The Master of Verona

Twenty-Six

A half an hour before sunset, Pietro Alaghieri rode towards his first duel. Possibly his last.

The Arena was even more packed than for the horse Palio. Somehow in a single hour word had gotten around the whole city. This entertainment had it all — sex, politics, personal and family quarrels. Better, these were the two from the Palio the day before. The Paduan had even been Ser Alaghieri's prisoner after Vicenza.

Pietro emerged through the main gate on the west side, breath smoking in the chill air. He wore the newly made armour presented to him for his knighthood. He'd also taken a page from Carrara's book and dressed lightly under it in anticipation of the heavy work to come. Over all he wore a thick cloak he would doff before the fighting started.

He rode his monstrous new destrier. The Scaliger's groom hadn't known the warhorse's name. At this point it hardly mattered. It would take weeks of training for the beast to respond to a rider. His life was in hazard now.

Leading his nameless horse, as the rules of chivalry dictated, was a woman, whose token he would bear into battle. The young woman was his sister, Antonia, drafted quite against her will.

"This is not the reunion I had in mind," she said tartly.

"I wanted it to be memorable," murmured Pietro in reply.

"If you lose, I won't cry."

"Just promise me you won't poke fun if I make an ass of myself."

"You realize there's a place in Hell for those with excessive pride?"

"You know, I think I read that somewhere."

Antonia couldn't help herself — she chuckled. Removing a scarf from around her neck, she handed it up to him. A knight must always carry a lady's token into battle. Pietro wished instead he could have a glove from a certain married lady in the crowd. Doubtless Carrara had one from Gianozza.

Behind Pietro came Poco atop Canis, preening with excitement. Against his better judgment, he'd let his brother be his squire. Pietro had wanted an experienced page, and Jacopo was still walking gingerly on his cut feet. But when his brother offered to be his second, Pietro found he hadn't the heart to say no.

Seeing Antonia's fur scarf around Pietro's neck, Jacopo protested. "Imperia, I gave you that!"

"Yes you did," replied Antonia tartly, "and it's awful and ugly and I hope it gets covered in Carrara's blood because then I'll never have to wear it again." Poco made a face at her, which she returned. Pietro made a visible appeal to the heavens.

Held high over Poco's head was the banner of the new Capulletti, commissioned this morning by Ludovico's steward. The Alaghieri party was followed by a pair of servants bearing between them Pietro's coffin, as the law dictated. It was perverse that most of the last hour had been spent finding a carpenter to sell him one. More perverse was the fact that he'd had to pay for it out of his own purse — Antony's father hadn't wanted to spring for it.

Don't think about it. Focus on the fight.

The act of arming hadn't stopped him from receiving a series of visitors. Bailardino had come, and Nico da Lozzo. The handsome monk, Brother Lorenzo, had come at the instruction of his Bishop to make certain that Pietro's soul was prepared in case the worst should happen. He taken the opportunity to apologize. "I'm so sorry — I didn't know! It was so romantic, they were obviously in love! What could go wrong? But I shouldn't have married them…"

"It's all right," said Pietro, slipping into the gambeson before letting Poco buckle on the chest plate.

"I saw a duel once, back in… back home. It was terrible. I vowed never to be party to such a thing again. Now I am the cause of one!"

Pietro wondered who was confessing to whom. "You're not the cause."

"But it isn't my fault, not really. My bishop said to be serviceable to the Paduans…"

"I don't have that much time," said Pietro pointedly.

"Then I'll be brief," said Lorenzo. Pietro made confession and the young brother had fretfully told Pietro he'd be praying for him.

The one person Pietro had flatly refused to see was Mariotto. Claiming the impropriety of an interview at this time, he asked the steward to send Mariotto away. The steward had returned while Pietro was strapping on his leg greaves. "Ser Montecchio says he regrets the position he has placed you in, and that he understands why you feel the need to act as you are."

"Big of him." It occurred to him that Mari probably thought Pietro didn't care about the wedding, only the duel with Carrara. What if my petition had been denied and I'd been forced to fight Mariotto? Could I have done it? Probably not, he admitted.

Against his own better judgment, Pietro had allowed Poco to bard him fully — petta, arm and leg greaves, a chainlink skirt. The heavy armour would protect him while on horseback, but if Pietro fell, the weight would drag him to the Arena floor. I'll just have to try not to be unhorsed. It was amusing, though — just yesterday he'd doubted if he'd ever wear the Scaliger's gift. 'Unused, unbloodied, hanging on the wall' — sure, if I'd been lucky!

