The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  At an easy trot Cangrande and his three companions rode up to the gate of Vicenza.

  Within minutes Cangrande was standing on the steps to the main palace in conference with Antonio Nogarola, a gruff man of medium height and rotten teeth. They were related by marriage and tragedy, these two families, the Nogarolese having tacked themselves firmly to the tail of the ascendant Scalageri star. Quickly Nogarola apprised the Scaliger of recent events. Eavesdropping shamelessly, Pietro thought he heard a reference to a cat and a mention of fishing rods. Then clearly he heard Cangrande ask, "Is she safe?"

  In response Nogarola pointed to the windows of the palace above them. "Within, giving orders to the servants. It was her idea to fire the houses in San Pietro."

  "Of course it was." Cangrande's voice was bemused. Pietro lost the next words as they turned to look up into the palace. Whatever Nogarola said, Cangrande merely shook his head in reply. "I brought about thirty men."

  "I've got about fifty who have horses and can ride them…"

  Apropos of nothing, Pietro realized where else he had heard the name Vicenza before. Back in school in Florence, he'd been examined beside the son of a rich Pisan called Vincentio. Probably meant he hailed from Vicenza originally.

  Pietro's ears pricked up as Cangrande and Nogarola turned back towards him.

  "...knows I'm here she'll do something foolish."

  "Such as?" inquired Nogarola.

  "Such as putting on breeches and a helmet and hiding among the knights. No, let her remain ignorant of my presence until after the battle. Is there any sign of our friendly saint?"

  "The Count?" Nogarola spat at the ground. "He's out there. Waved his flag and San Pietro fell over itself welcoming him. You'd think the San Bonifacio clan would be tired of opposing you. They keep losing."

  Cangrande shrugged. "It's in his blood."

  Nogarola's eyes scanned Cangrande's unlikely companions. He knew Mariotto, of course. Cangrande introduced Antony then pointed to Pietro. "Lord Nogarola, Pietro Alaghieri."

  "Alighieri — any relation to the poet?"

  Before Pietro could reply, Cangrande said, "Pietro appears to be his own man." A fresh set of horses arrived girded for war. "Come. Time to live forever in glory."

  Nogarola unclasped the scarlet general's cape from his shoulders and handed it to Cangrande. Just as he fixed it in place, an old woman emerged from a nearby doorway. She was visibly drunk, stumbling into the street. Cangrande scooped her into his arms and plucked the wineskin from her fingers. "Mother, con permisso." He quaffed it in one pull and with a twinkling eye handed it back, thanking her.

  The next moment he was kneeling. Those who saw the gesture likewise knelt to pray, the height of the crowd cut in half as man after man dropped to his knees.

  The Scaliger's sword scraped as he drew it from his scabbard. Laying the hilt against his forehead, the Capitano began a quiet prayer: "Ave, Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicat tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

  The omission of the single word et changed the tenor of the last line. The alteration was subtle, but significant. Now, in the hour of our death. Rising, Cangrande and Nogarola stalked off to give orders.

  Pietro remained where he was, struck dumb — not by the business with the wine or the prayer, but by what Cangrande had said. It was a wholly new thought, arriving breathless and filling shoulders, diaphragm, knees. Pietro had been taught from birth that his duty in life was to reflect well upon his father. For all his years, he'd endeavored to become the ideal son. That he might have succeeded never occurred to him. He constantly saw himself as a failure to both his father and his name.

  Seven words from Cangrande and a tangle in Pietro's liver was torn loose. In that moment Pietro Alaghieri began the process of emerging from his father's shadow.

  It was lost upon him that, in so doing, he passed into one even more dreadful.

  SIX

  Vicenza

  The evening sky was a glorious red as Count Vinciguerra of San Bonifacio viewed the shambles of the Paduan plan.

  The slaughter of the suburbanites had ended. That was the good news. The bad news was that the day was wasted, and with it all momentum and surprise. The citizens within the main gates were now girded for a siege. It was up to the Count to give them one. Ponzoni was useless. He couldn't get past the idea that the sacking should never have happened. Why couldn't the little pimple see that the only way to justify it was to take the city? A goal that the Count despaired of reaching with every hour that passed.

