The Master of Verona

Twenty-Eight

Calvatone

27 October 1315

Exhausted, the soldiers of Verona took their ease in one of the camps that surrounded the blackened walls of Calvatone. The fifth town to fall to Cangrande this month, it had been the hardest nut to crack. But this morning the town had surrendered, and the Scaliger had granted a single night for celebration before his forces moved on to the final goal — Cremona.

October was hardly prime campaigning season, but it had been a nasty summer. First a scorching heat, then heavy rains that ruined crops all across the north. Meat and eggs began to run out, capons and other fowl died of pest, swine could not be fed because of the excessive price of fodder. Even bread wouldn't bake unless the grain was first put in a vessel to dry.

Up until the rains, the ruler of Cremona, a staunch Guelph by the name of Cavalcabo, had been a worried man. He'd heard the rumours that with the Paduan wars suspended, Cangrande would be looking to expand west. The Scaliger's excuse would be an old claim that Mantua had rights in Cremonese territory. But without food, it would be madness to march.

In the first days of October Cangrande showed signs of madness. Staging his forces out of friendly Mantua, he swiftly took Ponte di Dossolo, Viadana, and Sabbionetta. This last was a huge blow, for it was where Cavalcabo had sent his money and women for safekeeping. Cangrande sent Cavalcabo an offer — food in exchange for his family. Cavalcabo cursed and, stalling Cangrande's messenger, secretly prepared Cremona for a siege.

Meanwhile Cangrande's soldiers survived on the supplies captured from each town, though the Capitano promised that any surrendering town would be allowed enough food to survive. Towns that held out, like Viadana, were left without means to last out the winter.

Even with the confiscated food, Cangrande knew he couldn't remain in the field long. To his good friend Passerino Bonaccolsi he said, "We have to strike like lighting. If we stall, we're through."

Cangrande's partner in this enterprise, the lord of Mantua had the promise of ruling over all the captured towns. Thus he was eager to keep the campaign moving. A week after taking Sabbionetta he led the attack that opened up Piadena, a bare fifteen miles down the road from Cremona itself.

The next city on that road was Calvatone. By now the combined armies of Verona and Mantua with their many mercenary condottieri were well accustomed to siege work. But the hardy Calvatonesi resisted mightily. Three times Cangrande himself led the assault, and each time he was repulsed just as he was on the verge of scaling the walls.

This morning Cangrande had pulled Passerino aside. "We're stalled. Another day and we'll lose our momentum."

"Do we want to make an all-out attack?" suggested Passerino. "Split our forces, hammer them on two fronts?"

"I'd rather not have a slaughter on our hands. I'm going to make them an offer."

"What kind of offer?"

"If they surrender, they can keep their provisions. I know, the men need food. But it's why they're holding out so fiercely. They don't love Cremona or Cavalcabo, and it's not pride, it's fear. We'll remove their fear, promise not to hurt a hair on their heads, just let us garrison the city and move on."

Passerino saw the sense in that. "Who should we send?"

Cangrande grinned. "Who's the most practical man we know?"

The offer was made by Nico da Lozza. Standing before the town gates under a flag of truce, the Paduan turncoat proposed the Scaliger's terms. "In return for your submission, the honourable Cangrande della Scala, Capitano of Verona and Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, promises to spare the lives of every Calvatonesi, be he old or young, Guelph or Ghibbeline! Moreover, he promises that the food and water that is currently yours will remain yours! There will be no looting, no rapine! Every man within Calvatone will remain unharmed, every woman virtuous, all property in the hands of its current owner."

The spokesman for the town called down from the wall, "We must be assured! There must be no reprisals!"

"There will be none! On that, you have the Scaliger's own word. And he is, as you all know, an honourable man! He has never broken a bond! But know this — if Calvatone refuses this generous offer, he pledges to remove your town from the face of the earth. No one will ever know you existed. The land will be salted, nothing will ever grow here again."

"He would lose the war with Cremona!" protested the spokesman. "We are not worth such vengeance!"

"His honour is! If you refuse his generosity, it will soil that perfect honour! His honour could not bear to let you defy him. He would not eat, not sleep, until that stain was removed! Citizens of Calvatone, why risk the wrath of the Greyhound of Verona? Why try his patience, when he wants nothing more than to garrison your city for as long as it takes him to smash Cremona? What do you owe the Cremonese? Is Cavalcabo a close ally, or a tyrant who taxes you and leaves you defenseless before his foes? Use your sense! Hate the Greyhound if you must, but do not stir him to anger! For I assure you, this hound has the both the teeth and the will to bite!"

As the spokesman withdrew, Nico turned to the page behind him and grinned. "How did that sound? Too strident? Did I give myself away? If they say no, he'll probably leave. He's never been one for slaughtering innocents, bless his soft little heart. Here, pass me that wine."

Jacopo Alaghieri shifted the flag of truce to one hand and passed his commander the wineskin. Dante had begged Cangrande to take his younger son on this campaign. "Make a man of him the way you did with Pietro."

"Pietro was already his own man," was Cangrande's reply. "But as you will."

Assigned Nico's service, Poco knew his commander wasn't well pleased with his performance so far. It was just that Poco couldn't see the sense in polishing something that was going to tarnish again within an hour, or in oiling the joints of some armour that wasn't even going to be worn today. His brother hadn't had to play the page. No, one madcap ride and Pietro was a knight. Poco longed for that kind of action, the moment when he could prove his mettle. Today might be the day. Consequently, seated atop a horse, riding with his master to an enemy gate, he behaved perfectly.

Now he pointed over Nico's shoulder. "My lord, look! They're opening the gates!"

