The Master of Verona

Twelve

Pietro cracked the door to his father's room. Dante and Poco were both asleep. Pietro crept as best he could to a trunk in the corner, imagining the picture he made, a limping thief with a crutch. Opening the trunk was so noisy he gave up on secrecy and went for speed.

Sure enough, Poco sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for breeches." To prove his point he held up the trousers he'd found in the dim brazier light.

"Why?"

"I'm going riding." Telling Poco the truth was the best way to make him disbelieve it.

"Is this about your stupid leg?"

"Shut up."

"Did you ask father if you could wear his breeches?"

"No, Poco," said Pietro, using the name his brother hated. "But if you want to wake him, I'll wait."

Poco gave Pietro the fig and rolled over. Leaving the room bearing the breeches in hand, Pietro stopped off in a shadowed hall to struggle into the unfamiliar apparel. Looking down, he was pleased to see they hid his wound entirely. Boots back in place, he picked up his crutch and followed the directions Donna Katerina had given him. On the ground floor there was a panel covered by a tapestry of a pastoral scene. Opening the panel, Pietro discovered a staircase spiraling down. With a hand on the wall to steady himself, he hobbled down to the bottom. It smelled dank and musty here, and Pietro had to bat at his nose to keep from sneezing. Thankfully Cangrande had left a lighted candle behind him, so Pietro didn't have to navigate it in total darkness.

In three minutes he was at the tunnel's end facing a solid wall. He felt for the catch and after several tries found it, opening a sliding wooden panel. Immediately he smelled the wet straw of a stable. He slipped through the panel and closed it behind him.

The place was deserted except for Cangrande and two saddled horses. Both horses were remarkably dark-coloured. Hearing Pietro's step disturbing the straw, the Scaliger turned. "That was quick. Any trouble?"

"No, lord."

"Good. I hope you don't mind, I've chosen your horse for you." While the Capitano's horse was a huge ebony beast, Pietro's was a rust-brown palfrey, a short-legged, long-bodied horse that had a gentle amble for a gait. It was a fine-looking young thing, obviously just broken to the saddle. Pietro ran a hand over its neck. The muscles under the dark coat rippled.

The choice of horse was solicitous. Palfreys weren't as fast as other horses, but the smooth ride they afforded made them suitable mounts for the wounded or aged, who also might have difficulty mounting a taller horse.

The Capitano had laid two extra cloaks across the necks of both horses. The cloaks covered broadsword sheaths strapped tightly to both saddles. A good one-handed sword was in place on Pietro's, but Cangrande's sheath stood empty.

Not for long. From his hip Cangrande drew the hereditary sword of the della Scala clan. It wasn't a particularly fancy or attractive weapon. It bore no jewels or ornate carvings, and the wooden grip was only long enough for one hand. Bound with thin iron wire, the grip ran between a gilt pommel and a guard decorated with a small metal triangle. A deep groove ran down in the center of either side of the double-edged blade, measuring about twice the length of the Scaliger's forearm. It shone as he lifted it from its scabbard and fitted it in the sheath on the saddle.

Pietro lifted the cloak on his own mount and discovered in addition to a sword a long, thick dagger. "Should we have shields? Helmets?"

"No, but put this on." Cangrande handed Pietro a quilted black gambeson. "Real armour would slow us down as well as give us away. We want to look like unfortunate travelers." As Pietro laced the gambeson in place, Cangrande produced two huge sagum cloaks, scarves, and a pair of wide-brimmed hats to keep them dry. "Now please don't be offended, Pietro, but I'm tying a lead from my horse to yours. The last thing we need is to lose each other in this tempest, and where we're going calling out would be — unadvisable." Curious and excited, Pietro said it was fine with him. "May I also suggest, in deference to your injury, that you ride like an Arab. Or half an Arab. Put your left foot in the stirrup, but tuck your right knee around the saddlehorn. Here, allow me to get you situated. Hup! Good, now cover your injury with the cloaks. Excellent. Hopefully that will stay dry. Does it hurt?"

