The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  "He's a coward," sneered young Mastino della Scala, inviting a clout from Guglielmo del Castelbarco.

  "Kill him, Carrara!" cried someone. Antonia twisted around to see a short fellow seated beside Ser Bonaventura. They looked related. She gave him a frosty glare, then returned to covering her eyes.

  Down in the Arena something drifted across the slit in Pietro's helmet. A snowflake. Calm and gentle, snow had begun to fall. If it got any heavier, it could be an aid, obscuring his actions from view. But he couldn't wait for the weather. Pietro touched his mount's left flank, turning it north. He'd lost all sense of where Marsilio was. Hopefully he'd gained a few steps. If not, his next move would see him killed.

  Turning his horse left once more, he yanked back on the reins. His horse was now almost broadside to the approaching Paduan, with Pietro's round shield protecting his body. Behind it, Pietro raised his blade and hacked down. To the crowd, it looked as if he were cutting off his own arm.

  "What is he doing?" shrieked Antonia again.

  Eyes fixed on the battle, Dante just shook his head.

  Pietro peered over the top of his shield. His opponent was approaching fast, and Pietro could almost hear the options register in Mariotto's brain. Pierce the shield with the spike, drag the axehead across it, or hook it again in the hope of stripping away Pietro's best defense. Carrara veered his horse to the right. He'd chosen the hook. It made sense. If Carrara dragged the shield away as he rode past, the strap on Pietro's shield would yank him out of the saddle, cutting him at the same time with the spike. A mollinello over Marsilio's head would then bring the axehead around into Pietro's chest, finishing him.

  Carrara choked up on the halberd's shaft, gaining a finer measure of control. A thousand voices shouted warnings at the boy cowering behind his shield, awaiting to the blow that would eviscerate him.

  Flexing his grip on his sword, Pietro prayed he was dexterous enough to pull off the move he'd conjured from his own pure brain. He heard the hooves and saw the snow rise in a gust of air created by the legs of Carrara's horse. There was a flash of steel as the hook swept in. Here it comes. Oh, God, please don't let me fail.

  The halberd's hook caught the edge of the shield. Riding from right to left Carrara used his mount's momentum to heave, expecting Pietro to be dragged uncontrollably forward with his shield, opening him up for the spike and axe.

  But Pietro didn't jerk forward. The shield came away from his arm easily. Severed by Pietro's own sword, the loose ends of the strap fluttered in the chill air.

  Pietro's blade was already in motion, beating away the halberd's spike with a clanging parry. Carrara felt his trailing halberd head leap up of its own volition, his right arm dragged up with it, exposing his side....

  "Look! Look!" cried Antonia.

  The stroke started on Pietro's left side and rounded his head in an arc that ended in a smashing blow to the Paduan's ribs.

  Marsilio was almost past his adversary when the sword impacted. The armour prevented Alaghieri's blow from severing flesh but it almost didn't matter. The force of it cracked several of Carrara's ribs. Marsilio retched and the crowd cheered as he spat blood.

  "Clever," breathed Guglielmo da Castelbarco in admiration.

  Nico da Lozzo slapped Dante on the shoulder. "Quite a son you've got there!" At the center of the balcony Bailardino and Morsicato were cheering loudly. The doctor roared, "Never seen anything like it!" The short fellow next to Bonaventura was booing loudly.

  But if Pietro had hoped to end the fight with that surprise move, he'd failed. His second stroke, a roversi at Marsilio's helmeted head, sliced only air. In the front row, Cangrande watched with a carefully imposed air of impartiality.

  Down on the pitch, Marsilio's left hand involuntarily went to clutch his dented armour as his horse pulled him away from Pietro's next stroke. In his right hand Carrara kept hold of the halberd, dragging it along behind him.

  Pietro cursed. He'd thought only so far and no further. Now he faced a halberd with only a sword to defend him. His shield lay uselessly on the ground, far out of reach. No clever moves left, he would have to rely on straightforward fighting.

  But Carrara hadn't turned his horse yet, was just now gripping his weapon with his second hand to brandish it anew. Spurring forward, Pietro took up position behind Marsilio, hoping to give chase as he himself had been chased just moments before.

