The Master of Verona

Thirty-One

Vicenza

21 May 1317

Pietro's small company of soldiers rode up to the gates of Vicenza. In the midday heat, the guards who policed the gates watched them come. This tiny condottiere wasn't girded for battle; most of the approaching soldiers gazed at the sights of a new city.

One of them rode up to discuss entry. He wore no armour and in the hot day his shirt under the red leather doublet was open. At his side stalked a sleek and panting greyhound. The fellow introduced himself to the guards, who formally asked the party's destination. "France, eh? Be sure to bring your own wine."

"Hell, I'm bringing my own cook." The guards chuckled and Pietro asked, "Are the Nogarolese in residence?"

"Yes, ser. Lord Bailardino and his family."

"Who's the giant?" asked another of the garrison. His eyes were fixed on the massive form astride an uneasy mule. The big man was slapping his knees at some remark from his neighbour, almost falling from the mule's back. He was clearly drunk.

Pietro scowled. "A Spanish notary who asked for protection on the journey. He's caused me a great deal of trouble." Last night he'd slipped into bed with a woman who'd also begged Pietro's protection for the trip. Not that she'd minded, but her husband wouldn't have been amused.

"He's a right monster," muttered a guard.

A gust of wind took the hat off the Spaniard's head. Reaching for it he fell out of his saddle again. His hair and beard were black as the night sky and his skin was deeply tanned.

Pietro shrugged. "He speaks seven languages, he tells me."

As the guards admitted Ser Alaghieri's band, they laughed at the swaying Spaniard. He didn't seem to notice that he was entering a city, so intent he was on his wineskin. His fellow travelers ignored him. For them it had clearly been a long ride. As they passed through San Pietro, the Spaniard called out to women passing by, his flow of vulgar language both wretched and constant, punctuated only with belches and nose-blowing. The way his mule staggered, it was clear the Spaniard had been debauching his steed as well as himself.

Fazio trotted up to Pietro. "Let's be rid of him, eh, master? We've gotten him here safely. Let's just dump him and be done."

Pietro nodded. "Good idea. Persig — Per — Hey, notary! Yes, you! You're here. Understand. No, look at me! This is Vicenza. Vi-cen-za! You're here!" The notary gazed blankly at him from under the brim of his frayed straw hat. "Do you understand? You can go now?"

"But, señor, I can — mmm, heh, 'scuse please — I can serve. You need a fine notary, no?"

"No," said Pietro firmly. He'd been afraid of this. "We don't need a scribe."

"Truly?"

"Truly, no."

The Spaniard shrugged elaborately. "If you say, señor. Farewell."

"Adios." Pietro watched drunken mule stumble off, its rider in search of another patsy to support his drinking.

By the time Pietro reached the Nogarola palace, the other followers had all broken off, finding their lodgings or going about their business. Pietro brought Fazio and his thirty men to the huge double doors of Katerina and Bailardino's home. They were welcomed by servants and Pietro asked that his men be fed. He then instructed his band of soldiers to be asleep by nightfall. Since they were unaware that a battle loomed, they thought him a killjoy, but he made them swear to obey. Pietro entered the palace and was shown to a guest suite, Mercurio padding by his side.

He was unaware he had been observed.

Four hours later, refreshed from a bath and a nap, Pietro followed a maid into a wide reception hall on the first floor. It was just how he remembered it — the fresco of a colourful pastoral scene, the gauzy curtains framing the arched doors that led to the peristyle garden. Beyond the billowing curtains, a fountain burbled up a clear stream of water. Pietro remembered sitting on the balcony above, trying to identify the sculpted figures. Now, after two years of university study, it was obvious. Holding the vessel for the water were three muses, Calliope, Clio, and Melpomene. He reflected that, given the amount of power astrology held in this household, Urania should have been present instead.

After days of riding, Pietro's leg was sore. Against his vanity, he was using his cane. He would need all his strength tomorrow.

As they drew near the central garden, Mercurio watched the flowing curtains warily, as if a hare might suddenly emerge. Pietro felt the same prickling sensation at the base of his neck. He saw nothing, but felt sure he was being watched.

His eye caught a reflected twinkle in the garden. A soft, moist pair of eyes peeking out from behind a bush. He smiled. "Hello, Cesco."