It did, but Pietro couldn't bring himself to say so. Cangrande had just finished helping Pietro to mount when they heard a voice from the door. "You both look quite menacing. Perhaps you should try your hands at highway robbery while you're out." In her arms she carried wineskins and a bundle of what smelled like meat. More than anything else this so far, the fact that she brought it herself impressed upon Pietro the secrecy of this mission.

Handing the food to her brother, Katerina said, "No fasting tonight, if you please, Francesco. You need strength."

"We'll see," was the reply. "Certainly Pietro may eat."

She shook her head. "You're too obstinate to be related to me. Here." From the folds of her skirts she lifted a long, thin metal object the width of her hand. "Don't forget an offering."

Cangrande opened the object at two hinged corners. Pietro leaned forward and saw a gilded triptych with a saint on both outside panels, flanking the Virgin and child in the centerpiece.

Cangrande squinted at the religious icon. "San Giovanni I can make out. But who is the other?"

"Zeno, of course." It took Pietro a moment to remember that San Zeno was the patron saint of Verona.

Cangrande was turning the icon over. "When did you have this made?"

"Years ago, for just this occasion."

"It's a nice touch." Cangrande placed the icon in a leather satchel hanging from his saddle. He mounted.

Katerina laid a hand on the horse's neck. "Be civil. Reassure."

Cangrande leaned down from the saddle and placed a kiss upon her forehead. She stepped back and pulled wide the stable door. The noise from the rain was deafening. Cangrande pulled his cloak tighter about him and kicked his heels. Unperturbed by rain, Cangrande's ebon horse set out into the shuddering night.

Pietro wanted to wish the lady farewell, but the lead from the Capitano's horse was tightening, so he kicked his one stirruped foot. His horse responded at once. Passing Katerina, Pietro smiled from under his hat. Her returning smile made his heart pound so hard that he barely noticed the rain pelting his hat as he was engulfed in darkness.

They exited Vicenza through a series of narrow eastbound gates. The Scaliger produced a ring of keys at each. Pietro couldn't be sure in the rain, but he thought these gates were unguarded. Probably because they were too small for an army or even an armoured horse. Pietro had to lie flat on his mount's neck as Cangrande led the horses through on foot. Passing under each wall there was a brief, blessed slackening of rain, and Pietro heard Cangrande humming cheefully.

Once they were out of the city they turned. Pietro imagined they were heading south, but there was no way to tell. He kept his eyes on the treacherous road beneath him. The water had turned the dirt to mud and the mud to a sloshy river that sucked at the palfrey's hooves. Around them the trees bent low under the wind.

Suddenly they stopped. Pietro thought he saw Cangrande dismount again and dash forward. Danger? This close to Vicenza? Pietro's hand slipped under the cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword. His heart hammered until he saw the Scaliger return, a lighter shadow in the shadowed night. He passed his own mount and stopped beside Pietro, who leaned down to hear what Cangrande was saying. "We're at Quartesolo. Had to make sure the bridges aren't washed out. The river's leaping up. Brace yourself." Pietro thought he saw a flash of a grin.

Remounting, Cangrande started them across the first bridge. The lead tightened and Pietro followed. His horse's shoes had just contacted the stone of the bridge when a huge wave came crashing up over Pietro, drenching him sideways. It was followed by another, and another. Pietro hugged his palfrey, leaning down to keep from being washed from his saddle.

Then they were over the first bridge and onto the second. Pietro wondered how many bridges connected the suburb of Quartesolo across the swelling river. The sagum cloak was well waterproofed, but nevertheless Pietro was soaked to the skin. His left boot was soggy in the stirrup. Only his aching right leg, under two layers of cloak and his father's breeches, was dry.

The thunder cracked mightily overhead as they left Quartesolo behind. They turned off the main road onto some kind of well-used dirt path. The smell of damp earth and raw wind was thick in his nose. Lesser branches flipped end over end through the air, the twigs pelting him. It was as if the mortal world was being scoured raw.

Lightning began to strike, the dry vapor pent up in the clouds above the rain catching fire and exploding down towards the earth, ripping the fabric of night. The accompanying sound made horses uneasy, but less so than Pietro. The flashes of illumination made the riders visible for miles.