  Now it was Pietro who was lured into position. Marsilio was a practiced rider, well used to tricks of the saddle. As his horse trotted away from the point of last impact, seemingly without direction, Carrara glanced back and cried, "Poor fool! One lucky blow and you think you actually stand a chance?"

  Head encased in his padded helmet, Pietro couldn't make out the words. Doubtless another taunt. He spurred harder, drawing closer, though not yet within his sword's reach.

  Ahead, Carrara slipped his right foot out of its stirrup. With a skill that bespoke of years of riding, he stood upright in his single stirrup. At the same time he dragged the spur of his right boot across his horse's flank. The horse turned into the cut, angling right. Instead of being pursued, Carrara's horse suddenly was at right angles with Pietro's.

  Hitching his right ankle on the wooden arcione at the back of his saddle, Carrara brought the halberd around, the axehead driving in for Pietro's breastplate.

  Pietro's sword was high, ready to release a vicious downward stroke. In desperation he drove the point down to catch the axehead whistling towards him, but nothing could parry the blow's force. The curved point of the axehead cracked against Pietro's shoulder, trapping his sword between the halberd and his chest. Pietro's forward momentum was stopped. His stirrups snapped. His horse rode on while he toppled through the air, heels towards the sky. He landed on the dirt with a crash that drove the air from his lungs.

  Dante was on his feet, screaming. Antonia was too breathless to echo him. Blessedly the nature of Marsilio's move made it impossible for him to turn his horse quickly, preventing him from delivering the killing stroke. He was halfway across the Arena floor before he was settled in his saddle once more. Antonia watched him heft his halberd and start back to where Pietro lay, unmoving.

  Though Dante did not, several people turned to the Capitano to plead him to halt the combat now. Marsilio had unseated Pietro. He could be declared the victor.

  Cangrande said nothing. All eyes returned to the fray.

  On the Arena floor, Pietro gasped for air, his head ringing inside his helmet. His left shoulder ached, but he was able to lift his arm above his head and wrench himself free from the metal bucket. He swallowed at the cold air that burned his bruised lungs. Blinking the dancing lights out of his eyes, he focused on breathing. A calm, resigned voice said, Lie still. The end will be quick.

  He agreed with the voice. There was nothing he wanted to do less than move. Yet he found himself turning his head. He saw the horse pounding across the dirt floor. Its path would trample him, even if Carrara's halberd didn't spear him to the ground.

  Don't move. Just relax. It will be quick.

  Pietro rolled onto his right shoulder and tried to stand, but his weak knee buckled under the weight of his armour. He fell forward, his left hand barely stopping him from crashing face-first into the dirt.

  See? You're just prolonging the inevitable. Don't move. It will only hurt for a moment, then you can rest.

  Over last night's bandage Pietro's hair was damp with sweat and new snow, making it cling to his eyes, obscuring his sight. I should have shaved my head. Through the haze Pietro could just discern Carrara's horse tossing up chunks of snowy earth a dozen yards away.

  His fingers found the helmet and suddenly the voice in his head changed. Do it! Don't think! Do it now!

  Discarding pain, Pietro pitched the helmet. Carrara easily ducked the missile, but he took his eyes off of Pietro for a split second. Pietro rolled across his good shoulder, propelled by his good leg. His blade rose in the montante sotto mano, a rising backhanded slash. He'
d never done it, only seen pictures. He had no hope of damaging the armoured horse. Instead he wanted to invoke the horse's training to leap upward and drive its hooves into an attacker.

  This the horse did. But Pietro had already checked his blow and was rolling again, clearing himself to the right of the deadly nailed hooves. Carrara's horse landed on empty ground.

  Pietro staggered to his feet. He'd succeeded in slowing Carrara's horse and confusing the Paduan, who now saw Pietro standing with brandished sword at the ready. Carrara brought his horse around again for another pass. The crowd booed him for remaining mounted against an unseated foe.

  At the far end of the Arena, Jacopo called frantically to his brother. He held a second shield in his hands, unscarred and ready. As tall as a man, with a spearhead at either end and a long pole running north to south, this shield was meant to be used on the ground, two-handed for defense and offense both. Jacopo was furiously debating whether or not to rush out into the center of the Arena and pass it to Pietro. He saw Pietro glance over at him. That was all the encouragement he needed. He dashed forward, into the fray.