The youth stood. He was barely the height of Pietro's thigh.

"H'llo." Cesco's clothes were clean but had seen much darning, especially about the elbows and knees. His hair was more curled than Cangrande's and of a lighter hue, bright and blond. The ringlets had been allowed to grow long, covering the eyes that now flickered from man to hound. "Wha's his name?"

"This is Mercurio."

"M'curo!" The boy clapped his hands together in a demanding way. Amazingly, the dog trotted over and fell at the child's feet.

Watching the boy scrub happily at the dog's neck, Pietro said, "You're lucky. He generally doesn't do that for anyone but me." He advanced a few paces into the garden. "You don't know it, Cesco, but we've met before. My name is Pietro. I'm looking for your mother."

"La Donna's not here," the child said, still stroking the dog. He played for a moment with the coin dangling from Mercurio's collar, then glanced up at Pietro's head. "You don' have hat."

It was an odd statement. "No. No, I don't." Then it struck Pietro. "Do you remember me?"

"You don' have a hat," the child repeated.

"You tried to play with my hat once," said Pietro, "when you were a baby. Remember?"

"I have a toy," replied the child, holding forth a tangle of metal. One twisted piece hung from another.

"Did your father give you that?" asked Pietro.

"God is the father."

Pietro blinked, then tried again. "Who gave you this?"

"Cesco."

"You're Cesco."

The child made a face. "The other Cesco."

"Oh," said Pietro, smiling.

The boy offered the puzzle. "Do it." As Pietro walked closer, the child fixed his gaze on his limp and cane. "You're hurt."

Pietro patted his thigh. "A long time ago. It's nothing."

"Don't show it," advised the child. "No one will help." Cesco's light green eyes met Pietro's brown ones, and the boy pressed the puzzle into Pietro's hands.

Pietro was far more interested in the child than the tangle of molded metal bits, but Cesco was expectant. Examining the two pieces, Pietro gave it an experimental tug. They clinked together fruitlessly. Cesco did a little dance as Pietro struggled to decipher the twists and turns necessary to free one piece from the other.

Finally Pietro shrugged and handed the pieces back. "Can you show me?"

Taking the pieces with both hands, the boy twisted. It was awkward, for the curves of metal were too large and unwieldy for the hands that manipulated them. Once, twice, three times the boy pulled. And suddenly the two parts were free of each other, one in each hand. He looked up at Pietro, grinning.

"How did you do it?" asked Pietro, bending low.

Before the smiling child could respond, another voice echoed across the walled garden. "Cesco, don't bore Pietro. He's had a long journey."

At Katerina's words the sun vanished from the boy's face. What remained was light reflected from some inner source, carefully hidden. Cesco dropped the puzzle and walked straight-backed to Donna Katerina's side. He did not take her hand, but waited close to her, gazing at Pietro. The dog Mercurio followed, standing by his side.

Katerina was as beautiful as ever. If her hair was pulled in a more austere fashion than of yore, it only served to outline her fine cheeks and mouth. Her latest pregnancy was just beginning to show in the folds of her dress. A faint dappling of grey was appearing around her temples, neatly disappearing into the blond streaks in her chestnut hair.

Pietro greeted her by sweeping into a full bow, refusing to use the cane at all. "Domina."

"Cavaliere." She matched his formality by reaching out a hand for him to kiss. His lips brushed her wrist. "You are more handsome than ever. You will be joining Bailardino and me for supper? I am looking forward to adult conversation." Cesco's head came around at those words. Katerina took no note. "We have a guest staying here, but he sent a maid to inform us that he is unwell. And you remember Morsicato? He's asked to examine your leg, but I suspect it was just to hear the gossip from Bologna. I've invited him to dinner, which should spare you a prodding."

"I don't mind the prodding. He saved my leg. He probably wants to hear about the latest in the science of autopsy. But who is your ailing guest?"

Katerina scowled. "No one of consequence — though he would disagree. A very rich banker called Pathino, from Treviso. He wants to set up some sort of business here and is wooing Bail."

"He'd do better to woo you," said Pietro.