His destrier was fully barded as well, bearing the whole compliment of armor. Along the head was the metal and leather testiera, which fitted snugly over the horse's face. A large spike for goring made the beast resemble a unicorn, and the horse's eyes were protected by a criss-crossing of metal bands over the eye-holes. Protecting the chest was the pettiera which protruded forward so as not to inhibit the horse's movement. Fore and aft of the leather saddle sat the two arciones, hard wooden constructions that protected the rider's groin, rump, and knees. Behind the saddle hung the many scaled layers of the groppa, from which extended a small ornamental device in the shape of a small lizard from whose mouth hung the horse's braided tail.

Across his horse's groppa hung a linen banner in crimson and silver, the Capulletto colours.

With a great deal of help, Pietro had settled himself on the back of the war-horse. The reins were covered with metal discs to protect them from being cut by an opponent's sword. The reins led to bits, so called because the horse bit it. The bits had long shanks and high ports, providing greater leverage on the curb which exerted pressure on the horse's mouth. Then he rode a mile through Verona streets and entered the Arena.

Carrara was already inside, waiting atop a destrier borrowed from Cangrande's stables, a massive grey beast that looked like a wall in motion. We're both riding unfamiliar animals. No advantage there. To add insult to injury, Carrara wore the red ribbon marking him the victor of the Horse Palio.

Standing beside Marsilio's horse in a fine dress meant for one wedding and worn for another, Gianozza della Bella looked a vision of youthful femininity: ivory breasts hardly swelling below the bodice, her ebony hair had fallen just loose enough to give her a slightly untamed look. Who could honestly blame Montecchio? I can.

Carrara said something flippant to his cousin before cantering forward. Pietro whispered to his sister. "Time to go. Find father. He's in the balcony up there." He gestured with his chin.

Antonia debated for a moment the proper blessing. Finally she settled on, "God give you strength." Then she followed Gianozza up to the balcony where Dante could be seen in the front row. At least I was able to improve his seating arrangement, thought Pietro wryly.

He gave a spur and the destrier picked up the pace, cutting across the Paduan's path. With a deft flick of his reins Carrara pulled his mount alongside. "Touchy. At least you look like a proper knight. Brand new armour, eh? Not a scrape on it. For show, I suppose. You could keep it that way. Are you truly ready to have me hand you your head over a trifle?"

Pietro wasn't even aware of opening his mouth. "I'm ready to drive my sword through your skull."

"Good luck with that. Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"Ever since Vicenza my soul has longed for a chance to even up with you. With the help of the girl, I took my vengeance on your two idiot friends. But you're the real prize."

Pietro thought his teeth might shatter, he was grinding them so hard. "Happy to oblige."

"Yes, Pierazzo, when I kill you, I'll only have one more. I'll make it my life's work to kill the Greyhound of Verona."

Pietro knew he meant Cangrande, but in his mind's eye he saw Carrara's boot on Cesco's little neck. The image made Pietro's hands shake. Carrara saw it and, misunderstanding, laughed. "Oh yes! And his putanna of a sister — the donna di strade you moon after! I'll bet she ruts like an icy cunt. But that's fine — I'll warm her up."

"Shut your filthy mouth."

"Oh ho! So Capuletto's not the only one forced to love from afar. Such romantics!" Carrara's mockery echoed around them.

Reaching a position before the Scaliger's balcony, the combatants brought their horses to a halt. Scanning faces in the dying light Pietro saw Katerina sitting beside Bailardino, Cesco in her arms. Good. Here, under the eyes of the citizenry, he's safe from another kidnapping attempt.

Antonia was slipping in beside Pietro's father. Mariotto and Gianozza gazed at each other, separated by Mari's sister Aurelia. The lovers knew the outcome of the duel would represent God's sanction or condemnation of their union.

Far from Mari and Gianozza, Antony was propped up on pillows close to the edge of the balcony. With him sat his brother and father, who looked to be arguing still.

Leaning over the edge of the balcony in eager anticipation were Cangrande's two nephews, Mastino and Alberto. No need to wonder who little Mastino was rooting for. Guglielmo da Castelbarco and Passerino Bonaccolsi sat behind them. Close by, Nico da Lozzo gave Pietro a high sign of victory, ignoring the angry glare of the Capitano. "Give him what for, Pietro!" Others joined in with Nico, cheering not his cause but Pietro himself.