"Of course they are. They're not fools." Nico passed the wineskin back to his page, who was so eager-eyed Nico couldn't help laughing. "Yes, yes, you did well! If by this afternoon my horse is properly rubbed down and my helmet so shiny I can see my reflection, you may join me in the command tent for the inevitable celebratory dinner. Now come on. And remember to look grave and respectful. These poor bastards may have done the wise thing, but it's hard for some men not to feel like a coward." Nico chuckled. "Not clever fellows like myself, you understand. I mean men with less imagination."

Poco went along to present the Calvatonesi leaders to Cangrande, then rode in the perfunctory tour of the town that was more about showing the Scaliger off to the people than to look over the battlements. An hour later they were all back in camp, with only some of Cangrande's German mercenaries garrisoning the town.

In Nico's tent, Poco rubbed, scrubbed, polished, and shined everything he could see. He accidentally ruined a finely engraved leg-greave by scrubbing with the wrong wire bristles, but he hid that at the bottom of a trunk. When Nico came to dress for dinner he was suitably impressed. "This is more like it. Go on, wash yourself up and change your shirt."

Soon he was standing behind Nico's place at the table in the command tent, watching as Cangrande and his four generals took their seats. Castelbarco sat across from Nico, and Bailardino Nogarola beside him. Cangrande took the head of the table, and Passerino Bonaccolsi the foot.

Cangrande lifted his goblet. "To the wise Calvatonesi. I am so very pleased I was not forced to emulate Otho. Passerino, if I killed myself in despair, would you do as his captains did and throw yourself on my funeral pyre?"

"I would throw Nico on it," said Passerino.

Cangrande nodded. "That will do."

Nico sneered. "Oh oh! Nice talk, considering it was my silver tongue that opened Calvatone like a woman's flower."

"If Calvatone is a woman, she's a cheap whore to open up to your tongue," said Bailardino.

"An ugly cheap whore," opined Passerino. "Did you see the state of their town hall?"

"Poverty is not a sin," said Castelbarco.

"Lack of civic pride is."

"I blame Cavalcabo," said Cangrande. "A skinflint and zealot. And his heir apparent, Correggio, is ten times worse. Say what you will about the other Guelphs, they aren't stingy. You'd never see Florence's smaller cities in such a state."

"Oh, Correggio's not a bad fellow," protested Bailardino. "His niece is going to marry my brother."

"Well, that makes him the salt of the earth," scoffed Nico.

"Speaking of Florence," interjected Castelbarco before Bailardino could rise to Nico's bait, "Jacopo, what's this I hear about a pardon for your father?"

Cangrande started laughing. "Yes yes! Tell them!"

Grinning, Poco took a step forward. "My father got a letter in July-"

"Addressed to 'Durante Alighieri, of the Guild of Apothecaries,'" interjected Cangrande. "No mention of poetry. Sorry, Jacopo. Go on."

"Well, the letter offered amnesty. Father is free to return to Florence whenever he likes."

"Big of them," said Passerino.

"No, no, wait! It gets better," said Cangrande. "There are conditions."

"Conditions?"

Poco rolled his eyes. "The conditions are, one, he pay a huge fine and, two, he submit himself to an oblation."

"What kind of oblation?" asked Passerino.

Before Poco could answer, Cangrande burst in. "He has to enter a city jail on his knees and from there walk clothed in sackcloth and a fool's cap with a candle in his hand through the city streets to the baptistery of San Giovanni — the saint that shares a name with Dante's dead eldest son, whose burial the city fathers refused, by the way. At the baptistery he has to declare his guilt and his repentance and beg the city fathers for forgiveness."

"I take it he refused."

"Astonishingly, yes." Everyone grinned. Annoyed that the Scaliger had taken away the best part of the story, Poco was about to step back to his place behind Nico when Bailardino asked, "What about your brother? How is he doing?"

"Is that you asking," said Cangrande, "or my sister?"

"I do have the occasional independent thought," said Bail. "Jacopo, how is Pietro doing?"

"He's settled into the University at Bologna," said Poco. "From what I hear he's doing well."

"I've just arranged an income for him, not far away from his studies," added Cangrande placidly. "A little benefice in Ravenna."

"You know, you could just recall him," said Castelbarco.

"Or I could banish you. That would end the conversation even more easily."

An awkward silence ensued. Finally Nico broke it. "I'm glad we're moving on. If we take Cremona, it will eclipse all the talk about Montecatini."

"Be fair, Nico," said Passerino. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is a friend and an ally. We can't begrudge him his victories. Besides, he needed one much more than we do."

Bailardino whistled. "Ten thousand dead and seven thousand prisoners. Not too shabby."

"He couldn't have done it without Castricani's men," said Castelbarco. "Does it ever occur to you, my lord Scaliger, that these floating condottieri may lead to trouble? Each season they are free to hire on to whatever war suits their fancy. Some are making a habit of fighting for one side this year, and the opposing side the next, thus keeping the war from ending. We're spending vast sums on these hired swords, but gold does not purchase loyalty."

"True," said Cangrande. "Nico, what does buy loyalty?"

"Land," replied Nico at once. "Land, land, and land. Some men will fight a battle or even a war for a prince or for God. But if you want a man to fight for you the rest of his life, you have to give him land. Look at Capulletto. You could have filled his purse to overflowing, heaped him with titles, but nothing could have bound him to you more than the land you gave him near Bardolino. He's now bound to you more than if you were his father."

Cangrande appeared dubious. "Hmm. We'll see. Certainly he was generous enough in return. The feast he threw in honour of San Bonaventura was magnificent. I haven't danced like that in years."

Castelbarco passed across a tray of food. "The whole affair was definitely a triumph. Ludovico confided to me that he's planning on making it an annual event."