"How gallant!" Katerina extended an arm. "Shall we retire to the sitting room until supper? You must tell me all about Ravenna, and then we must plot to get you back in my brother's good graces." She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "I'm pleased he chose you to defend the city. Surely this means your exile must be nearly over."

Together they exited the garden. The moment they were gone, Cesco and Mercurio began chasing each other around the fountain. Suddenly Mercurio growled. Cesco looked down to see what was the problem, then followed the dog's gaze up and up to a little ledge high above. There, luxuriously stretching out its paws, rested an orange and white cat.

Cesco shivered. Lifting a small stone he pitched it at the cat. Usually his aim was perfect, but he'd thrown in a hurry and so missed the feline's head by a couple inches. The creature leapt to its feet. Just as a second missile was launched, the cat sprang up through a high window and disappeared, the dog barking after it.

"Cesco?" came Donna's voice from behind him.

He froze. He knew he wasn't supposed to fight the cats. But he still said, "Cat."

"Leave them alone. They're survivors." She withdrew back behind the curtain, where the knight with the hurt leg asked, "He doesn't like cats?"

"He loathes them. Nothing gets him angry like a cat. We try to keep them out of the palace, but they like it here. He thinks they taunt him."

Cesco remained behind, this time watching until they were well out of sight behind the curtains. There was a rumble of deep, raspy words, and Cesco knew that the dark man was greeting the adults. Cesco didn't know why but the dark man scared him a little. He tried to spend a lot of time with the dark man to find out why.

Making sure the cat was really gone, Cesco retrieved the pieces of his puzzle. After brushing the garden dirt from their metal limbs, he went to the fountain. Last month he'd found a spot under the lip of this sculpture, a crevice that made a tiny invisible shelf. His stubby fingers fitted the puzzle inside, wedging it tightly so there was no way it would come loose. Other prized possessions rested in this secret chamber as well. He wanted to keep them safe until his brother Detto was old enough to share them.

The hound began to bark. Cesco glanced around the garden. No one had seen him hide the toy. But the dog was insistent. Cesco followed Mercurio to a small bush. Lying under the shrubbery was a wax tablet with some numbers inscribed upon it. Frowning all over his little face, Cesco gazed at it.

"It's a puzzle," he whispered to the hound. The dog snuffed once. "For me, not you, silly." Cesco played with the numbers in his head. A puzzle! He decided to hide it until after supper. Then, when he solved the puzzle, he'd show it to Detto. It was never too early to teach Detto the fun of puzzles.

Morsicato looked healthy, though his face bore more lines and his forked beard was salted with white. Greeting Pietro warmly, the first words out of his mouth were, "I hear you've got a woman professor! Tell me everything!"

Pietro laughed aloud. "I should have known! Yes, the mysterious Novella d'Andrea. She teaches from behind a curtain, lest we poor students lose our focus."

"So no one's ever seen her?"

"Not as far as I know. I haven't, anyway. But there are scads who claim they have."

"O, why oh why didn't they have female professors when I went to school?" The doctor linked his arm into Pietro's. "Come, let's in to dinner, and you can tell me everything that's happening in the scandalous world of higher knowledge!"

On the way in to dinner, Pietro met little Bailardetto, just being put to bed. Less than two years old, walking well and talking a little, Detto was certainly his father's son — same black hair, same strong face. He was a regular baby, no less wonderful for the lack of Cesco's brilliance. Pietro was surprised to realize he liked children. He'd never really thought about it before.

Dinner was pleasant. Pietro was surprised that Cesco was allowed to eat at their table. The boy was quiet, though, eating and staring off into space. He did perk up a bit as Pietro described for Morsicato an autopsy he'd attended. But then the talk turned to politics and he vanished behind his eyes again.

Pietro began the subject change by asking, "Do you think Frederick will be declared emperor?"

Bailardino shrugged. "No one knows."

This was the great event that had occurred in Verona during their absence. Just two months ago the Scaliger had come to a momentous decision, finally choosing which imperial rival to back. The Scaliger deemed Frederick the Handsome of Bavaria to have a better claim than Ludwig the Bavarian, so on the sixteenth of March, Cangrande della Scala had formally pledged his allegiance — and his armies — to Frederic.

"There's a candidate no one has mentioned as yet," said Morsicato slyly.