Pietro felt his hat pelted by something harder than rain. Holding out a hand, he felt the sting of hail in his palm. A bad omen, a poor night to be traveling.

He lost all sense of time. With its crashing rain, wind, and now hail, the night seemed endless. Sometimes Cangrande stopped to check the road ahead. Pietro was grateful for these breaks, not just for the chance to stretch his muscles but because they managed brief snatches of conversation, the thunderous downpour eliminating any chance of being overheard.

It was at one of these stops, when Cangrande came to tell him the road ahead was particularly sodden and they would be turning off to a side track, that Pietro finally asked the important question. "Lord, where exactly are we going?"

Cangrande leaned close. "Exactly? We're entering the land of La Lupa." Chuckling, he returned to his horse and led the way across to an uphill track.

La Lupa. The She-Wolf. What does that mean? Riding doggedly behind Cangrande, bits of the ancient prophecy came back to Pietro. The mythic Greyhound was supposed to kill the She-Wolf before Italy's great golden age could begin. But what could any of that have to do with this journey? Was Cangrande chasing his destiny, or-

There was a crack, not thunder but a horrible rending sound. An attack? Pietro checked the reins and reached for his sword. He was looking this way and that, unable to see a thing. Cangrande shouted "Pietro! Move!" At the same moment Cangrande yanked on the lead. Pietro kicked with his left heel and the palfrey darted forward just as a rotten tree collapsed across the road where Pietro had been. It took down another tree across the road, throwing clumps of earth up into the air to rain down on them.

Cangrande tugged urgently on the lead. Pietro was shaking and needed a moment to collect himself. Then he heard what the Scaliger was hearing — voices! Someone calling out to help a poor traveler who had shouted. Who does that? thought Pietro perversely. Who helps strangers these days? There must be an inn or a church not far off the road. Cangrande's shout had saved Pietro and imperiled them both. Pietro kicked his left heel again and followed Cangrande as they rode as fast as the rain would allow. He could swear he heard hoofbeats close behind them, racing as fast as his heart.

At last, after carefully climbing a slope that begged to slip out from under them, Cangrande halted with an air of finality. Pietro couldn't see more than a couple feet in any direction. There was no light at all. He tried to figure out the distance they had covered. In this slow going it couldn't be more then ten or twelve miles. The fact that Cangrande had led them so unerringly in the complete darkness was yet another in a string of feats that made Pietro believe the Capitano was something more than human.

Slowly Cangrande edged them forward, and Pietro sensed rather than saw a structure of some kind. Possibly a hut or small house. Cangrande dismounted, and this time Pietro did the same. He stood for a moment, stretching out his muscles and arching his back.

A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. It was too quick to take anything in, but closing his eyes Pietro could see the afterimage of the building. At the top of its walls Pietro could swear he'd seen a jutting timber post. Were they going to a barn, a stable?

Cangrande led his horse to a tree a dozen yards from the building, using a low branch as a makeshift hitching post. Pietro copied him. As he was tying the reins, Cangrande leaned close. "Bring the sword."

Pietro drew the knife first and tucked it in his belt. Then he unsheathed the sword and paused. What to do about his crutch? Were they going into trouble? He had to assume they were. He decided to leave the crutch. Holding the sword low on his right side, he limped after Cangrande towards the unlit structure.

There was no door, just a stone frame. Cangrande paused under the lintel and stood there, listening and looking like a hound catching a scent. Pietro strained to hear something beyond the rain. Is there someone in there? Is it an ambush? Heart thudding, ears pricked to the slightest sound, Pietro stood in the door, facing the rain and guarding the Scaliger's back.

A rasping noise brought him spinning around, sword ready to strike. Cangrande was kneeling and striking a flint on the stone lintel, covering it close with his hand. In moments he had lit a taper. He lifted a candle from a nook near the door. Careful to shield it from the wind, he placed the lit candle back in its sconce. The illumination it cast was poor, as if the weather commanded the air to obstruct light's passage. But in the hazy light Pietro discovered that he was standing in a small chapel with benches set up in rows. At the far end was an altar with a massive carved stone cross suspended above it.