  Pietro's glance backward was to be sure that Poco wasn't doing something foolish. Pietro felt he was in pretty decent shape, all things considered. His breath was coming back, he was armed. Carrara was still on his horse, but Pietro had an idea about that. The halberd wasn't too much of a worry, as long as Pietro didn't lower his guard.

  But here came his little brother playing the good little squire. Only there wasn't time! Carrara was beginning his next charge. There was no way Jacopo could get out onto the field, pass off the shield, and get clear in time.

  "Pietro! Pietro!" shouted Poco, though in greeting or in warning Pietro couldn't know.

  Carrara was closing in. With his free left hand Pietro waved Jacopo off. "Down! Down! Get back!"

  Jacopo ran faster. Pietro mentally cursed his little brother. They were both going to die. Carrara could trample them and claim it was a terrible mistake, the boy shouldn't have been out there.

  The savvy crowd redoubled its jeers for Carrara. Swearing aloud, Pietro did the single thing he knew he shouldn't — he turned his back on his attacker and ran to meet his brother. He heard Marsilio's sour laugh behind him as the Paduan spurred in pursuit.

  Pietro and Poco now had a single chance, one that hinged on Pietro reaching his brother before Carrara removed his head from his shoulders. Pietro's right leg was trembling and weak, ready to collapse at every step. Come on, damn you! You can hold up a little longer! Why couldn't Poco run faster? Remembering the split skin at the soles of his brother's feet, remnants of the foot Palio last night, Pietro thought savagely, I should have asked Antonia to be my squire!

  Antonia was watching the scene on the Arena floor in absolute terror, no longer able to turn away. The crowd made more noise than ever, most calling foul on Marsilio. Behind her, Bonaventura's friend was mocking the idiot squire that was running into a duel at the wrong time. She sent another withering glance his way, then silently urged Pietro on. Don't die, big brother! Do something!

  Pietro reached Jacopo barely five yards ahead of the charging horse. He was screaming something to Jacopo and waving his hand in the air. Apparently Jacopo understood, for he lifted the shield in both hands and flung it forward. In one move Pietro dropped his sword, caught the shield, and pivoted. Driving the spearhead at the bottom of the tall shield into the earth, he dropped to his knees. Jacopo slid across the dirt to shelter himself with his brother behind the shield's protection.

  The nobles on the balcony went hoarse crying their praise. Even Mariotto stood to cheer as Carrara's horse balked at the obstacle, veering to the side instead. Pietro caught the spike of Carrara's halberd on the shield and deflected it easily.

  "Oh thank God," breathed Antonia. The bastard behind her was booing again. She whipped around, unable to contain her annoyance any longer. "What is wrong with you?"

  The short fellow looked surprised. "What?"

  "Why are you rooting for a Paduan?"

  "Why shouldn't I?" he demanded hotly. "A Paduan fighting a Florentine? Neither one is Veronese." He gestured to Bonaventura, hooting and cheering beside him. "My cousin married a Paduan, so I'm supporting the family. Besides, Florence is a cesspit. Have you read what Dante said in his Inferno?"

  Antonia stared at him in disbelief. All she could think to say was, "That's my brother."

  Bonaventura's cousin shrugged. "Then you cheer for him."

  Petruchio Bonaventura smacked his cousin across the back of his head. "Ferdinando, show some manners!"

  "What, to her?"

  Resisting the impulse to hit the oaf, Antonia turned away. Down the balcony Nico da Lozzo was proclaiming, "This is the best fight I've seen in years!"

  Guglielmo da Castelbarco agreed. "After this, I'll back Alaghieri in any tournament he chooses!"

  Bailardino turned to address Giacomo da Carrara. "Your nephew likes his advantage."

  "He always had an eye for the easiest course," agreed the elder Carrara. "To my shame, if not his." He looked back towards the field of battle. "Not that it seems to be doing him good now."

  Under the deafening cheers, Pietro panted behind the shield's protective cover. "How am I doing?"

  "Getting your ass kicked," Jacopo grinned back.