"Not Cangrande?" asked Pietro.

Bailardino laughed. "No no no. He means the Duke of Vienna, the reluctant Vincentio."

"Oh."

Katerina said, "I didn't get the sense that he is reluctant. From what I hear he's a shrewd administrator, and rather manipulative for one so young. He just doesn't like the pomp of office."

Her husband shrugged. "In spite of his Italian nickname, he's a good German candidate, with a distant relation to the throne. He could pursue it."

Talk shifted to the war Cangrande was waging, then to news from France, which brought the conversation around to the return of Mariotto. Pietro said, "I know Aurelia's getting married, but to whom?"

Bailardino frowned. "I'm not sure, to tell the truth."

Katerina slapped at her husband. "Then you're not paying attention. His name is Ser Benvenito Lenoti, and he is as handsome as he is brave."

"That doesn't mean much, unless he's uncommonly daring. Wait — Lenoti. Isn't he the tilter? Well, he's assured himself of a lifetime of good horses."

"M'I be 'cused?" asked Cesco, pushing his platter of half-eaten fruit away.

Katerina considered. "Finish the apples and you may." Cesco shoved a handful of apple slices into his mouth, hopped down from his seat, and ran from the room. "Finish them!" called Katerina after him. "Don't let me find spewed apple bits in the halls!"

The men were all laughing. "Oh, yes! It's all funny until the roof falls in. He's up to something," she added, motioning for a maid to follow him.

"Kat, let him alone!" sighed Bailardino.

"You'll be sorry when the palace burns down around your ears."

Pietro said, "And how is Cangrande's namesake?"

Katerina pursed her lips. "If I say he's brilliant, it will only be a mother's opinion. The same if I call him a trial. Perhaps the doctor has a more objective assessment."

A bemused look crossed Morsicato's face, making his forked beard jut out at an odd angle. "Well, he's active. I'm always bandaging up his scrapes, setting a sprain. Loves to whack me with his little wooden sword."

"Me too," said Bail, mournfully rubbing his backside.

"He took to riding like he was born to it — swimming as well. And I think he's reading now. But he seems to best enjoy fiddling with machines and things, seeing how they work. Donna Katerina has this horizontal loom with foot pedals. Cesco took the thing apart when no one was looking, then watched as it was reassembled — thought it a tremendous joke."

"He's not the only one," said Katerina with a sour look at her husband.

"Well, it was damned clever!" protested Bail. "Anyway, since then Cangrande's been sending the imp puzzles — interlocked rings, that sort of thing. We're all thankful. They keep him occupied for hours at a time."

"I saw one puzzle," said Pietro. "I'd think he'd finish them quickly."

"He does," replied Bail. "He has an uncanny knack for them. But when he's done with one, he studies it. He's fascinated at how pieces fit together. And he likes showing them to his little brother."

"Is he sleeping more?"

Katerina sighed. "I'm afraid not. I don't know if it's nightmares or if he simply believes that the moment he falls asleep is when we bring in the dancing elephants. Sometimes I have to ask the doctor for a draught to help him sleep, though always as a last resort. But even with the potion he only rests four hours a night."

Bail put his hand over his wife's. "What she's not telling you, Pietro, is that he wakes up shaking every night. He won't tell us what his dreams are about, but it must be dreadful."

Dinner ended and Bail dismissed the servants. That was when they began to discuss the plans for the next day. Unsurprisingly, Katerina stayed to voice her opinions.

Pietro's main concern was the signal to Uguccione's troops. Bailardino told him, "Cangrande said we should ring the bells of the Duomo. It's close to where the fighting will be, and the Paduans will think it's an alarum, not a signal."

"But if it's that close to the fighting, won't we be in danger of being cut off from it? If that happens, how do we give the signal?"

"Won't happen," insisted Bail. "I'll station ten men inside and a dozen more to move in once the fighting starts. That bell tower will be the best-guarded building in the city."

"How will they know when to give the signal?"

"I'll ride over and tell them myself."

Pietro glanced at Katerina. "Are you sure the people at the palace will be safe? Wouldn't you rather get Donna Nogarola and the children out of the city for the day?"