Cangrande crossed the chapel in just four strides. Kneeling before the altar, he used the haft of his sword for a cross as he prayed. Finished, he stood and shook himself as a dog would, throwing water everywhere. Then he turned and grinned. "Pietro, you're soaking. Don't you want to come in and get dry?"

Pietro didn't need telling twice. Genuflecting in the aisle, he followed Cangrande's example and spread his cloak on a bench to dry. He then gratefully settled himself on a bench a couple rows in, away from the rain spitting through the doorway. Cangrande had brought his two spare cloaks with him indoors, now hanging them up to dry on a peg by the door. Pietro felt foolish — he'd left his atop his mount. At least I remembered the sword.

Cangrande found another candle in a sconce and lit it off the one he'd brought, then rejoined Pietro in the pews by the door. Setting the leather satchel with its icon close to hand, he slapped his thigh. "Well well, here we are. I hope the Lord will forgive us our trespass, and our presumption of being armed. These are dangerous times. How is the leg?"

"Glad of the rest," said Pietro honestly, stuggling to find a comfortable postion.

Laying his broadsword close beside him, the Scaliger opened the neck of a wineskin and passed it across. Pietro gulped down a healthy draught. It was followed by a sweetmeat wrapped in a greasy cloth. The treat was sticky and oozed juices out through the pasty exterior, but it was still almost warm.

The Capitano ate his slowly, interspersing bites with pulls at the wineskin. Pietro was hungry, but his nerves kept him from eating much. Padua was less than twenty miles from Vicenza. If he was right about the distance and direction traveled, they had to be somewhere in Paduan territory. Still shaking from cold, Pietro rubbed his hands and tried to wrap his mind around what they were doing. Was this another of Cangrande's insane plans, one of those things only he could bring off? Had the agreement with Il Grande included a secret negotiation with someone? But no, then Cangrande would have brought someone else, someone like Passerino Bonaccolsi. This seemed somehow — personal.

Not knowing how else to phrase it, Pietro simply asked, "My lord, are we invading Padua?"

"Just the two of us, yes." The Scaliger glanced up from his treat, wiping his mouth with the wrapping cloth. "A little late to be asking, don't you think?"

Pietro reddened. "I was just — "

"Everything to do with Padua has been decided in council over the past three days. It is not what I had in mind, but it's the best I can now hope to do." He popped the end of his sweetmeat into his mouth and pointed to its mate in Pietro's hand. "Are you going to eat that? No? Here, I'll split it with you. The short version is this: Padua will officially recognize my claim to Vicenza and relinquish all rights thereto. Both the Vicentines and the Paduans will retain any land that was theirs before the conflict began. All prisoners on both sides will be released." He gazed sorrowfully at Pietro. "That means, I'm afraid, you'll get no ransom for Marsilio. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

Licking his sticky fingers, Pietro shrugged off the loss — it was a fortune gone, but he'd hardly had time to think about it. Besides, he was used to being poor. Still, it galled him a little to think that Marsilio would be able to crow about keeping his fortune. Both Mari and Antony would be livid on Pietro's behalf. Imagining their indignant outrage, he smiled. He'd made friends for life in those two. Far more valuable than Carrara's gold.

Pietro's loss was nothing compared to Cangrande's. Between the recent battle and other skirmishes, the Capitano had more than two thousand Paduan captives, a least a hundred of whom could have been ransomed at a high price. If he was forcing his men to give up a fortune, he was losing several more himself. "What prisoners do the Paduans have?"

"Though they hold no Veronese of note, they do have many Vicentines. Remember, I wasn't fighting this war in the name of Verona. I was asked by the people of Vicenza to be their champion against the Paduans, and the Emperor named me their Imperial Vicar before he died. This has been mostly a defensive war, in a cause juste. That is what I have on my side. The law. The right. Justice." He took another pull at the wineskin. "I haven't been fighting only the Paduans, either. Bologna, Ferrara, and Treviso have all sent food, money, soldiers. They're worried, you see. If Padua falls, they think they'll be next. And behind them all are the Venetians. Venice doesn't want Verona's influence expanded any further. As long as all the inland city-states are warring, Venice has everything its own way." The Capitano's voice grew steely. "I won't allow that, if I can help it."