"The only shame was that Gargano wasn't there," said Bail.

"He was invited," said Cangrande. "I made sure of that. But he chose not to come. Said it might mar the occasion. As you say, a shame."

Swallowing, Nico pointed his knife aimlessly. "You know who I liked that night? Bonaventura and his wife. I'd heard she was mad, but I don't think I've ever heard sparring the like of theirs."

"Well, they were on display, weren't they?" said Bailardino, reaching over to fill Nico's bowl of wine. "As a Bonaventura, young Petruchio shares the name of the feast's saint. That mad wife's a Paduan, no?"

Cangrande said, "Yes, we seem to be stealing all the Paduan brides."

"I hear she's pregnant," said Poco, earning him a sour glance from Nico. None of the other pages would have spoken without invitation. But his news was enough of a pleasant surprise that the others overlooked the poor protocol.

Bailardino clapped his hands. "Excellent! A year of children! Where did you hear that?"

"Yes, where?" asked Cangrande in a droll tone. "Your spies must be better than mine."

Trying to disguise his pride, Poco said, "There's a girl in Ser Bonaventura's house, I've gotten to know her…"

He was answered by mockery and sly looks. Bailardino in particular was gleeful. "Well done, lad! Are there any other pregnancies we should — what the devil?!"

The tent flap was thrown wide by one of Cangrande's soldiers, who burst in. "My lord — trouble!"

Throwing aside the benches the five generals followed the soldier outside, Poco and the other pages at their heels. "There, my lord," said the veteran, pointing. Tracing the line he indicated, all heads turned towards the town walls. They were glowing red.

"Treachery?" asked Passerino.

"I'm afraid so," said Cangrande in a grim tone. "But I don't think the kind you mean."

"What is it, then?" demanded Castelbarco. "Is Cremona attacking?"

"No. Someone has taken it upon themselves to break my word. Horses! Arms! Let's see if there's any way to salvage this!"

Nico rounded on Poco, who stared with horror at the growing flames. "Move it, boy! Don't bother with the fancy stuff, just gambeson, helmet, and sword. Move!" With a shove Nico sent him running.

Fifteen minutes later Cangrande led his personal guard as they galloped into chaos. Men on fire, women screaming under the weight of armoured men mercilessly having their way. Not all the women screamed — some had had their throats cut before they were violated. A lone child wandered into the road to be trampled by a mad horse running wild. Blood pooled in the streets, sprayed the pitted stone walls, bubbled in the mouths of blackened corpses.

Poco felt a shiver run from his forehead to his fingertips as he stared wide-eyed at the carnage. But it was the sudden smell of burning human flesh that made him turn his head and vomit down his horse's side. His stomach heaved, then heaved again. He looked around, embarrassed, his eyes watering in the smoke. He saw Nico kill a rapist as Cangrande used his sword to bring final peace to a burning man. Drawing his sword, Poco followed the leaders up and down the street, helping those they could, killing those they could not. It was a kind of mercy.

Entering one bloody and smoking piazza they heard a voice cry out, "Havoc!" The shout was echoed from mouth to mouth among the garrison of German mercenaries Cangrande had left within the town walls. The havoc cry was famous, a foreign idea that had quickly translated into a simple rule — there were no rules. For the duration of one day, theft, rape, even murder would go unanswered at law. It was the free pass that allowed soldiers to vent their basest desires, enriching themselves or taking out their revenge against the world. Generals sometimes allowed their men to wreak havoc on a town as a reward for their efforts. Sometimes soldiers raised the call themselves.

"Round them up!" shouted Cangrande to his men. "Kill anyone who doesn't instantly fall in!"

His men responded with vigour, turning their blades on their allies with a feral fury that matched their commanders eyes. They worked to secure one piazza at a time, leaving soldiers behind to guard the few survivors. It took almost an hour to gain control of the situation, that being achieved mostly because by then there was no one left to save. Cangrande never seemed to rest, racing from place to place, a whirlwind of tightly controlled violence. Terrified, Poco trailed along, barely swinging his sword as he watched each grisly scene open up before him. The worst was when they came across a square where the mercenaries were playing some sort of game, using burning poles to hit balls into overturned baskets. A closer look revealed the balls to be human heads. Some were very small. Poco wept and, in that square, he killed his first man. None of the mercenaries in that square survived.

Recognizing that the town couldn't be saved, Cangrande abandoned the idea of fire brigades in favor of rescue parties. Only when the smoke threatened his men as much as the fire did he call for the withdrawal of his troops.

As the sun set its burning eye, the town of Calvatone was a smoldering ruin. Lined up before the collapsing gates were the last remaining mercenaries, forcibly dismounted and down on their knees. None had escaped some kind of injury. They looked up at Cangrande, sitting atop his magnificent horse and watching the last timbers fall inward, sending up a spray of sparks and ash. He remained there a good deal longer, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned and murmured an order to Castelbarco, who whipped his horse back towards the camp.

From his knees, the German leader called out to the Scaliger. "Der Hund! Why do you persecute us? We were only following your orders!"

Cangrande leapt from the saddle and ran over to the man, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. "My orders? To murder, to despoil, to ruin my own honour? I vowed that I wouldn't have them harmed! Who gave you these orders?" The leader of the condottiere swayed and shook his head, mumbling something. Cangrande struck him again. "Who!"

"There were written orders," protested the man around his cracked and bleeding mouth.

"Show me these orders!"

"I cannot, Der Hund! The last command on the paper was to burn it!"

"Convenient! Who brought these mythical orders?"

"A man I never before had met! But in your colours! And the orders bore your seal!"

