Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “Are you telling me that you’re in Hell?” asked Cangrande.

  “Nothing so prosaic. Purgatory, perhaps.”

  Cangrande changed direction. “We can end your training at any time. You need only ask.”

  “Beg, you mean.”

  “Ask. Just ask.”

  “Then I guess I’m truly damned. Let’s get on with this.” Leaping forward, Cesco was instantly knocked flat on his back again.

  Cangrande helped him up, laughing. “Never tell your enemy your intention. Not even for dramatic emphasis.”

  Cesco wanted to use the pause to close his eyes and rest. Instead he threw himself into a cartwheel and renewed his former stance. “Again.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Padua

  Marsilio da Carrara had a headache, and that headache’s name was Niccolo da Carrara. His cousin was on him at first light, badgering relentlessly about this or that. The German cavalry were complaining that Niccolo had taken one of their horses without paying. It was a damned lie, he’d won that piece of horseflesh in a bet. And the members of the Smith’s Guild were grousing about the extra tax Niccolo had seen fit to levy when they were insolent to his son Giacomo. And then there was Marsilio’s sister, Cunizza, who was making eyes at the stable boy. Niccolo insisted Marsilio do something about that. And when was Marsilio going to recall Ubertino?

  Who would have dreamed it would come to this? Six years ago, when Marsilio’s uncle had been invested with supreme power in Padua, who could have guessed the stress would kill him? Who would have imagined that, inheriting his uncle’s power, Marsilio would find it a paper power – impressive sounding, but effectively meaningless. He had no way to enforce his will, and had been forced to beg for foreign troops to keep Verona out, thus declaring his impotence to the world.

  At last Marsilio understood his late uncle’s admiration for the Scaliger. Far from loathing Cangrande, Marsilio longed to know his secret. How does he do it? How does he hold sway over a whole nation? A growing nation, with disparate peoples, all bound by a single man’s will. Were the Veronese less ornery than Paduans? Or was Cangrande simply a better man? That thought kept Marsilio awake at night.

  Walking from his palace to the city offices, surrounded by guards, clients, and other licker-fish, Marsilio felt very alone. Still, he made certain he looked impassive, controlled. He even waved to the commoners, who received his greetings with their own impassivity. I don’t need them to love me, but for God’s sake, don’t let them despise me!

  Still waving, his own sleeve caught his eye. Embroidered on it was the Carro , four spoked wheels on a tripod, the Carrara family crest. I should have it changed to a single wheel. The Scaliger has only one ladder. He is the be-all and the end-all. Whereas I am what my crest makes me – just another cog in the family machine.

  Reaching the center of the public square, Marsilio waited as his guards cleared a crowd of petitioners out of the way. In the crush of people, someone brushed hard against Marsilio. It was the kind of thing that people in Padua died for these days. But in the throng Marsilio couldn’t quite see who had done it.

  There was something in his hand. The fellow must have put it there. Marsilio held up his hand and saw a scrap of paper with writing on it.

  The hairs at the base of Carrara’s neck began to prickle. It wasn’t idle curiosity that made him read the note there and then. It was the instinct of a man who had read his history. Caesar had been handed a note and declined to promptly read it. Ten minutes later, Caesar was lying on the floor of the Pompey’s theatre, pouring forth blood. The lesson was clear.

  Marsilio da Carrara unfolded the note and read:

  Arm. Dente is coming.

  Scrawled at the bottom was a rude symbol.

  “Niccolo, we’d better —” He heard the sound of thunder low to the ground. He’d heard it once before, long ago, in Vicenza. That day he had barely kept his life, losing instead a great deal of pride. But he’d known then what he knew now. Pride was no use to a dead man.

  Forgetting the order on his lips, Marsilio began shouldering men aside until he had room to run for his life, not pausing until he reached the mouth of an alley. Glancing back, he saw Paolo Dente, armed and on horseback, bearing a flag with a red cross on white field. It was a banner Marsilio had carried a hundred times, the banner of Padua. Behind Paolo and Vitaliano Dente were other faces – Giovanni Camposampiero, Schinello, Maltraverso, Abbot Gualpertino and his sons. All were shouting the same refrain: “Death to the House of Carrara!”