"You sound as if you're planning a war against Venice."

That drew a low chuckle that almost sounded admiring. "War with Venice is unwinnable. The Serenissima, that most serene city, is unique in the world, I believe — a city without walls. Why bother building walls when you've got the water to protect you? They have no land assets, a recent lesson hard learned from Ferrrara. They have no real armies but their fleets. For land war they just hire mercenaries or, even more practical, get someone else to do their dirty work while they reap the profit. Think of the Fourth Crusade. Profit is their aim, and trade is their sword. They do more with an abacus and a scale than they would with an army." Cangrande got a sly look. "But if I were to plan a war with Venice, I know how I'd do it."

"How?"

"I'd hurt them where they'd feel it. I would block their merchants, levy fines and dues on their traders. Pope Clement showed me how. I would erode their trade."

"You'd side with Genoa?" said Pietro.

"No no! The Genoese deal with gold in one hand and a knife in the other. No, Pietro, once I have shown the world what I can do in war, I will awe them by what I can make of peace. I shall use your father's words as an example. His notion of empire. The only way mankind can prosper is through peace, and peace can only occur under a single ruler empowered by God to make war. That's probably the best definition of a strong government — one that's willing to go to war to maintain the peace."

"If that's true, why not make a treaty with the Paduans years ago?"

"I cannot appear weak. Nor could I betray my oath to the Vicentines."

Pietro shifted, resting his leg on the bench in front of him. "So you wouldn't've taken Padua?"

The blue eyes narrowed. "I didn't say that. As Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, I am supposed to have ultimate control, under the Emperor, over both Padua and Treviso. But since the imperial throne is vacant, I have no one to appeal to. I hear they're holding elections next month in Germany, but there are no front-runners for the throne. It'll be a mess." He grinned happily.

"So it would aid you," said Pietro, "if they would settle on an emperor."

"At this moment I am pleased with the way things stand. True, there's no emperor to help me, but by the same token, there's no emperor to hold me back, either."

"What does all this mean for Padua?"

Cangrande rubbed his hard hands together. "Eventually I have to take both Padua and Treviso. I know it, and so do they. I have the authority already, but only paper authority. Until they're mine I cannot step into the larger Arena. This damned rain means there will be peace, for now. I'll agree to it because it makes me look magnanimous and just. They'll agree to it because it buys them time." The allegria returned. "And because they have to. I just smashed the largest army they've ever had with fewer than a hundred men. Do you know, Pietro, how certain they were they'd win? In the tents and wagons they left behind we found goblets and dishes of gold, silver, beds with exquisite coverings and soft pillows, baskets and barrels filled with sweet delicacies. You'd be forgiven for thinking they were on their way to my nephew's wedding and not a war!"

Drawn into the great man's confidences, Pietro was paying close attention. However, it was difficult not to wriggle each time he felt his leg itch. Unwilling to shift his legs yet again, he contented himself with fidgeting his hands, running them across a few inches of the splintering bench, back and forth, hoping the texture of the wood might distract him.

It didn't seem to annoy the Scaliger, who now stood and walked to the open doorframe and stared out at the rain. "In any case, if the Paduan Anziani don't make peace, Dandolo will tell the Venetians to withdraw their money. Panicked and worried, they'll find their citizens in revolution again, the third time in a year. No, I expect that in a fortnight I will be sending my representatives to Venice to sign a treaty."

"Why Venice?"

"They have the power to enforce the terms and are officially neutral. Whatever their private inclinations."

"So why did you…" Pietro stopped himself.

"Why did I set out to make Dandolo the butt of the evening? Because he's one of the coming men in Venice. Because Venice and I are at loggerheads. Because I felt like it. Venice is still reeling from their tussle with the Pope over Ferrara — the excommunication of the whole city hurt their trade badly. If not for Dandolo they would be hurting still. I kept him humble because he has pulled off a great feat of diplomacy. Though the rumour is that the Pope made him crawl under the table and wear a dog's collar."