Cangrande struck the man again, a mailed fist full in the German's face that broke teeth. The Scaliger wheeled about and remounted. There were tears in his eyes not caused by smoke. "Now I know how Ponzino felt. Passerino, Bail, bring these curs back to camp. Do not molest them further until I decide their punishment. Nico, take charge of the Calvatonesi, see to their needs. Protect your men, though, in case they try to take vengeance for this. As well they should!"

Cangrande rode off in the direction of the camp. Nico had his men open a path for the disgraced mercenaries, then issued orders for the housing and tending of the few survivors of the massacre.

Poco disobeyed those orders, though. Rather than tend to the blackened, the bleeding, the weeping, or the dazed, he found himself a fat tree to hide behind. He wasn't seen again until after the moon had passed halfway across the sky, and when at last he stumbled into his tent he was utterly, irredeemably drunk.

At dawn the construction was finished. The remaining Calvatonesi were invited to watch. Nico, furious with his disappointing page, ordered him to be present also.

In groups of twenty, the members of the condottiere were led up the wooden steps, hands bound behind them. The nooses in place, they were shoved off the low platform without even the benefit of a priest. The first to go was the German commander.

A knot of horsemen watched the suspended bodies rocking in the air, ropes creaking with each kick and twitch. In the middle of the generals and their men, Passerino watched the mercenary leader choke. "Well, he did us a favor."

The look Cangrande turned on him was dangerous. "How do you mean?"

Passerino remained brash and confident under his friend's glare. "However this happened, it will make the Cavalcabo and his Cremonese minions quail in their boots. They'll be shitting themselves to give up."

Cangrande eyed the Mantuan. "Or else make them more determined than ever to hold out. We're stretched thin on food as it is." He shook his head and resumed watching the condemned as they fought for breath, eyes bulging and faces changing colours.

Poco couldn't stand it. "Couldn't we at least help them die? Pull on their legs?"

"No," said Cangrande firmly. "They have to suffer, and more importantly be seen to suffer. We must treat them like common thieves and murderers. I will not be disobeyed. Even if this campaign is over."

His generals turned, all uttering a verbal protest. He responded angrily. "O, it would look good, wouldn't it! Even if we take Cremona without starving first, which we won't, this will be what gets the credit! Not honour. Brutality!"

"What about the note?" asked Castelbarco. "Did you discover who sent it?"

"If it even existed," said Nico.

"He insisted he'd gotten the order," said Cangrande, who'd spent the night in his tent with the mercenary leader. "Though I am loath to believe him, it remains a possibility that one of us did this."

"Someone with access to your seal," Castelbarco pointed out.

"Or a decent copy," said Bail. "You'll have to have a new one made." Cangrande nodded.

"I think he was lying," opined Passerino, spitting at the dying man twenty feet away.

"Possibly," said Cangrande. "If not, Heaven help the man who did this. My martial honour has been marred. I will not rest until the stain is expunged."

"This is a good start," said Bail. The first man had ceased to kick and was cut down, his replacement already being marched into position.

"No, Bail," said the Scaliger. "A poor one, since it shouldn't be necessary. How we win is as important as the victory itself."

They watched to the end without further comment. When the others turned to go, Nico grasped his page's arm. "Pack your bags. You're going back to your father. There's no room for coward in this army. Or for drunkards who care more for sack than for orders. In a day of dishonour, you added more shame to the tale."

It sounded strange, coming from the easy going Nico. Another man might have shown more compassion for a youth facing his first real taste of warfare. Certainly, if applied to, the Capitano would overrule the dismissal.

But Jacopo didn't care. He'd already decided that his brief career as a soldier was over.

Milazzo, Sicily

7 March 1316

"Signore Ignazzio? The wine stands by you."

The astrologer's mind was elsewhere as he fingered the medallion's twisting cross, touching upon each remaining pearl. Hearing himself addressed, he roused himself and passed the fine glass carafe to the regent of Sicily. It never did to keep a king waiting, even a vassal king. Frederick III was king outright of the island of Sicily and ruled its surrounding lands for his brother, King James II of Aragon. That Frederick was only the second of that name to rule Sicily was a touch confusing to Ignazzio, but he didn't bother asking. He had other business on his mind.

Yesterday the king had ordered the arrest of certain bankers, despite what it had done to the local financial markets. Ignazzio and the Moor had been allowed the night and morning to question them. In return, Ignazzio had spent the better part of the day going over the king-regent's star chart, reinterpreting it in light of recent world events. Frederick was a practical man, and such men often disdained astrology. But this king seemed to feel that any information gained was worth something.

The sky was red by the time the reading was through, and the king was pleased enough to invite Ignazzio to join him in a cup of wine. The cup had become a bottle, the bottle two. Now, as the king-regent refilled his glass he said, "I begin to think you have spies in Palermo. You have described me down to the last wisp of hair on my head. But it seems you spent more time telling me about myself than what awaits me."

"Your majesty, astrology is as much the art of seeing who we are as of where we are going." It was a favorite phrase of Ignazzio's, learned at the foot of his master.

"Mmmm." King Frederick was a lean man, with angular features and dark skin — not Moorish dark, but indicative of a life spent outdoors. His hair was indeed thinning, but he retained a youthful vigour. It showed when he spoke, waving his arms before him to saw the air. "It seems a cheat. But still, it must open many doors at court. I mean, here you are, alone with a king."

Of course, they weren't truly alone. Servants hovered somewhere behind them. The Moor was among them. It was awkward, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least here the Moor did not stand out in any way.

Frederick resumed gesticulating. "I'm fascinated by your travels. You must visit many far off lands. What other princes have you shared wine with?"