  It should have been so easy! They had more than enough men to storm the walls of the inner city and savage the guard. But the Paduan men-at-arms had dispersed, all semblance of discipline vanished. The glorious army of justice was now drinking and sleeping in the gardens surrounding the outer wall, using their armour for shade.

  Worse than the attack not moving forward, their army was vulnerable. No guards had been posted anywhere in San Pietro. Few of the nobles even wore their weapons, choosing instead to partake of the lesser knights' pleasures. A sea of excess stretched before the Count. Asdente's brutal methods were required here. God knew nothing else worked. But Asdente was nowhere to be seen, and weak-stomached Ponzino couldn't bring himself to become that sort of man — a man without honour. It was a damned nuisance that the army was saddled with a general who owned a conscience.

  Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio approached the one Paduan commander who had the authority to wrench them free of this mess. Giacomo da Carrara was standing with Albertino Mussato, historian and poet. For all the reported antipathy between those two families, they seemed amicable enough. A good move on Carrara's part. It was never wise to get on the wrong side of a writer.

  But Carrara was one to watch. This unflappable, unreadable man was on the rise. Three years before, there had been five noble families who stood united against the Pup. Murder and death removed two the next year, da Camino departed to assume the lordship of nearby Treviso, and Nico da Lozzo had defected. This left Carrara, or 'Il Grande' as he was known, standing alone in the field. It was he who had calmed Padua after the great internal upheavals of the past year. The Count could discern nothing in him beyond a profound patience and a great deal of steel.

  Not bothering to bow, the Count simply burst into their conversation. "It's time to intervene, before the whole day is lost."

  Carrara nodded. "Albertino was just saying something similar — though he used more words." Mussato snorted.

  The Count continued. "We've got to get Ponzino out of sight and tell everyone the orders he's issued."

  "He's issued orders?" asked Mussato.

  Carrara smiled. "I think Count Vinciguerra means that with him out of sight, no one can say he didn't issue them."

  Mussato cocked his head. "Are we sure the Dog isn't here already?"

  "Our spies say that not only is he home for his nephew's wedding, but that his puppet, Bailardino Nogarola, has gone to beg some help from Germany. The only one left to command is Nogarola's brother."

  "And the Dog's blaspheming bitch of a sister," spat the poet.

  The Count gazed steadily at Carrara. "You're the one he'll listen to."

  Another voice entered the fray. "And if we get him to hide in his tent, who will be issuing these orders?" Coming to stand beside his uncle, Marsilio da Carrara was darkly handsome. He stared at San Bonifacio, sour suspicion etched into his young face.

  "Marsilio." The elder Carrara's tone carried a warning note. "He's right."

  "He's Veronese! He's one of the Greyhound's men!"

  Giacomo barked out his nephew's name again, harshly, but the Count didn't require anyone to fight his battles for him. Not his personal ones, at any rate. "I am Veronese," said the Count equably. "There is no title I bear more proudly. My ancestors were grinding yours into dust in the days of the first Roman Republic. What I am not, boy, is the servant of some jumped-
up usurper. The Count of San Bonifacio is no one's minion. I am the scion of a great line. Call me a Scaligeri sympathizer again, and you'll be the last of yours."

  The boy's uncle edged closer, face grim. "We are all gathered here to put down Cangrande, nephew. We are allies in that cause. Now stop wasting time. We have work to do."

  Bonifacio lifted his helmet and placed it firmly on his head. It had been his father's helmet, and his grandfather's. Peaked and plumeless, its face guard didn't lower into place but closed like a gate on both sides. Wearing it, Vinciguerra looked like a cathedral, a wide form capped by a scarred silver steeple. Mounting his horse, he deliberately closed the cheek pieces, cutting off Marsilio's suspicious stare. "Let's go."