Pietro laughed. "So that's why you called him Cane."

"Yes. But this peace will be another feather in his cap, further advancing his candidacy to become the next Doge."

"Who suggested it?"

"Everybody. Once the rain started, taking Padua became impossible. Their natural defenses were swelling, my men were tired by the race to Vicenza. It had to be peace." The Scaliger leaned his back against the stone frame of the door. "The terms were proposed by Giacomo da Carrara. He came to us yesterday with the whole thing laid out. He knew granting me Vicenza was the concession I needed. We spent the rest of the day working out the rest."

Pietro leaned forward. "How can he make terms? He's not the Podestà."

"He's a smart fellow, our Il Grande. He'll go far. There's no central authority in Padua. I think he means to change that."

"How?"

"By making himself indispensable. Like Dandolo, he's the coming man. Il Grande is now the architect of a peace that will save his city from the deadly Scaligeri. I imagine within five years he'll be fully in control of Padua."

"So you're putting in power the man charged to defeat you."

"In a way, yes."

"I got the impression the two of you were becoming friendly."

"I like him very much. His nephew, too."

Pietro chose not to remark on Marsilio. "But if you want to rule the Trevisian Mark, you'll have to take Padua eventually."

"Even if I didn't plan on making my title a reality, I'd take Padua. I have to. It is a point of honour."

"In spite of the treaty?"

"Oh no. When I attack Padua I'll be sure to have a cause juste. As in this war, I'll find some legal pretext to take them down."

"But you'll be going up against Il Grande."

"Yes."

"Whom you like."

"Yes."

"What will you do then?"

"I will grind him into the dust."

There was nothing to say to that. Feeling the gusts of wind that blew into the church through the unbarred doorway, Pietro sat thinking for a time. Finally he said in a low voice, "Lord, if we're not here to invade the city, why are we here?"

"I promised you a picnic," responded Cangrande, gesturing grandly at the remnants of their meal. "Besides, this is a beautiful church. Look at the craftsmanship! I don't doubt that when you and I are long forgotten this house of God will still be standing."

A fierce gust of wind thrust into the church, blowing out the candle by the open door. Drops of rain struck Pietro's face, stinging like nettles. He breathed in the wet night air and waited until the Scaliger had relit the candle. "Lord, you didn't answer my question."

Cangrande stood half in the door, only one side of his face illuminated by the candle. "You're like one of my mastiffs, Pietro. Once you catch the scent, you don't let go." A moment passed. "We are here to beard the She-Wolf in her den."

"You said that before."

"You know the legend?"

"Pieces of it."

Face half in shadow, the Scaliger began to recite:

To Italy there will come The Greyhound.

The Leopard and the Lion, who feast on our Fear,

He will vanquish with cunning and strength.

The She-Wolf, who triumphs in our Fragility,

He will chase through all the great Cities

And slay Her in Her Lair, and thus to Hell.

He will unite the land with Wit, Wisdom, and Courage,

And bring to Italy, the home of men,

A Power unknown since before the Fall of Man.

Cangrande shifted out of the doorway and into the room. The candle was behind him now, and he became a dark shape lit only at the edges. "That's the part that everybody knows. There is a coda, however."

He will evanesce at the zenith of his glory.

By the setting of three suns after his Greatest Deed, Death shall claim him.

Fame eternal shall be his, not for his Life, but his Death.

"Like Christ, who is so often remembered more for the manner of his death than for what he did in life. I don't know about you, Pietro Alaghieri. But for my single self, I'd rather I was remembered for my life, not my death." Walking nearer, he lowered himself onto a bench. "Your father claims I am the Greyhound predicted. He believes I am the man who will unite this Italy and restore the unity of pope and emperor."

"You are," agreed Pietro.

"I. Am. Not!" Suddenly Cangrande's hand slammed down on the bench again and again. "Pietro, I'm not. An astrologer made a chart for me when I was born. I've seen it. I even called in the great astrologer Benentendi to confirm it. I am not this mythic Greyhound."