Understanding dawned. It was not the reading of the charts but the passing on of news that would repay Frederick's hospitality. Well, Ignazzio wasn't averse to spending the evening singing for his supper. He only wished they could have gotten to this point sooner and spared him the afternoon hunched over parchment. "As you know, recently I called upon your brother the King of Aragon in Zaragoza."

"Lovely city."

"Before that, Theodoro and I were in England. Before that, France. A year ago we were in Venice."

"Well traveled. It is something I sometimes miss. I got around more in my younger days. So tell me, what-"

Just then Frederick's eleven-year-old son Pedro, tousle-haired and smiling, had come in to be presented and to kiss his father goodnight. With him came a darker child, younger and just as handsome, if a bit leaner. He was introduced only as Juan.

"I'm raising them together," said the regent-king to Ignazzio. "Heir and bastard. That way there will never be a hint of enmity between them."

"Wise. But then, I already knew it."

"My chart?"

"My spies."

Laughing heartily, the king sent his two sons off to bed. In truth, Ignazzio wasn't sure of the wisdom in pairing those boys. Seeing them together made his fingers itch, and he had to force himself not to ask their respective dates of birth.

The regent clapped his hands together. "Where were we?"

"I was about to tell you of my travels." Taking a modest sip of wine, Ignazzio tried to separate news and gossip. "Beginning at the far corner of the earth, some Scottish barbarian named Edward the Bruce has just accepted the Irish crown from Ireland's nobles, so he is now able to add king to his title. His brother Robert has already declared himself King of Scotland."

"So there is a Scottish king?" laughed Frederick. "That must have the English beside themselves!"

"Actually, most men seemed more concerned with the trouble closer to home. When I was in London most everyone was talking about Edward II's continuing troubles with some earl — "

"Lancaster," supplied the king.

"Yes, and the rest of the Lords Ordainers."

"Well, they're the ones who truly rule," said Frederick, opening his hands expansively. "That has been going on, and will continue. But what of France? Is the new king dead yet? Has the curse struck him down?"

Ignazzio did not laugh at curses, though for the king he managed a feeble smile. "Not yet. But already there are riots and fighting in the streets. Examinations of the treasury found it bare, and inquests into the state of the finances led to the hanging of many of his father's advisors. To alleviate his finances, Louis has married the daughter of the king of Hungary. I hear they are expecting a son."

From there he expanded upon the news from Norway about a new kind of forge, from Bruges about the wool trade.

"Fascinating," said Frederick flatly. "What about Spain?"

Of course the regent already knew about the Spanish king's nephew assembling an army, ostensibly to attack Granada. At the last moment, however, the army had changed course in favor of an unauthorized attack on the frontier stronghold of Tiscar. "But," added Ignazzio, "the king is said to be much more disturbed by news from Egypt."

Frederick looked suddenly serious. "Which is?"

"Sultan Muhammad al-Nasir has finally completed his mad canal, dug between Alexandria and the Nile."

"Good God!" The king-regent stroked his chin for several thoughtful second. "So he must really be serious about trading in the Mediterranean!"

"Yes. At least your brother and the King of Spain think so. The canal reportedly took one hundred thousand men five years to dig."

This last snippet of news was clearly of real value to Frederick. The king relaxed, and the next flurry of questions was less urgent. Ignazzio assumed that he had sung enough for his supper.

The king wasn't so rude, though, as to dismiss him at once. They discussed trends in art, like a new painter in Sienna everyone was raving over. He was called Simone Martini, and he had just finished a work entitled La Maesta, an image of the Madonna and child. Already Martini was being compared to Giotto.

"From what I hear," ventured Ignazzio, "it is a comparison that makes Maestro Giotto laugh in despair."

"Truly? I have never seen Giotto's work. Have you visited the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua?"

"No, but I have seen some of his brilliance displayed in Verona. In fact," Ignazzio added, "I heard recently that the maestro has returned to paint an exterior fresco depicting the poet Dante and his patron, the Scaliger."

"That's too bad!" said the king, shaking his head and throwing up his hands in lighthearted dismay. "Exterior frescoes never last. But at least it will erode a little of this Cangrande. There has already been too much talk of this man, this so-called Greyhound. Ever since he humbled the Paduans we hear of little else. And that business in Calvatone last fall — disgraceful! Besides, we Sicilians feel a kinship for the Paduans. It was their man Antonio who came here to become a saint. You must visit his sanctuary before you leave us."

"I shall," vowed Ignazzio. He always made a point of visiting holy sites and churches. Too many men looked upon his art as witchcraft, devilry, and he worked hard to counteract such impressions.

Spurred by the empty carafe of wine, the regent soon brought the evening to a close. "I hope you learned all you needed from those pesky bankers."

"All they had to give," said Ignazzio, feigning sadness. "Alas, it was no aid."

"I am sorry to hear it. Do you think they were holding back? Shall I put them to the torture?"

Ignazzio thought of the Moor hovering over his shoulders as he put his questions to the little staff of clerks and couriers. "No, I think they honestly knew nothing of interest."

It was bad form to lie to a king. But he'd done far worse.

"Sad, sad," said Frederick. "But just as well. It never does to torture men today you may be borrowing money from tomorrow. Well, there are always the Jews. Thank you for sharing your learning with me. You may go."

"Your majesty." Ignazzio bowed his way out of the royal presence, then retrieved the patient Moor.

In another half an hour they were riding together out of the castle of Milazzo, their saddlebags full and their faces grim. But Ignazzio didn't angle his horse towards the town gates. Instead he headed down a slope towards the seashore. "Just a quick stop at the cave of San Antonio," he explained. "I'll bend a knee, remount, and we can still reach Messina by morning."

"It's well we hurry." Most emotions were lost in the effort to scrape sound from the man's injured throat, but the clip of the words indicated urgency.

