by David Blixt
A bemused look crossed Morsicato's face, making his forked beard jut out at an odd angle. "Well, he's active. I'm always bandaging up his scrapes, setting a sprain. Loves to whack me with his little wooden sword."
"Me too," said Bail, mournfully rubbing his backside.
"He took to riding like he was born to it — swimming as well. And I think he's reading now. But he seems to best enjoy fiddling with machines and things, seeing how they work. Donna Katerina has this horizontal loom with foot pedals. Cesco took the thing apart when no one was looking, then watched as it was reassembled — thought it a tremendous joke."
"He's not the only one," said Katerina with a sour look at her husband.
"Well, it was damned clever!" protested Bail. "Anyway, since then Cangrande's been sending the imp puzzles — interlocked rings, that sort of thing. We're all thankful. They keep him occupied for hours at a time."
"I saw one puzzle," said Pietro. "I'd think he'd finish them quickly."
"He does," replied Bail. "He has an uncanny knack for them. But when he's done with one, he studies it. He's fascinated at how pieces fit together. And he likes showing them to his little brother."
"Is he sleeping more?"
Katerina sighed. "I'm afraid not. I don't know if it's nightmares or if he simply believes that the moment he falls asleep is when we bring in the dancing elephants. Sometimes I have to ask the doctor for a draught to help him sleep, though always as a last resort. But even with the potion he only rests four hours a night."
Bail put his hand over his wife's. "What she's not telling you, Pietro, is that he wakes up shaking every night. He won't tell us what his dreams are about, but it must be dreadful."
Dinner ended and Bail dismissed the servants. That was when they began to discuss the plans for the next day. Unsurprisingly, Katerina stayed to voice her opinions.
Pietro's main concern was the signal to Uguccione's troops. Bailardino told him, "Cangrande said we should ring the bells of the Duomo. It's close to where the fighting will be, and the Paduans will think it's an alarum, not a signal."
"But if it's that close to the fighting, won't we be in danger of being cut off from it? If that happens, how do we give the signal?"
"Won't happen," insisted Bail. "I'll station ten men inside and a dozen more to move in once the fighting starts. That bell tower will be the best-guarded building in the city."
"How will they know when to give the signal?"
"I'll ride over and tell them myself."
Pietro glanced at Katerina. "Are you sure the people at the palace will be safe? Wouldn't you rather get Donna Nogarola and the children out of the city for the day?"
"Of course he would," said Katerina before her husband could respond. "But I would not leave without shackles, a gag, and a blindfold." She ignored Bail's ribald response. "This is my home. No one will force me to leave it. Besides, the Paduans doubtless have spies in the city. Any one would give us away. No, our preparations seem adequate."
Katerina departed soon thereafter. Pietro, Morsicato, and Bail stayed up for a while playing at dice. Morsicato lost badly, and promised to pay up if he survived the next day.
Sometime before midnight Pietro returned to his room. Fazio was asleep on his pallet by the door, though he woke hazily to ask if Pietro needed anything. "No, go back to sleep."
Pietro stripped and climbed beneath the covers of his own fine bed. The combination of wine and fatigue washed away the fears of what tomorrow might bring. It was a hot night, and he decided to sleep without coverlet. After a quick but devout prayer, he fell almost instantly asleep.
Pietro was scrambling down a rocky slope towards a river. It was like the shores of the Adige, but past landslides had left giant stones lining the water's edge. There was a ferocious black hound by Pietro's legs. Together they ran from something terrible that bellowed behind them, hurling stones at their heads. Only if they crossed the river would they be safe.
A battle was being fought by the river's far edge. Centaurs lined up two at a time. They did not fight with bow and arrow, as centaurs should. They were using strange curved swords that flashed and danced through the air in unceasing arcs. Blood showered the air. As soon as one centaur was slain, another would step forward to take his place in an unending procession. Beyond the centaurs naked men writhed and danced in the river, some up to their ankles, others only visible by the tops of their heads.
This was not the Adige. It was blood red and on fire. A burning river of blood.
The scene altered, the way dreams shift of a sudden. They were still above the fray, the battle raging on below them, the river flowing on. But Pietro no longer stood on the detritus of the earthslides. He was on the Scaliger's balcony in the Arena.