"But — your device, the banner — "

"It's the same dog my father used. The Scaligeri hound was created for Mastino. And I am, after all, Cane Grande." He flashed a brief, heartless version of his famous smile. "But I am not Il Veltro. I do not use the title. I have no right to it. When I ride into battle, it is to fight for my city and my honour. I will fight for God, if He asks." His voice became hard. "But I will not be the tool of Fate."

Thunder rumbled overhead. In a quiet voice Pietro said, "Why are — you hardly know me."

Cangrande's true grin returned. "Can't you tell? I want you to stay. I'm a good judge of character, Pietro, and you seem like a handy man to have around. So I'm seducing you — first, I give you political confidences, then personal ones." He sipped some wine. "Your father has expressed a desire to settle in one place. Have you thought about what you're going to do once he does?"

Pietro took in a breath. Honesty deserved honesty. "I have no idea. I was meant for the Church, but now that I'm the heir I have to find another career. I don't know what."

Cangrande's lips turned up at the corners. "I'm sure we can come up with something. In the meantime you can do something for me."

"Anything, lord."

"I want you to convince your father I'm not what he thinks I am."

Pietro shook his head. "He'll have you walking on water in the next volume."

"I'd rather turn water into wine, if it comes to that." After an awkward moment, he continued quietly. "Pietro, I know what I am. A man with gifts, yes, but no better than most, and quite a bit worse than the best I have known. How can a man live life as a myth? I tell you this — if I thought that I was truly the chosen champion of the heavens, I would fight it." His voice possessed a feverish quality. "Just to see her fail, I would fight it with all my might."

Her? Though Pietro had an idea whom Cangrande meant, he chose not to comment. Instead he was about to remark that they had hardly touched the wine when he heard a horse let out a short grunt. Their mounts were tied yards from the church. In the time they had been waiting, he'd not heard them once. This horse seemed closer, just outside the door.

The Scaliger's hand edged closer to his sword — he'd heard it too. He gestured to Pietro to stay still, then stood, sword low by his side.

Someone appeared in the weak illumination of the doorframe. Covered in a hooded cloak, the figure was a full head shorter than Pietro, hunched over a bundle carried gingerly and close. There was something in the way the figure moved that reminded Pietro, inexplicably, of a Pietà.

"Donna Maria," said the Capitano, standing and leaving his sword behind. "You did not have to come yourself."

"Then we're both surprised. I certainly didn't expect you to come." The voice under the folds of the cloak carrried a strange lilt to it. Nor could Pietro place the dialect. There were hints of Paduan, but something more polished beneath. Italian did not seem to be her first tongue, though she was perfectly used to it.

Crossing to her side, Cangrande lifted one of the spare cloaks from off its peg as he passed. Seeing Pietro, the lady held up a forestalling hand. "You are not alone."

"I thought a witness might be useful. If ever you should need him, his name is Pietro Alaghieri." Pietro stood awkwardly and bowed. "You may trust him."

"I should tell you I am expected elsewhere."

Cangrande bowed. "Then we will not keep you."

Reluctantly she allowed herself to be guided past Pietro to the altar, far from door and rain. The Capitano lifted the drenched cloak off of her and, tossing it aside, covered her in the folds of the dry one. By the weak candlelight Pietro glimpsed dark hair coiled tightly against the lady's head. Woven into the braids were many pearls. She didn't glance up, but Pietro didn't sense fear in her. Something else was behind her furtiveness. Her head was bent over the thing she bore in her arms. She carried it like-

Like a baby.

She was carrying a child. Now that he listened, Pietro could hear it murmuring. A baby? What was going on?

Cangrande and the woman rested themselves close to the altar, a decent space separating them. They spoke softly for only a few minutes, the Scaliger doing most of the talking. Once or twice he put a question to the woman and she answered. All the time she looked at the child in her arms.

Pietro was unable to hear their hushed words, nor was he meant to. Trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, Pietro continued to fidget, running his hands over the bench under him. His fingers encountered a thing protruding from the wood. Absently he began prying at whatever it was. The wood was old and after a few seconds the object came away in his hand. Examining it by feel alone, it felt like a disc, large, round, and flat.