The Scaliger spoke, but Pietro couldn't hear him, his ears filled with his own hammering heartbeat. Yet he recited the ritual oath and gave the forced handshake, quick and humiliating. Then Ziliberto dell'Angelo gave the signal to begin. For a mad moment Pietro wondered what bizarre pecking order placed the Master of the Hunt in charge of judicial duels. Shaking away the thought, he placed his helmet on his head and rode to the Arena's far end where Jacopo waited with lances and other weapons. "Are you ready for this, big brother?"

"Just stay back where it's safe," instructed Pietro. "Father'll kill me if I let anything happen to you." Even under the circumstances the threat of Dante's wrath seemed both real and terrible.

Poco nodded, swallowing several times. He's more excited than I am, and just as scared. Terrific. All I need is a squirrelly page.

Up on the balcony, Antonia could hardly watch. Her brother looked so small atop that beast, dwarfed by his own armour. Carrara's armour was molded to his shape, creating the appearance of grace and poise where Pietro looked clumsy and brutish.

Yet her brother lifted his lance with ease. As the challenged party, Marsilio had been offered choice of weapons. His squire held up his first tool of destruction and the crowd gasped. He'd chosen a halberd.

Gripping her father's sleeve, Antonia asked, "What does that mean?"

"Carrara's chosen a polearm rather than a lance." That Pietro had stuck to the traditional lance was probably wise, Dante informed her. Her brother hadn't ever fought with a halberd, and it was a tricky weapon to wield, having a spike, an axe, and a hook, all at the end of a long pole. "They'll have an equal reach. But Pietro has a shield, one with a good spike for goring if he gets in close. Carrara's weapon is for killing, Pietro's is for unseating. If he can get Carrara to the ground without losing his own seat he'll have the choice of finishing it there and then. All he has to do is avoid the halberd's head."

Was that all? It sounded like a lot to Antonia. For the first time she understood why young men devoted so much of their time to learning about different types of weapons and combat. But Pietro had spent more time with his head in books than actually on the turf.

On the Arena floor, Pietro was thinking much the same thing. His one lesson in swordplay hadn't covered fighting from horseback, let alone polearms. But he'd seen enough jousts to know the rules, and a little strategy. Don't hit the horse, knock the other fellow out of his seat. Easy. I'll have this wrapped up by supper. He laughed at himself, and it sounded a little hysterical to his ears. Across the Arena floor Carrara looked deadly peaceful. Pietro had the insane urge to make faces inside his helmet. Maybe he should wave. Or give Carrara the fig. But no, that was unchivalrous.

Cangrande gave the nod, Tullio d'Isola dropped the flag, and Pietro spurred at Carrara, who was kicking his own mount into motion. The crowd surged to life as the two combatants raced at each other.

Pietro fought the instinct to lean forward. His armour was heavy enough to unseat him if he got unbalanced, and that would be a stupid way to lose. Instead he held his lance crooked in his arm and tried to breathe as the monster beneath him thundered across the pitch. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. He and Carrara were surely both going to die. That halberd was a wicked-looking thing. It was angled right for Pietro's heart, and only a heartbeat away.

There was the clatter and scrape of metal on metal as Pietro beat away the halberd's spike with his shield and Carrara's horse sidestepped the lance. A thousand voices seemed to sigh.

On the balcony, Antonia was covering her eyes. "What happened?"

Dante was terse. "They missed. They're circling around again."

Antonia peeked. Yes, Pietro was almost directly beneath her, turning his warhorse about for the next charge. His round shield bore a scar just below its center. With a shout she could feel, he urged his mount on to another charge. This time Antonia kept her eyes open almost to the moment of impact, then saw what Carrara was doing and gasped.

Pietro was riding full tilt for Carrara when the other suddenly veered his horse, trying to get the halberd's axehead sweeping around in an arc. Too late to stop, Pietro swerved and brought his shield across. He missed with the shield but, dumb luck, got his lance across the halberd's path. There was an awkward 'clack' as the axehead was deflected.

The line of both their charges broken, the two horses moved away from each other. Desperate to disengage, Pietro was trying to pull his horse back to a safe distance to begin a new charge. In these close quarters his lance was all but useless, while the halberd bore hook, spike, and axehead. Which Carrara now brought into play.