  As his men engaged the traitors, Marsilio ran down the alley and out the other side. At first he was afraid they had cut off the square before entering it, but no, this was not a military maneuver. This was civil revolt. They were trying to murder him and rally the people in one fell swoop.

  In his hand he clutched the four word note that had saved his life. Thanks and God keep you, unknown author! He didn’t know what to think of the symbol, and didn’t have time to care. Tucking the note into his shirt, he ran down the street to the first friendly house he could find.

  Ironically, the house belonged to another Schinello – or rather, Schinella. But this one was a Carrara confederate. Leaping and grasping, Marsilio propelled himself headfirst over the wall and ran into the house. There he found Schinella da Dotto rising from breakfast.

  “Schinella, quick, I need a horse!”

  Thirty-Nine

  Things were going well for the Dente faction. In Padua’s central piazza, the Carrarese guards fell back under the surprise onslaught. Dente horsemen broke the knot of Carrara’s men, and the foot took them apart, disarming those who didn’t insist on dying. Best of all were the cheers of the citizens, who had taken up Paolo Dente’s cry, “Death to Carrara!” The coup seemed to be fact already.

  After cracking a few skulls, Pietro and Nico looked about for another target, but there was no one left. “Cowards!” Nico grinned at the blood on Pietro’s sword. “Thank God you aren’t your brother.” Poco had been a squire under da Lozzo’s tutelage, and had failed spectacularly in his duty.

  Pietro hadn’t lost sight of their purpose. “Where’s Marsilio? Did they get him?”

  Looking around for Marsilio’s body, Nico shrugged. “Don’t see him.” As Gualpertino galloped past, his mace spotted with gore, Nico hailed him. “Carrara?”

  “Escaped, damn him!”

  The abbot’s dismay was justified. The goal had been to kill Marsilio da Carrara in the first moments of the revolt. Alive, Marsilio could rally his men. Immediately Nico said, “Which way?”

  “We don’t know! His cousin Niccolo ran down there,” he pointed to a side street, “but Marsilio wasn’t with him!”

  As Nico cursed, Pietro said, “Where’s Dente?”

  “Chasing Niccolo! You two help secure the square! We’ll spread out from here. Marsilio can’t be far. If he leaves the city, it’s as good as ours! God knows, he has to fight now or lose it forever!”

  There was a commotion down the alley where Dente had gone, and they heard the ugly music of swords meeting swords. Instantly Gualpertino swung his horse’s head around towards the sound. Pietro and Nico took off after him on foot.

  The mouth of the alley was a slaughter, far bloodier than the square. The Dente and their fellow knights were hacking away at someone on foot. Pietro couldn’t see past the horses, but it had to be Marsilio’s cousin making a stand with whatever men he had left.

  Pietro had an idea. Tugging Nico’s arm, he dashed right, away from the alley. Opening the first door he found, he swung his sword inside to clear anyone in his path, then barreled into the building.

  Nico trotted along beside him. “Where are we going?”

  “Thermopylae!”

  Nico nodded. The Persians at Thermopylae had used goat-paths to get behind the defending Spartans. In this case Pietro and Nico would find the rear door to this building and come at Niccolo da Carrara from behind.

  It was some sort of civic office, peopled with clerks and
scribes. One brave soul came forward to protest, and Nico cracked him on the skull with his staff. That ended any attempt at intervention.

  Pietro saw a large shuttered window at the back. “There!” Prying it open, Pietro stuck his head out and looked left towards the back end of the alley where Niccolo da Carrara was fighting hard, furiously swinging a stolen a pike at Dente faces. His men-at-arms, though daunted, refused to leave him.

  “Come on! Let’s go!” Nico pushed Pietro forward.

  Pietro had one leg over the windowsill when he heard hoofbeats from his right. He turned just in time to see a dozen men riding for the alley’s mouth.

  At their head was Marsilio da Carrara.

  Pietro yanked his leg back inside a second before the horses crashed by. Had he been in the street, he would have been trampled under foot.

  Seeing the reinforcements, Marsilio’s cousin dove to one side, allowing the Dente forces into the open just as Marsilio’s men arrived. The two sides fell upon each other’s necks with screams and orders.