Surreptitiously he lifted it to the light, keeping it low by his side. On one side there was an impression of a laurel wreath with the word PAX over it. Turning it over in his fingers he saw a helmet with wings, but it took some scraping with his nails to uncover the word at the top.

MERCVRIO.

Lightning struck a mile away, illuminating the church with bizarre shadows behind their heads. As the accompanying thunder rolled overhead, the baby began to cry. The lady made a shushing noise as she removed the satchel holding it from around her neck. She seemed to be favoring one arm, as if sore. Hugging the child to her breast, she crooned some soft words meant for the infant alone. Kissing the bundled babe, she passed it over to Cangrande's waiting embrace.

The Scaliger had to raise his voice to be heard over the still-rolling thunder. "Has he received baptism?"

"He has."

"And christening?"

"He has. His name is — "

"I know what his name was. He will have to go through it again."

"Fine." Standing, the lady produced a sealed letter. "All you need is here."

The Capitano tucked the letter away inside his doublet. Abruptly the lady turned and strode the length of the chapel, passing Pietro. She lifted her soaked hooded cloak from where it lay, dropping the thick dry one the Scaliger had given her.

From the altar Cangrande said, "What will you do?"

As she turned her head Pietro thought he could just make out the colour of her eyes as the candlelight flickered across them. They were a shade so dark as to almost be black. "I? I shall disappear. But I will be watching."

"If you ever need-"

She almost laughed as she cut across him. "I shall not come to you."

"He will be well guarded. Always, Maria. You have my word."

The lady's hand swept over her face in a violent motion. Pietro realized she was scrubbing away tears. He looked away from her, busied himself by tucking the coin into his purse. She did not deserve to be stared at in her grief.

There was a swirling of the layers of her skirts, then she was gone.

Pietro stared into the darkness. This can't be it. Tell me this wasn't our secret mission. Recalling a piece of conversation he'd heard between Cangrande and Katerina, he leapt to the obvious conclusion. A by-blow! A bastard! The battle, his wounds, Mari and Antony's daring, Nogarola's lost arm, so many dead — all for this? This daring and dangerous midnight invasion of Padua through a storm that could still murder them on the return, not to take the city, but to collect the Scaliger's illegitimate son! All this talk of just cause, of Fate, bad luck, the stars, his grand plans, all sacrificed on this altar of pride or — what? Blood? The need for a son, even one from the wrong side of the sheets? Pietro was aghast. How could he?

Unable to hide his incredulity, Pietro said, "This is why you didn't invade Padua."

Back near the altar, Cangrande stood beneath the large stone cross, the wriggling bundle in his arms. "Shhh." Looking down into the face hidden in the folds of the bundle, his visage was shadowed from the light. "Yes."

Pietro could hardly draw breath. "Why?"

"This was more important. Come and see."

Rising, Pietro limped over to the altar. Cangrande lifted the covering from the child's face, and Pietro looked down at the fine cheekbones, the fair hair, the perfect chin. There could be no doubt. This child was a Scaligeri.

The Scaliger shifted the bundle into the candlelight, allowing them both to see the boy's open eyes. Though he was fussily opening and closing his mouth like a baby bird, he stared back wide and unafraid, his eyes two orbs of brilliant, startling green.

"I am sacrificing nothing, Pietro. I am doing only what is necessary. Trust me."

Smothering his disbelief and indignation, Pietro bowed his head. "I do, lord."

"Thank you." Cangrande turned the child towards him, staring into those vivid eyes. He let out a long breath. "O sanguis meus. What adventures lie ahead. God forgive me."

There are moments in the lives of men that impress themselves on the witnesses, coming back in dreams, both sleeping and waking. In years to come, the details of the battle at Vicenza would be half remembered, half imagined in exaggerated glory. But this moment, the Scaligeri lord standing beneath the old stone cross in a dank and humble church and looking into the child's eyes — this moment would haunt Pietro the rest of his nights.

"What is his name?"

For the first time since viewing the child, the Scaliger pursed his lips in a thin smile. "He will be called Francesco."