  Pietro took a swipe at Poco's head, then gestured towards the far wall. "Get out of here!" He peered over his shield to where Carrara was pulling around again. "Now!" Jacopo ran while Pietro looked for where his sword had gone. It lay to his left, between himself and Carrara.

  The Paduan saw it too. He was slightly slumped after that last charge. Hopefully his ribs were hurting him. Seeing Pietro's discarded sword he jerked his reins, urging his horse forward. Pietro took a step, then saw it was hopeless. Carrara hadn't overshot him by much on that last charge, and he'd easily reach Pietro's lost weapon first.

  That might not be a bad thing. Pietro had the shield to defend himself, but more, this shield was designed to be a weapon as well. Gripping the haft in both hands he held it longways across his body. If Carrara wanted to charge again, he would have to leave the sword. If he wanted to grasp the weapon, he'd have to dismount and face Pietro on foot. Either was better than the current circumstance. Pietro had one weapon left on his body, the eight-inch-long silver dagger at his right hip — valuable only if he could close enough distance to use it.

  Surprisingly, Carrara chose to dismount. Perhaps the jeers from the seats ringing them had stung his pride. Holding the halberd in his left hand, he dropped to the ground directly over Pietro's lost sword. Reaching up, he drew his own sword from his saddle scabbard and fitted it into his gloved right hand. He swung it at the halberd's haft once, twice. The shaft splintered in two. Now the head of the halberd was a hand weapon.

  Sending his horse off to his waiting squire, Carrara advanced towards Pietro, brandishing both sword and halberd head. The helmet hid all Marsilio's features except the flash of teeth that emerged in the darkening glow of the winter evening. Puffs of white breath escaped the steel helmet like a dragon's breath.

  Pietro planted his feet, the right ahead of the left. That put his wounded shoulder at the back of the driving force, but that couldn't be helped. Besides, he'd always been told the power lay in the hips, not the arms.

  Carrara's first blow was, predictably, with the sword. The halberd head was awkward to use this way, unbalanced without the haft. Pietro caught the downward stroke easily, then beat the shield's right side forward to block the halberd's hook.

  But the clumsy hook was a feint. Pietro saw the sword driving down, trying to slip over Pietro's guard. Twisting hand over hand Pietro spun the shield around and sent the thrust into the dirt. There was the hook again, coming up under the shield this time. Now Pietro understood Marsilio's plan — attack with the sword and use the halberd to strip the shield away. Pietro would never have the opportunity to lift the shield to drive the bottom spearhead forward.

  Beating the hook away a
second time, he was already moving to block the sword stroke. He knew where it would fall and he caught it easily. If I can't use the spearhead I can still use the shield to attack. He glanced right. Yes, there was the hook again. Pietro caught the hook with a spearhead and flicked it upward. Before the next sword stroke could descend, Pietro pushed off his back foot and rammed forward with the shield, slamming into Carrara's body with all the force he could muster.

  Carrara kept his feet, though he did trip over Pietro's sword. Before he could recover, Pietro drove forward again, this time with the spearpoint at the bottom end of his shield. Marsilio sidestepped, bringing his sword around and forward to beat the point away. But the force of his own blow brought the other end of the shield into play. The side of the tall oval struck Marsilio in the shoulder above his wounded ribs. He staggered, dropping the halberd to clutch at his metal-sheathed side.

  Expecting a counter-attack, Pietro stepped back and picked up his sword. He hadn't expected Carrara to be so thrown by a single hit. When he looked up he knew he'd missed a chance to win the duel outright. Pietro thought about the sword in his hand and the tall, ungainly shield that would be impossible to manage singlehanded. He tossed it aside. He and Marsilio would face off sword to sword, point to point.

  To the crowd, Pietro's gesture of discarding his shield seemed the perfect act of chivalry. To the soldiers in the crowd, it was the practical action of a smart soldier. But Antonia was confused. "Why did he drop his shield? The spear on it has a longer reach!"

  "Too heavy," grunted Guglielmo da Castelbarco, eyes on the fray.

  "Good, mi filio," whispered Dante.

  Down in the pit, Marsilio and Pietro were circling each other. Each panted for breath, glad of the brief respite. Keeping his right shoulder low to ease the pressure on his ribs, Carrara pulled off his helmet as Pietro had done. "Are you — ready to finish — this, boy?"