The dog beside him had turned into a young man. Without turning to his companion Pietro said, "We're safe now."
Speaking had been a mistake. The centaurs all paused midstroke, their heads turning to look up. One cried out, "A qual martiro venite voi che scendete la costa? Ditel costinci!" Another pointed to Pietro and shouted, "Siete voi accorti che quel di retro move ciò ch'el tocca? Così non soglion far li piè d'i morti!" There was an ugly growl from the centaurs. Even the bloody corpses on the Arena floor turned their heads.
Pietro's companion held up his hands to forestall the impending violence. "It is true. He is not dead! I am his guide here, at the request of la Donna Katerina."
Pietro suddenly knew he was dreaming, because he knew this scene. It was from his father's poem. He relaxed, knowing how this scene was supposed to play out. He would climb onto the back of one of the centaurs and ride across the river.
But his companion was not Virgil. Turning, he saw Cesco gazing disdainfully back at him. The boy's hair was no longer blond but brown, worn so long it hung well past his neck. He was also taller, thinner, more muscled. But the eyes were the same unearthly green. "Who were you expecting?"
Pietro gazed at the face that was level with his own. "A god. Or a poet."
"Granted in both!" Cesco grinned, showing long canine teeth that were very unlike those of Cangrande. A ring dangled on a chain from his neck.
Suddenly Cesco faced the centaurs and, with a shrill cry, leapt off the balcony. Snatching up a fallen sword, he laid about him right and left. All the idle centaurs leapt forward, determined to kill the youth who ran like lightning through their ranks. Fighting with spinning strokes Pietro had never seen, Cesco cut a swath to the river. At its edge he turned. "Are you coming?"
"Mercurio!" called Pietro, looking for his hound. "Mercurio!"
"'Twill serve!" shouted the warrior-child, laughing aloud as he killed one centaur after another. "Si Dieu ne me veut ayder, le Diable ne me peut manquer!"
Pietro noticed that the boy was fighting one-handed. His left hand clutched a white cloth to his chest. The white cloth was turning red…
Pietro jerked awake. He was bathed in sweat, could smell the fear on his body.
"Master?" said Fazio from across the dark room, "Are you hurt? I heard a cry."
"It was n-nothing." Hands fumbling for a blanket, Pietro's teeth were chattering in spite of the heat. "Ah, a b-bad dream, nothing more. Don't — don't worry. Go back to sleep."
Pietro waited until he heard Fazio's breath ease once more. Then Pietro swung his feet to the tiled floor and sat, his head in his hands.
Nerves, that's all. I'm afraid for the battle tomorrow — today, probably. I'm not an oracle or a prophet, my dreams don't come true.
But the truth was he'd had a dream like this one before. Three years before, the very day he was wounded, he'd lain in a room in this very palace and dreamt almost the same dream. It was only now that it came back to him. Was it some kind of portent?
It's a sign, all right. It's a sign I've read father's poem too many times. L'Inferno has eaten into my brain. This has nothing to do with tomorrow.
Still, as he laid his head to rest once more he recalled the dream Cesco's final words: If God won't help me, t
he devil won't fail me. An apt phrase for the coming dawn.
THIRTY-TWO
Vicenza
22 May 1317
Feeling unrested, Pietro awoke to a light tapping on the door to his suite. Fazio was up quick as a snake to answer it. Outside were Morsicato and Bailardino, with a few servants behind them. The doctor was wearing armour. Pietro stood and shook his head clear. Pulling on his breeches he said, "What time is it?"
"About two hours before dawn," said Bailardino. "Time to armour up and gather your men."
Fazio made for the chest that contained Pietro's armour, but Pietro stopped him. "Not today." He pointed to the servants bringing in another chest. As they lit the tapers about the room, Bail threw back the lid of the trunk, revealing another set of armour, much more worn than Pietro's. The helmet sat on top, a peaked dome with gilded metal rings providing the protection for ears and neck. Underneath it lay the breastplate. This was both gilded and plated in sliver, the two shimmering colours acid-etched into fantastic flowery swirls. At the center were two stars in opposition. For some reason, Pietro found this troubling.