  Pietro took another look right. Ten loyal Carrarese foot soldiers were racing up to swell Marsilio’s numbers. Pietro and Nico hopped over the sill and took up a stand facing them.

  “What was that about Thermopylae?” asked Nico lightly, then let out a war-whoop and began swinging his staff, forcing the Paduans back.

  Pietro took a defensive stance to Nico’s right, protecting the more exposed side as Nico used his staff to good effect. Tip and butt twirled in blurring arcs, rattling skulls and sweeping legs.

  Like Nico, Pietro knew the wisdom of circular motion, and kept his sword moving in repeated molinelli, arcing twists and turns, the blade never stopping. By not using the tip he was less likely to kill, but, being outnumbered, it was better to wound several and stay safe than kill one and be exposed.

  Engaged, Pietro couldn’t look behind him. If any one of Marsilio’s horsemen disengaged from the scrum at the alley’s mouth, he and Nico would be easy pickings. But that was out of his hands. He had to prevent these men from aiding Marsilio. “Come on! Come on!”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  San Bonifacio

  “Molinelli are pretty,” instructed Cangrande. “But they aren’t threatening unless you can hide your intent, where the blow will finally fall.”

  They had moved on to swordplay, the Scaliger teasing Cesco by simply stepping back from his attacks. Cesco had responded by advancing fast, whipping his blade in circles. “So no dramatic flourishes, you mean.”

  “Precis—” The Scaliger was cut off mid-word by the fall of Cesco’s blade towards his neck. Cangrande fended it off, and the next, and the next, before stepping out of reach. “Better. Your arm-strength is improving. Keep at it and you may be able someday to cut through something thicker than air.” He wasn’t allowing practice with a short gladius anymore. Cesco was now using a real longsword, as his aching shoulders testified. “Define the molinello, please.”

  “Literally, like a windmill,” answered Cesco dutifully, still on guard. “It’s a pivot of the blade from shoulder, elbow, or wrist, creating a circular motion, over the head, or either inside or outside the lines of attack. See?”

  “Yes, you’re very good at making circles in the air. Now why don’t you try naming the Thirteen Guards.” Without any more warning that that, Cangrande swung his own blade, bringing it across hard towards Cesco’s leg.

  Cesco blocked, the blow rattling all the way up his arms to his head. Obediently he named the position his hands were in. “Porta Ferra!” The Iron Door.

  The next blow was already falling towards his exposed neck. Keeping the point low, Cesco twisted his wrists and brought the weapon up and over his right shoulder. “Donna sovrana!” The Queen.

  Expecting another attack, Cesco wasn’t prepared for his teacher to back away. Cangrande kept his blade moving, performing his own series of malign molinelli. “What would you say is man’s greatest ambition?”

  Once Cesco might have said, Immortality. Now his answer was quite different. “A full belly.”

  Circling his pupil, Cangrande looked amused. “Not a full head?”

  “A stuffed head is nothing if you cannot use it for something. A stuffed belly comes—” He parried the blow before he even knew the blade was snaking towards him. “Dente di cinghiale.” The Wild Boar’s Teeth. “As I was saying, a stuffed belly comes first.”

  The Scaliger’s molinelli continued as if the blow had never happened. “I think your present existence is colouring your perspective. Man must aspire to things greater than mere survival.”

  “Without survival, there is nothing else.”

  “Does that mean there is nothing—”

  “Breve!” The Short Guard.

  “— nothing worth dying for? This, in an age when men dream of the right kind of death.”

  “Is that what you dream of, death? I’m sure there are many who would be willing to oblige.”

  “Doubtless. But only a fool ignores death.”

  “Call me a fool—” began Cesco.

  Cangrande lunged, but as Cesco made to guard pulled his weapon back. “Fool.”

  “—but I’ve never seen the point. Death is the necessary end, it comes when it comes.”

  “Ah, but when it does,” countered Cangrande, “what kind of death will it be? Will it be a good death, or a bad one?” As if to demonstrate, he lunged again.