"I know, I know. But I promised the king."

"A promise he likely had no intention of holding you to."

"A promise before God nonetheless. Do you disapprove?"

"Of course not. I am envious. I have not practiced my devotion in a long, long time."

That gave Ignazzio pause. He knew that the Moor was adept at the Christian style of prayer, but that it was not the faith he had been born into. "After Messina we could-"

The Moor was curt. "After Messina we shall be voyaging to Padua. You saw the symbol."

"Symbols," corrected Ignazzio. The arrested bankers had drawn them copies of the seals on their orders for gold. One was strange to Ignazzio, though not to Theodoro. The other was the Scaliger's own. "Once again someone is using Cangrande's seal to work against him."

"True. But that is not for us to investigate. We must watch the man the other seal belongs to."

Which meant there was no time to waste indulging the Moor's envy. Ignazzio was certain his companion gleaned more danger in the information at hand than he himself could see. What did they know so far? In Venice they had learned that a man fitting the scarecrow's description had received a handsome sum, drawn on a famous bank with offices in Bruges and Sicily. With that information, they decided to head north and see if they could trace the scarecrow via the bank's branch in Bruges.

During the journey north, luck had blown a small favor their way. Ignazzio had made it his habit to show the medallion that little Cesco had snatched from around the kidnapper's neck to every jeweler and smith he could find. Perhaps someone could at least identify the kind of pearl. But in Antwerp a silversmith said he thought the workmanship looked English. So after a fruitless interview in Bruges, they had pressed on to London. There they had the misfortune of being taken for Scottish sympathizers, which at least told them the medallion was Scottish, not English. They had been forced to flee back across the Channel to France, leaving them with the choice of sneaking up into Scotland by ship and risking capture, or journeying south to Sicily to the other branch of the bank. Ignazzio had been for the former, but Theodoro hadn't wished to chance their fate to the whims of the seas. Which brought them to today, and the image of two seals. One was unmistakably the Scaliger's. The other? The Moor certainly knew. Had Ignazzio ever seen it before? He was sure he hadn't. So then, whose was it? Dying to ask, he fought to restrain himself.

But then he realized Theodoro had already given him a clue. They were heading for Padua, which meant the seal's owner was a Paduan. Or resided there.

Glancing over at the Moor, lit now by the stars and the occasional torches in the street, Ignazzio said, "When can you tell me his name?"

"When we are gone from this place."

Ignazzio nodded. "All the more reason to pray to San Antonio for a safe journey." With that the astrologer kicked his heels, urging his mount down the cobbled decline.

Milazzo was not so much a town as a seaside getaway for the wealthy. Situated on a bluff just north of the road between Palermo and the city of Messina, its only true claim of notoriety was in being the place where San Antonio was shipwrecked a hundred years before. The Patron of Lost Things, the Poor, and Travelers, Antonio held the distinction of receiving the second quickest ordination as saint in church history, a mere 352 days. The holy man who held the record, ironically, was a Veronese. Always Verona and Padua, vying for dominance.

San Antonio's cave was at the bottom of the bay, far below the castle. The bluff the town was built upon was known as the Head of Milazzo. If that were literally true, the cave would have been the nose, with the mouth opening out onto the rich blue water.

The cave could only be reached on foot, by a panoramic stair cut into the stone facing. Ignazzio dismounted at the plateau leading to the stairs and began tying the lead of his mount to a spindly tree.

The Moor was gazing at the starlit water and the small vessels bobbing along the quay. "It may be prudent, this time of day, to sell our mounts and hire a fisherman's boat for the night."

Ignazzio was pleased by the notion — he had no desire to risk the lonely ride to Messina. He handed his horse's reins to the Moor. "Excellent. I shall meet you here."

With that, the astrologer lifted the hem of his robe and began the descent.

Having at last found a willing fisherman — pleasantly also a Moor — Theodoro returned to the appointed spot later than he had expected. He was surprised, therefore, when he did not find Ignazzio waiting for him. He looked about the plateau for a place to sit, sure that the young astrologer was taking his ease. There was an impression in the cliff face just opposite the carved stairway. The top jutted at such an angle that no light penetrated its depth.

Something about the shadow made him draw his dagger. Stepping closer, he heard a sound until now drowned by the slap of the surf below. It was a gibbering whimper, made by a voice he knew.

Placing the blade near at hand, the Moor knelt down and sent his hands questing into the shadow. At once he encountered flesh. It recoiled from his touch. "No-o-o!" cried a ghostly version of Ignazzio's tenor.

"It's me," said the Moor.

"Oh Master!" Ignazzio grasped the Moor's hands and dragged himself gasping into the starlight. "I'm sorry — so sorry..!"

"Who did this?"

Ignazzio doubled over in pain. He was covered in blood, which seemed to be coming from his midsection. "S-scarecrow! He was here — waiting! For months, he said! He knew we'd — we'd come here — bankers — "

"Hush." Most of Ignazzio's clothes had been ripped away by some kind of blade, revealing the small, pudgy body. "You need not speak."

The astrologer shook his head. "No — you have to — he, he said I–I had something of his! He searched me — I'm sorry, tell them I'm so — " Ignazzio's scream became a long whimper. "He took it, he took it!"

"I know." The Moor had already seen the absence of the medallion with its twisted, twisting cross of pearls. He was busy examining the wound. A curved knife or sickle of some kind. Stabbed in the groin and torn upward almost to the breastbone. It was a marvel Ignazzio had lived so long.

The dying man moaned, twisted. In a voice that was more complaining than grieving, he cried, "I never saw this in my stars!"

The Moor sat and cradled Ignazzio's head in his arms. "The stars show the path, but not each step."