"Gaudy, isn't it?" Bail was grinning at Pietro's expression. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to swallow your pride and wear the awful thing for at least a few hours."
Pietro slipped a shirt over his head. "It's not that. How am I going to fit it? He must be built like a wall!"
Bail snapped his fingers and the servants began strapping padding to Pietro's midsection. "Oh, this is good," he groaned.
"Don't knock it," said Morsicato from the door. "Many knights would kill for extra protection."
"Most knights would get killed in extra protection," retorted Pietro.
The breastplate was put in place, then the codpiece, followed by the arm and leg greaves. As he helped Pietro fit on the gloves, Fazio asked, "Whose armour is this?"
Bailardino chuckled. "It's the armour abandoned by Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio when he fled Vicenza three years ago. The Scaliger's been saving it for just such an occasion. When the invaders get to the gates they'll see a friendly face beckoning them in. Everything will be as inviting as possible."
Fazio nodded thoughtfully, then asked Pietro, "But why give it to you, ser?"
Pietro patted his leg. "Because the Count and I share a limp. We both list a little in the saddle. It will make the disguise that much more effective."
Fazio looked into the empty trunk. "Is there armour for me?"
"No," said Pietro. "No, don't argue. You're staying at the palace. I don't want to have to explain your death to the Scaliger's wife. Now help me get down the stairs."
Bail wished him good luck, then did the same for the doctor — it had been decided the night before that Morsicato would join Pietro's band of soldiers. Bail wished he could as well, but Katerina had pointed out that the Paduans were sure to have spies in and around the palace. If he were to disappear moments before a 'surprise' attack, the whole thing might fall apart.
The hardest part of leaving the palace was convincing Mercurio to stay behind. The hound sensed something was afoot, but he was a hunter, not a war dog. Eventually they were forced to lock him in a side chamber without windows.
When Pietro, Morsicato, and Fazio emerged from a side entrance to the palace, the sky was still dark. So when a shadow beside the door moved every man drew his sword. "Who's there?" demanded Pietro in a whisper.
He was answered by a rasping voice scraped from a friendly throat. "The Arūs."
Pietro lowered his blade as the Moor stepped close. He was dressed in some kind of eastern battle gear, lighter and quieter than theirs. Pietro sheathed his sword and took the hand the Moor offered him. "I hope you brought that falchion of yours."
"Don't be nervous, Ser Alaghieri. You will not die today."
Pietro let out a short laugh, half hope and half disbelief. "My stars said that?"
"They did."
"What about me?" demanded Morsicato.
The Moor looked at the face under the nondescript armour. "Is that the doctor's beard I see? My apologies, ser dottore, but I did not consult the heavens for you."
"Marvelous," muttered the medical man.
As they resumed walking, Pietro apologized for drawing his sword. "I'm a little jumpy today. I had this dream last night…"
Theodoro's brow furrowed. "Tell me."
"Oh, it was nonsense." Yet Pietro took time describing it.
The Moor was quiet for a moment, then said, "That's from your father's poem. The descent among the violent."
Pietro noted the Moor's grasp of Dante's work. But he was feeling foolish for even mentioning it. "It was nothing."
"You recall the proverb regarding early morning dreams?"
Pietro did. They were the ones that most often came true.
The Moor was pensive. "Perhaps I should not go with you."
Morsicato said, "Afraid? Do your stars say you won't die today?"
The Moor looked at the doctor with a level gaze. "The dream indicates danger to the boy."
Fazio piped up. "You should stay with Ser Alaghieri. What if he needs you?"
"I'll be fine." Pietro wondered if his voice carried any conviction. The truth was that he liked the idea of that wicked falchion covering his back.
The Moor said, "Someone needs to look after Cesco. Just to be certain he's safe."
Fazio puffed out his chest. "Why not me? You won't let me fight, but I'm fourteen. I'll be a man next year. I can watch over him."
"That might answer," allowed the Moor.
Pietro considered. "Very well. Take Mercurio, Cesco likes him."
Fazio saluted. "I won't let the boy out of my sight!" He rapped on the door and was readmitted by a Nogarola servant.
