like a wraith, she imagined his reply. If I wanted him safe, why leave him with you? You, who have left him alone.

  Hands beginning to shake, Katerina was filled with an indescribable premonition. "Quickly," she commanded, "back to the palace."

  Thirty-Four

  Pietro's men barely finished overturning a wagon across the mouth of the alley when the Paduans launched an assault. As Cangrande had predicted, they were focusing not on driving Bailardino's forces back but on circumventing them entirely. Just as the Persians had found the goat trails above the cliffs of Thermopylae, so too did the Paduans discover the alleys, all blocked by small forces like Pietro's, all under heavy attack.

  Filled with straw and nightsoil, the upturned wagon wasn't enough to hold back the soldiers who pressed forward, hoping to capture the glory of victory by beating down these paltry few defenders. Pietro ignored the growing ache in his bad leg as he stood in the gap between the wagon and the wall beating aside blade after blade. His horse was at the far end of the alley for a hasty retreat, but he hoped he wouldn't need it.