"Oh dear God, dear Christ! It hurts so..!"

"Shhh. Through this pain, there is peace."

Ignazzio stared up with pleading eyes. "Master, I have served my purpose. Have I your goodwill?"

The Moor nodded. "You have. That, and my thanks."

"Then spare me, master! Spare me this — indignity!"

Theodoro of Cadiz, one of many names this Moor used, leaned forward and kissed his pupil's forehead. Then he put one hand on each side of Ignazzio's head and, taking a shallow breath, he pulled up and to the left. There was a sound like splintering brush, a rattling exhale, then the shivers and convulsions that follow such a death.

So. The medallion was worth more than they had thought. It was worth murdering for. Not only that, worth the effort of tracking them here. Or rather, waiting. Was he crouched nearby, listening still?

The Moor wasted no more time. He laid his pupil's corpse across the mouth of San Antonio's cave with enough gold to pay for a decent funeral. Then he returned to the fisherman and boarded the rickety boat. Halfway to Messina he changed their destination. He disembarked in a small village and immediately disappeared into the Moorish community there. It was time to blend in, discard Theodoro and resume an old identity. Perhaps even his real one.

But first he must write to Pietro. The boy needed warning. Their enemy was on the move again.

Vicenza

17 August 1316

In June Cremona's Cavalcabo had stepped aside as ruler to be replaced by Giberto da Correggio, a rabid Scaliger foe despite the fact that his niece was married to Bailardino's brother. Annoyed by this appointment, the Scaliger and Passerino Bonaccolsi returned to their western war and laid siege to Cremona by land and water. Jacopo was not sorry to be among those left behind.

There were those who were sorrowful, though. One was Bailardino, who regretfully refused to war against a relation — though it gave him an excuse to stay at home and play with his new son Bailardetto, just a year old.

Another disappointed soul was Giuseppe Morsicato, barber, surgeon, and knight. He had not been at Calvatone, which he lamented, for they had certainly needed his skills. This year his master was not taking the Vicentine army out on campaign, and so Morsicato was forced to sit around the palace, wasting his days nursing cases of heatstroke and overindulgence.

This particular evening found him at the Nogarola palace looking after an ailing squire. The youth was stricken with a summer fever and there was little to be done other than make him sleep. Morsicato's favored mixture of poppy seed juice and crushed hemp seeds would make the boy rest until his fever either broke or killed him.

It promised to be a long night, and he was hungry. Morsicato's wife had been asleep when he'd gotten the call and so hadn't ordered the maid to send food with him. Typical of Morsicato himself, he simply forgot. That was the way it always was — the urgencies of his profession overrode all practicality. Now, having seen the squire and tended him as best he could for the moment, the balding doctor with the forked beard made his way down to the kitchens of the Nogarola palace.

He spent twenty minutes scrounging food from the cupboards, ending with a good cold pheasant leg and a hunk of hard, crusty bread. He tried to find something other than wine to sop the bread in and was rewarded with some broth, which he spooned into a large wooden bowl. Having been a soldier, this was a meal he could appreciate. It was similar to a campaign supper, which was appropriate — most of the doctoring he'd done in his life had been on one battlefield or another.

It had been after his first battle (dear God, decades ago) that he'd learned how to set a broken arm, bind a broken head, and saw off a limb that would otherwise grow gangrenous. His amateur skill and steady stomach was noticed and he'd been trundled off to Padua to learn medicine. It was noteworthy that even during the flare-ups of the interminable war with Padua, any Veronese wishing to study medicine could go and learn. There were never enough doctors — especially ones skilled in battlefield treatment. It was his luck that he was good at all aspects of war.

I ought to be with my patient. He gathered what was left of his meal and climbed the stairs chiding himself for his thoughts of war. His first knighthood had had nothing to do with battle. He'd been doctoring on loan to the late emperor's army when he'd restored the adopted son of one of Heinrich's men. As everyone knew, the rescued boy had actually been Heinrich's own bastard. The Emperor had been grateful enough to create Giuseppe Morsicato a knight of the Order of the Knights of Santa Katerina at Mount Sinai. Morsicato's twin knighthoods by Cangrande and the Anziani of Vicenza had followed shortly thereafter, given out of a kind of piqued pride, so now Morsicato carried three Orders of Knighthood on his shoulders. All for saving a bastard son of a bastard ruler.

His mind came inexorably around to progeny, and bastard heirs. One in particular, under this very roof.

Thinking of the boy, Morsicato decided to check on the little scoundrel. Passing his patient's door, he continued on down the hall until he reached Cesco's door. Something was odd, but it took him a moment to realize what was missing. There should have been a guard here. Instead there was a closed door lit only by the moon shining in the casement at the end of the hall.

Something glistened on the tiled floor. Not even a pool. A few drops, nothing more. But he was a doctor. He knew blood when he saw it.

Laying his dish aside, Morsicato glanced about. No weapons hung on the walls because the little imp had proven too successful at prying them down. Morsicato only had the thin knife he used for probing wounds. It would have to do.

Leaning his ear against the door, he heard a rustling, then a whisper. "Where are you, my little puppy? Come out and play."

The voice was playful. The drops on the floor were not. Morsicato wondered how many there were and where they had hidden the body of the guard.

He could try the door. But if he made noise they'd be warned, and he'd have to break it down anyway. And noise was his friend, not theirs. Stepping back, he lowered his left shoulder and ran, bursting the door open with a great rending of wood. Knife ready, Morsicato stumbled into the chamber, looking about quickly.

They had a covered lantern. It was the first thing he saw, and almost the last. A blade came at him and he threw himself aside. The Scaliger would have rolled, or blocked it, or done some dazzling feat of physical prowess. Morsicato barely avoided being gutted, stumbling into a table. He dropped to his rump and ducked under the table as the second blow came. "Aiuto! Aiuto!" he hollered, kicking at his attacker's shins.