Above, Antonia watched in horror as she saw her brother's horse step the wrong way, opening up his back to a blow from the axehead — a blow that descended, aiming for the center of Pietro's spine. No matter how strong the steel of his back-plate or how much of the impact the gambeson absorbed, he would be stunned, leaving him open for a killing blow. Antonia screamed.

How Pietro got his shield up and over his head he never knew. He felt the halberd's axehead strike, the impact twisting the muscles in his left arm. He turned his head in time to see the silver hook at the halberd's back catch the edge of the shield and rip it downward. Pietro involuntarily released his grip on the shield, but the strap across his upper arm held it in place.

His eyes were on the axehead. Carrara was swinging it around to literally disarm his foe by taking Pietro's arm clean off. The lance in his right hand was useless, so he raised his left arm, shield dangling, hoping to somehow ward off the strike.

The stars favored Pietro again. His shield's spike caught the halberd between the axe and the shaft and deflected the blow. Pietro was still kicking with his spurs, and finally the destrier under him responded, tearing away along Carrara's left side. With a flick of his own spurs Marsilio twisted about in pursuit.

Pietro cursed. In close-quarter fighting he was at a disadvantage. Raising the lance, he pitched it backward. With any luck, Marsilio's horse would trip on it, and so end the fight. That wouldn't happen, of course, but it was pretty to think so.

Pietro's hand scrabbled to draw his sword from the saddle's scabbard. It was a longsword, more than twice the length of Pietro's forearm. He'd tried it out before the duel. It was slightly point-heavy, the better to bring a blow down onto an opponent's head or neck. Brandishing it in his gloved right hand, he shifted in his saddle. Carrara was behind him, spurring hard to close the gap and bring the halberd to bear again. Swinging the weapon from the very end of the shaft, the Paduan had a long reach but poor leverage.

It was an impossible situation. So long as Pietro allowed himself to be chased in circles around the Arena, Carrara had the upper hand. But the moment he stopped, he would be eviscerated by the spike or axehead.

An image suddenly appeared in Pietro's mind. The Scaliger, facing a spear on one side, a sword on the other, and a morning star behind. He recalled the Capitano's leg snaking out to grasp the spear. Pietro couldn't do that with the halberd. But he could remove the halberd from play, if he was willing to sacrifice… Yes. But first, he had to build Carrara's confidence.

Pietro recalled Cangrande's lesson as they looked at the walls of Vicenza. Show the enemy what he expects to see. Yanking his reins inward, Pietro cut across the Arena floor in a close facsimile of panic.

"What's he doing?" demanded Antonia.

"I'm not sure," her father breathed.

They saw Pietro twist the reins again, cutting south instead of west, and Ludovico Capulletto roared in outrage. "He's running away!" His two sons were silent, for different reasons. Antony was rigidly watching the duel unfold. Luigi, silently rooting against his brother's champion, hoped Carrara's weapon would find its mark. Their feelings horribly conflicted, Mari and Gianozza were unable to turn away.

"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?"

"Yes," hissed Pietro through gritted teeth. His right leg was shaking and he'd just noticed the blood seeping from the dent in his shoulder plate. "But you won't like — how I end it."

"What do I care — as long as you die!" Marsilio's sword rose high, slashing forward in the 'thrust of wrath.' Pietro parried with an upward stroke, the force of it resounding through his body. His blade came immediately down, cutting the space occupied a moment earlier by Carrara. Sidestepping, Marsilio was already bringing his sword around for a second blow. Pietro caught this too, beating the strike away. Marsilio was focusing on Pietro's wounded shoulder, directing his attacks at Alaghieri's left side. Pietro returned the favor, parrying Carrara's next blow and immediately riding his blade in a glissade towards the Paduan's wounded ribs.

Broadsword fighting was not a matter of finesse. It was more a question of bashing your opponent enough to crush a bone or drive the wind from them. Broadswords were not even particularly sharp. They were, in effect, huge metal clubs to beat each other with. Alaghieri and Carrara hacked and slashed at each other, trading blow for blow. Their attacks brought them closer to the Scaliger balcony in movement that resembled a crescent. Pietro would block a strike to his left that would stagger him sideways. He'd then deliver a blow to Marsilio's right that would have the same effect, returning them to even footing.