  “Coda lunga e distesa!” Long and Stretched-Out Tail. Cesco adopted an admonishing tone. “You’ve been reading one of the Ars Moriendi.” These were the popular instruction guides on ways to die, and how to face the end when it came.

  “Actually I’ve been thinking of penning one. But since you’re the poet’s pet, perhaps I’ll have you write it in my name.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Cesco lightly. “Since I have no intention at all of dying.”

  “Ah, the cocksureness of youth. I once had no thought for death. But its shadow falls across every man at some time. Even you.”

  Now it was Cangrande who was unable to resist dramatic emphasis. Cold steel sliced the air, and Cesco was driven down to one knee as he caught the blow in a parry over his head. “Falcone!” He angled his blade to let Cangrande’s sword slide down his back, then took a small swipe at the Scaliger’s legs. “Falcon guard. Are you trying to tell me something?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Padua

  The irony was greater than Cesco knew, for at that moment Pietro was using the Falcon Guard to fend off a blow from above.

  He and Nico had fared well, wounding all but three of the foot reinforcements. But the thing he had feared had come about. One of Marsilio’s horsemen had seen the fighting up the street and come to dispatch the two fools in Dente livery.

  Pietro heard the clatter of hooves an instant before the sword came at his head. His own sword flicked up, a rising wall of steel, pushing off the horseman’s blade, but without the reach to unseat the bastard.

  To his right, Nico was fending off the remaining trio with a flurry of blows from both ends of his staff. Pietro shouted, “Nico! Trade!”

  Without hesitation, Nico rolled around Pietro’s back and swung his quarterstaff at the horseman’s head. Pietro stepped into Nico’s place and cut across one man’s arm with a brutal stroke. Both the others attacked, but one seemed to fall of his own volition. Perhaps he tripped over his sword. Parrying the other’s strike, Pietro stepped in close, corps à corps, swords joined at the hilt.

  The Paduan who had tripped wasn’t rising, but the one with the wounded arm laughed and raised his sword to cleave Pietro’s skull. Left-handed, Pietro grabbed the arm of the nearer one and twisted it upwards, raising his own sword at the same time, so that their combined blades formed a V to neatly trap the third man’s descending blade in its crook.

  Pietro hooked a knee, wresting the sword away as he fell, then spun around, swinging both swords at the last man standing. The Paduan managed to block the first strike, but the second cut deep enou
gh to shatter the man's femur.

  While he couldn’t leave an uninjured man at their backs, Pietro was unwilling to kill a fallen foe. Instead he cracked the least injured man on the skull with his pommel, then stepped on the other’s broken leg. The Paduan’s scream seemed unnecessarily angry, though it was probably asking too much to be recognized as merciful.

  Spinning, Pietro saw Nico’s foe on the ground and Nico himself now in the horse’s saddle. “He just fell! Not a horseman, I guess. Always said I’d rather be lucky than good.”

  “Helps to be both,” observed Pietro, breathing hard.

  The mêlée in the alley’s mouth was still contested, neither side winning. “Shall we?” Nico kicked his spurless heels.

  Hobbling after in the best run he could manage, Pietro watched Nico smash his stolen horse sidelong into two Carrarese, clubbing one from behind, striking the other full in the throat.

  Then Pietro spied Marsilio, who wasn’t even fully armoured. Nor was his horse. Damning his leg, Pietro forced himself to run harder.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  In the middle of the tumbling crush of men and horses, Marsilio da Carrara hacked and slashed, a sword in his right hand, an axe in his left. Standing in the stirrups, he fought now for more than his country. He fought for his life, his name, his honour. He fought like the Devil himself was breathing down his neck.

  That sensation took on an added urgency when he heard a scream from behind him. Someone was attacking their rear. Oh no, you won’t! he thought, wheeling his horse about to face the backstabber.

  It was a limping man in Dente’s livery. Not even a knight. The fellow obviously had delusions of grandeur. Marsilio stabbed, twisting the blade as he did so to open a deeper hole in the idiot.

  To his surprise, his thrust was easily parried and he found himself unexpectedly defending a slice at his leg. So, you think you know something! Marsilio brought the axe into play, beating the other’s sword aside while his own sword drove in for the kill.