  With the connivance of the elder Carrara, they finally convinced Ponzino to return to his command tent, there to weep for his lost honour. Emerging, the Count and Il Grande gave orders they claimed originated with the Podestà. In minutes the necessary work was finally begun — the gates in the outer wall were undergoing a belated destruction, and guards were set around the perimeter of the camp, if not in the suburb itself.

  The Count collected what few men he could to continue the demolition of the gate south of San Pietro. He'd decided it would be easier to destroy the gate itself rather than carve a hole in the stone walls. It would take fewer men. Lord knew, there were few enough willing to work.

  Having found no time to sleep, he felt sluggish, dim-witted — twice he found himself listing right in the saddle while watching the dismantling of the great wooden and metal gates. Years ago a sword stroke had broken Bonifacio's leg. It had mended crooked, and on foot he was not sufficiently mobile. In the saddle, though, he was as capable as a twenty-year-old, which was all that mattered.

  Except now it was beginning to show. He never used to get so tired. Despairing of staying upright, Vinciguerra dismounted to lift an axe himself. It was not the gesture of unity and cooperation it appeared. It was to give him something to do, in the hope that action would keep him awake.

  He swung the giant axe into the wood near the lower hinge of the inner gate. More men were hacking at the outer set of gates on the other side of the stone archway. As he finished his next swing he paused to wipe sweat from his brow. It was hot. The clouds he'd spotted four hours before were still far to the east and provided no relief. He'd retrieved his plate armour from his tent, but had no desire to wear it. The solid breastplate and gorget lay within reach, as did his helmet, no doubt hot enough to burn naked flesh. He still wore the trousers with the wide metal bands to protect his legs, for they were harder to get on and off. It made his legs clatter slightly with each stroke of the axe, and his bad leg ached under all the weight.

  After a few minutes Young Carrara arrived. He took up an axe and began alternating strokes with the Count. Vinciguerra chose to find the teenager's distrust amusing.

  "We should post guards in the city," declared Marsilio angrily.

  "Truth!" replied the Count, swinging with added vigour.

  "We're too exposed here." Marsilio timed his stroke a little too close, nearly grazing the Count's axehead.

  "Mmm!" The Count swung so hard he had difficulty freeing the blade.

  Marsilio smugly checked his blow. "There's no one between us and the gate on the inner wall."

  "If you're worried about the lack of guards, why don't you go and keep a watch on the inner gates?"

  "Why don't you?" the youth shot back.

  The Count lifted his axe and swung. "I'm busy — trying to win this town for you."

  Fuming, Marsilio dropped his axe and walked over to speak to his uncle. Evidently Il Grande agreed, as together they mounted and rode north into the smoldering suburb, vanishing in a cloud of black soot and smoke. Good riddance, thought the Count, resting the axehead on the cobblestones and closing his eyes.

  His thoughts turned, as they invariably did, to the Pup. Cane Grande. The big dog. A name given when he was still a child. It wasn't until later that the people translated his nickname into the title he now employed: the Greyhound, mythic savior of Italy.

  What kind of man was this Greyhound, really? The Count thought he knew. An arrogant, impulsive, sport-loving, bloodthirsty son of a murderer, for all his shows of clemency and frugality. He claimed he cared nothing for money, yet he kept three hundred hawks for his pleasure, dressed in the finest clothes, ate and drank superbly well. Rumour had it he was none too faithful to his wife, either. His bastards littered Lombardy, though a delightful rumour said they were all girls.

  How did that sort of man lead his troops against all adversity? More important, why did they follow? What quality did he own? Was it bravery? Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio owned as much as the next man. What was it?

  The sound of voices lifted in song made him turn his head. Around a corner of the smoking suburb appeared Vanni Scorigiani leading a group of about sixty men, all carrying plunder — candelabra, sacks of silver, even an overstuffed seat with carvings of curled claws at the feet. No doubt these men, most of them from a condottiere of Flemings, had been hand-picked to do Asdente's plundering for him.

  Upon spying the Count, Vanni called, "Ho! Ho ho!" The Toothless Master was drunk. He attempted to dance a quick step on the cobblestones but hit his head on a blackened wooden sign hanging above him. Cursing, he drew his sword and unleashed a flurry of drunken blows on the offending slab of wood. The Flemish soldiers gleefully urged him on.