"A good solution," said Morsicato. "Keeps him busy."
"I hope so." Pietro led the way to the stables that housed his soldiers, all soundly asleep. Someone groaned, "What time is it?"
"What's the matter?" asked a veteran, snapping awake at the sight of Pietro in full armour.
Pietro cleared his throat. "Today, we have — that is to say — ah…"
Morsicato stepped forward into the light of the single taper. "There's a plot to take the city. Word has reached the Podestà this morning that the Paduans are planning an attack." He glanced at Pietro, who added, "I've offered our services to defend the city. So, ah, arm yourselves. Quickly."
They were already moving, throwing open their packs. Even the least experienced ones worked with a minimum of fuss, helping each other with chain mail and gauntlets, swords and pikes.
Pietro spent a few moments stroking his palfrey's long head. "Sorry, but today's work is for Pompey." He used a small stool to clamber onto his destrier's back. "Is everyone ready?"
"Yes!" The son of Pietro's neighbour was anxious for his first battle.
The Moor stepped into the light. "Don't be too eager."
"Who the devil is that?"
"A heathen!" All the men wheeled about to draw weapons.
Pietro put his horse between them and the Moor. "He's with us!"
One veteran looked horrified. "You want us to fight side by side with a back-stabbing Moor?"
"As long as he's beside you he can't stab you in the back, can he?" countered Pietro. "Look, there's no time. You trusted me with your lives. I trust him with mine. That should be enough. Now let's get moving."
At that moment the enemy was scaling Vicenza's walls. Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, led his small army of mercenaries and exiles up the battlements of San Pietro, repeating the action he'd taken three years earlier. Reaching the top, the Count's men quickly secured the turrets and made their way to the guardhouse. The guards put up no resistance, moving aside to allow the invaders access to the gates. The Count looked about him in delight. Whatever today brings, within a month the Scaliger will be no more.
As promised, his sympathizers within the walls cheered the returning exiles. The Count saw a large man with dark skin and a floppy hat leading t
he citizens in their repeated brays for the invading force. Other citizens, seeing which way the wind was blowing, began slipping north or east, away from where a battle loomed. They would wait, expecting the Scaliger to again miraculously appear and rescue their city.
The Count, too, was hoping for Cangrande to come. He had a special treat in store for the wily lord of Verona.
In the meantime, he had a job to do. He had his men lash ladders to the battlements, making it a chore for the Vicentines to dislodge the invaders. As he beat the lax with the flat of his blade he glanced downwards and saw the man in the floppy hat disappearing around a corner. Excellent. He's off to spread the word. We're coming.
At the base of a hill just south of the city, Marsilio da Carrara waited for the Count's signal. Carrara was uneasy. It wasn't the impending battle. It was the Count's manner. The old bastard had seemed positively overjoyed to have Marsilio with him. Why?
That the Paduan Anziani had come to Marsilio and not his uncle was a measure of how his stature had grown — Vicenza, the Palio, the duel, a few skirmishes with Treviso last year — all marked him as the first in the new generation of Paduan nobles. When they'd presented this plot to him, Carrara had approved every measure except the involvement of the exiled Vinciguerra. But the plan relied on the Count. To counter-balance this, Marsilio insisted on picking his men, his place of hiding, and his own time to attack; on being present for every war council; and on reading over Vinciguerra's every order before it went out.
Like a beaten man, Vinciguerra had agreed. "Marsilio, I'm an old man. I've given up the hope of ever seeing Verona again — unless I'm in chains, and I'll die before I let that happen. But I can live to see Vicenza stripped from the Pup. For that, I need your help." He'd stood there, humble, begging for Marsilio's help. Knowing his uncle would never have approved, Carrara had decided it was worth the risk.
Still, he'd been suspicious. So he'd given the Count a new shadow, one that trailed him to secret meetings around Padua, assignations at a house and at a church in the countryside. Carrara had laughed aloud when he'd discovered the Count was just keeping a mistress as well as his childless wife. Randy old goat. If that was the extent of Bonifacio's deceiving, a broken man's solace, then the attack could go forward.