There was a shuddering vibration over his head, then the table lifted into the air. Morsicato was struck in the head as the table was tossed aside by a second man. Morsicato threw himself forward and lunged out blindly with his knife. He felt a jolt as his blade met flesh. A kick from the second man jerked his arm, twisting the knife. Someone yelped and fell on him. They struggled while the other man kicked them both.

Morsicato heard footsteps in the distance, many of them, pounding their way towards Cesco's room. He'd awakened the household. Extricating themselves, Morsicato's foes ran to an open window. Morsicato tried to follow, but one of the villains knocked the lantern off its resting place, spilling oil and fire across the floor. Morsicato cringed back from the burst of heat. Grabbing a tapestry off the wall he threw himself down to smother the flames. At once he was engulfed in pitch blackness.

The darkness was brief. Torches from the hallway created flickering shapes on the wall in the room. Then the chamber was filled with armed men — two knights with swords, some servants with chamber pots poised for throwing, a page with a sword much too big for him to wield usefully.

Bailardino appeared, shoving his way to the front. His expression was one of disgust. "What the hell is it? What's he done now?"

"Two men — " gasped Morsicato. "No guard — I tried to — "

Instantly Bailardino changed his tune. "Get a light in here!" The torchlight showed a room that had been thoroughly ransacked. "Bloody hell." Bail issued orders to search the courtyard and the surrounding streets at once. The knights and the page ran out, encountering more men in the hall and recruiting them for the chase. More lamps were lit, and Morsicato tried to assess the damage.

The room was a shambles, and not just from the brief fight. Quiet but determined, the two men had been tearing the room apart, looking for something. Someone.

Trembling, Morsicato reached the child's bed. He was unaware of holding his breath until the air hissed out of him. He glanced over at Bailardino. "Look at this."

"What is it?"

The bedding and mattress of straw were hacked to shreds. No blood. No flesh. No sign of the child.

"Where is he?!" The frantic question came from the door. In her robe, her long tresses released from their coil for the night, Katerina della Scala was a lovely sight. Until one noticed that her face was the colour of day-old ashes. At a run she crossed the room to gaze down upon the ruined bed. Silent tears formed at her eyes. Her hands twitched slightly. "Where is he?"

"This wasn't a kidnapping," her husband said, touching a loose feather floating in the air. "They mistook the pillow for him at first."

His wife had already come to the same conclusion. "Then he was hiding."

Morsicato looked around the room. "If that's true, they hadn't found him by the time I interrupted them. He must still be here."

Their adult eyes scanned the room in the same arc, left to right and back again. They saw no place for a child to hide that had not been ransacked.

"Where could he have gone?" asked Morsicato.

From above, there came a stifled giggle.

As one their eyes traveled up to the rafters. Setting his right foot on the ruined bed, Morsicato gripped the wooden struts of the crossbeam above. With an awkward hop, he pulled himself up. Bail's hands made a cup for the doctor to stand on, lifting the doctor until the forked beard jutted over the massive wooden brace.

Twinkling green eyes flecked with gold gazed back at him. "H'lo."

"Hello, Cesco," replied the doctor with a heartfelt sigh. He sent a look of triumph down to the others, then found himself being used as a ladder by the child. Stepping first on Morsicato's head, then his shoulders, the child dropped lightly onto the bed.

How he got up there they could never afterward discover. But clearly when he'd heard the scuffle outside the door, he'd climbed to a place of safety and waited in complete silence while the intruders searched for him. The timber was wider than his small body, entirely hiding him from view.

From the remains of his bed, two-year-old Cesco grinned up at his foster mother. But for the tear-streaks down his face, he might have been unaffected by the events of the night. "Here I am, m'donna."

She made no move to embrace him. All sign of emotion vanished in the blink of an eye. Her gaze was level, her voice calm. "I've been wondering where you hid when I looked for you. I shall remember to look where only monkeys, not men, may go." The child was momentarily downcast. Katerina held out a hand. "Come. Since you've made a mess of your room, you are being demoted. You shall spend tonight in the nursery."

Cesco's entire face lit up. The nursery was the room where his foster brother slept. The only time one could count on Cesco to be well behaved was when he was with Katerina's young son. Bailardetto. Which meant they were often kept together.

At the door Katerina turned to her husband. "I'll write to Francesco."

"I'm Cesco," said the boy.

"Hush." Katerina led him away, leaving Bail and Morsicato looking around the disorderly chamber.

The doctor said, "She realizes what this means?"

"Not much slips by her. I'd better go find where they hid the guards. I hope they're hurt, not dead."

Morsicato followed Bailardino out of the child's room. "They had accents. I don't know what kind — it wasn't familiar to me."

"Splendid. Now the enemy is hiring mercenaries."

But the doctor's mind had already moved on to imagine what Katerina's note to Cangrande would say.

He might have been surprised at the tone of the letter. She used a code known only to her father's children, of whom only two remained. After describing the evening's events, she added a coda that proved she'd come to the same conclusion as the doctor:

The stakes of your game have changed. This time they did not seem intent on taking Cesco. They appear bent on murdering him. The time for your precious secrets may be past. Next year he will be three, and you know what the astrologer's charts say. If you know who is threatening the Greyhound's future you must take whatever steps you deem necessary to stop them.

Arriving three days later, Cangrande's reply was characteristically brief:

I have no proof, and will make no accusations without proof. If you want to see the boy live, you'd best protect him better. Or else trust the stars. Isn't that what you always told me?

Reading this, Katerina balled up the note and threw it in the fire.