After seven minutes with no decision, both men pulled back, desperate for air. The battle had to end soon. Both felt it. They were past the first rush of battle, the excitement and fear that made the humours flow and wounds easy to ignore. Fatigue was setting in, and fear was causing little hesitations. The falling snow had thickened, the sun was setting. Soon it would be too dark to see. Cangrande had refrained from sending torchbearers into the Arena, probably to force an early end to the duel.

But both men were determined to finish it with a victory. Carrara was the first to return to the attack. Drawing a long breath, he ran forward, his broadsword spinning in his grip, flicking this way and that in a skillful series of mollinelli, the windmill attacks.

Pietro could only watch and retreat, unsure where Carrara's blade would fall. His hands shook, his vision blurred, his stomach tightened. He might faint soon. He had to end this. For a deadly moment his mind froze. He couldn't think what to do.

Again an image came to Pietro's mind. Cangrande, mace in hand, using the handle to block while he spun and struck. The murder stroke. Gripping his sword near the point with his gloved hand, he used his guard to beat aside Carrara's arcing blade and spun around. With a hand at either end of his weapon, he intended to put all his weight behind the naked tip above his left hand and drive the tip straight through Carrara's breast.

Carrara blanched, instinctively bringing his blade down to parry. But too late. There was the tip of Alaghieri's sword, inches from his chest.

Then the traitor in Pietro's body made itself known. His weakened leg buckled, and Pietro's sword merely scraped across Carrara's breastplate, sending sparks flying into the snowy air. It was Marsilio's luck that it didn't pierce the metal, but that was all the luck he had. Sheer chance had trapped his sword's cross in Pietro's own guard. The force of Alaghieri's strike sent the Paduan's sword flying.

Pietro's vision was so blurred he didn't see it. He'd wagered everything he had on this thrust. When it failed to drive home, he thought he was finished. Then, blinking, he saw his opponent was disarmed before him. It was as if the Virgin herself had descend to kiss his hands.

He extended his swordarm, aiming the point at Carrara's throat. He barely had the breath to say, "Yield."

"Never!" Carrara turned. Ducking low, he threw out a hand to balance himself on the cold dirt of the Arena floor. His armoured leg shot out, driving into the fold of Alaghieri's right leg, just above the knee.

The pain seemed to start from the ground, rising through Pietro like water through a geyser. From the elation of victory, Pietro's world turned to agony. All he knew was pain. The snowflakes seemed to hold still in the air, as if time had ceased to flow. Each flake drifted into his sight, unique creations of a benevolent God who would surely now call Pietro to his bosom.

Then the ground hit him, face first, slamming his forehead with a stunning blow.

As one the crowd was on its feet, howling. To strike a man's wound received in the duel was an accepted practice. To strike a cripple's bad leg was decidedly unchivalrous.

Pietro struggled to rise, but his body wasn't answering. He felt himself being rolled onto his side. Above him was the tip of a miseracordia, a thin dagger meant for driving into the chinks of a wounded man's armour. Marsilio lifted Pietro's wounded shoulder to drive the needlelike blade through his armpit, into his heart.

On the very edge of consciousness, Pietro's breathing was laboured. His left arm was growing numb. Carrara was about to murder him and he was helpless to stop it. He saw the arm draw back, ready to drive in the killing stroke. Pietro's right hand fumbled towards his own dagger, strapped to his right hip. The Paduan slapped the hand away with a scorn.

This is it. I'll die in battle. A battle over love. One jilted amour. How stupid.

A whistling pierced the air above him and something thudded into the ground. The hand gripping Pietro's arm faltered. Carrara was looking away from his victim, up towards the Scaliger balcony. Pietro was more interested in the little snowflakes that fell across his face, the feel of them as they melted into his skin.

Shaking his head angrily, Carrara pulled back his knife again. A second whistling sound followed by a thud at Pietro's feet. The cursing Carrara stumbled backward. He didn't seem to have any more energy than Pietro did. Denied his chance to finish the fight, the Paduan collapsed in a heap, eyes closed. Carrara's breath had a strange rattle to it as he breathed in and out.

Pietro lay still, feeling his own breathing grow easier. Rolling slightly he could make out two fletched arrows sticking out of the ground at his feet. From this angle, the Scaliger's balcony looked very tall. One leg perched on the edge of that balcony, Cangrande was lowering a bow.

The duel was over.

And, though with questionable honour, Carrara had won.