  Ill luck chose that moment for the Podestà to ride up. Having emerged from his tent against advice, he'd ridden with Albertino Mussato to see how the demolition was coming. When he saw Asdente, he looked like he was about to have a fit. "Scorigiani! What the hell do you think you're doing, man? Are you incompetent as well as cruel?"

  "Lord?" puzzled Asdente.

  At last the Podestà found a target for his frustrations. "You're drunk, man! Have you no shame? Here are men, gentlemen, men of high birth, doing the work of common labourers, while you drink and carouse with your pet mercenaries! What kind of man are you? Certainly no gentleman! You don't deserve your knighthood! This whole day has been a fiasco because of behavior like yours! We could own the city now if it weren't for the base impulses of your men! What have you got to say for yourself?"

  Asdente was sober enough to take offence. The Count watched as Vanni considered using his sword to rid them all of this jumped-up Cremonese who was so obsessed with dignity and honour that he couldn't lead his men. Of course, if Vanni did kill the Podestà, he'd be executed for murder. There were too many witnesses who could testify that it wasn't a proper duel. Mussato, the historian with a flair for the dramatic, was watching with interest. Ponzino didn't even have a sword. There was no way for Vanni to kill the weak-livered bastard and get away with it.

  Weighing the scales of intervention, the Count decided it would be worth Vanni's death if this enterprise could be led by a practical, competent man. Giacomo da Carrara would take charge, and though Il Grande had his honour, it never got in the way of hard decisions. So when Asdente moved forward with blood in his eye, the Count did not move.

  From somewhere nearby they heard the sound of hoofbeats. Two horses were pounding the stones towards them. Beneath that sound, a little further away, there came thunder. The Count glanced upwards. No, the clouds haven't moved. Yet the thunder continued, rumbling closer to them.

  The Count was so tired that it took several long moments before he recognized the sound for what it was — the echoes of a mounted force galloping down paved city streets.

  Vanni recognized it sooner. Besotted, honourless man he may have been, but he'd been a soldier all his life. Blind with drink, he ran to a nearby water trough and plunged his head in. Emerging, he quickly ordered his Flemings to abandon the trophies and draw their weapons. Trouble was approaching through the roiling cloud of smoke that enveloped the suburb.

  Seconds later Marsilio and his uncle Giacomo burst out of the cloud bank, scarlet faces matching their family's scarlet crest. "They're comin
g!" both men shouted. There wasn't time for anything more.

  Vinciguerra raced for his horse, tethered just inside the wall to the left of the arch. As he ran he reached out a hand and plucked up his breastplate from where it lay, scalding his fingers on the hot metal. All his senses were alert, his weariness banished in a rush of blood. Despite the horrid feeling of being unprepared, a strange gladness billowed up inside him. There couldn't be many attackers, only what the garrison could muster. Two hundred men, perhaps three. The Vicentines would ride out and attack, kill maybe as many Paduans. It was just the spur the Paduans needed. Anger at being taken unawares and a thirst for revenge would carry them through these attackers right on to the city gates. Those gates would fall and Vicenza would belong to Padua.

  The only task now was to stay alive long enough to see it. The Count was just turning his horse, armour dangling from his fingertips, when something emerged from the smoke. Expecting a horse, he was amazed to see a dog — a wiry black greyhound with teeth bared, jaws snapping. Tears streamed down its face from the smoke, making it appear even more awful.

  Then came the horse. At first only the legs were visible from out of the swirling black cloud, then a head emerged, a wide horse's head hidden by the leather and metal headpiece. The Count recognized the device between the eyes, below the single spike, as the Nogarola eagle.

  The next stride of the horse brought into view a giant in a billowing scarlet cloak. A silver helmet was fixed on his head, plumeless and fierce. He bore no shield, but wielded a huge mace with studded spikes. He was not the short, broad Antonio Nogarola. This knight was high as a mountain, towering over the beast he rode. Probably the family champion, if they had one. Who else would be using their armour and horses?