"Of course he would," said Katerina before her husband could respond. "But I would not leave without shackles, a gag, and a blindfold." She ignored Bail's ribald response. "This is my home. No one will force me to leave it. Besides, the Paduans doubtless have spies in the city. Any one would give us away. No, our preparations seem adequate."

Katerina departed soon thereafter. Pietro, Morsicato, and Bail stayed up for a while playing at dice. Morsicato lost badly, and promised to pay up if he survived the next day.

Sometime before midnight Pietro returned to his room. Fazio was asleep on his pallet by the door, though he woke hazily to ask if Pietro needed anything. "No, go back to sleep."

Pietro stripped and climbed beneath the covers of his own fine bed. The combination of wine and fatigue washed away the fears of what tomorrow might bring. It was a hot night, and he decided to sleep without coverlet. After a quick but devout prayer, he fell almost instantly asleep.

Pietro was scrambling down a rocky slope towards a river. It was like the shores of the Adige, but past landslides had left giant stones lining the water's edge. There was a ferocious black hound by Pietro's legs. Together they ran from something terrible that bellowed behind them, hurling stones at their heads. Only if they crossed the river would they be safe.

A battle was being fought by the river's far edge. Centaurs lined up two at a time. They did not fight with bow and arrow, as centaurs should. They were using strange curved swords that flashed and danced through the air in unceasing arcs. Blood showered the air. As soon as one centaur was slain, another would step forward to take his place in an unending procession. Beyond the centaurs naked men writhed and danced in the river, some up to their ankles, others only visible by the tops of their heads.

This was not the Adige. It was blood red and on fire. A burning river of blood.

The scene altered, the way dreams shift of a sudden. They were still above the fray, the battle raging on below them, the river flowing on. But Pietro no longer stood on the detritus of the earthslides. He was on the Scaliger's balcony in the Arena.

The dog beside him had turned into a young man. Without turning to his companion Pietro said, "We're safe now."

Speaking had been a mistake. The centaurs all paused midstroke, their heads turning to look up. One cried out, "A qual martiro venite voi che scendete la costa? Ditel costinci!" Another pointed to Pietro and shouted, "Siete voi accorti che quel di retro move ciò ch'el tocca? Così non soglion far li piè d'i morti!" There was an ugly growl from the centaurs. Even the bloody corpses on the Arena floor turned their heads.

Pietro's companion held up his hands to forestall the impending violence. "It is true. He is not dead! I am his guide here, at the request of la Donna Katerina."

Pietro suddenly knew he was dreaming, because he knew this scene. It was from his father's poem. He relaxed, knowing how this scene was supposed to play out. He would climb onto the back of one of the centaurs and ride across the river.

But his companion was not Virgil. Turning, he saw Cesco gazing disdainfully back at him. The boy's hair was no longer blond but brown, worn so long it hung well past his neck. He was also taller, thinner, more muscled. But the eyes were the same unearthly green. "Who were you expecting?"

Pietro gazed at the face that was level with his own. "A god. Or a poet."

"Granted in both!" Cesco grinned, showing long canine teeth that were very unlike those of Cangrande. A ring dangled on a chain from his neck.

Suddenly Cesco faced the centaurs and, with a shrill cry, leapt off the balcony. Snatching up a fallen sword, he laid about him right and left. All the idle centaurs leapt forward, determined to kill the youth who ran like lightning through their ranks. Fighting with spinning strokes Pietro had never seen, Cesco cut a swath to the river. At its edge he turned. "Are you coming?"

"Mercurio!" called Pietro, looking for his hound. "Mercurio!"

"'Twill serve!" shouted the warrior-child, laughing aloud as he killed one centaur after another. "Si Dieu ne me veut ayder, le Diable ne me peut manquer!"

Pietro noticed that the boy was fighting one-handed. His left hand clutched a white cloth to his chest. The white cloth was turning red…

Pietro jerked awake. He was bathed in sweat, could smell the fear on his body.

"Master?" said Fazio from across the dark room, "Are you hurt? I heard a cry."

"It was n-nothing." Hands fumbling for a blanket, Pietro's teeth were chattering in spite of the heat. "Ah, a b-bad dream, nothing more. Don't — don't worry. Go back to sleep."

Pietro waited until he heard Fazio's breath ease once more. Then Pietro swung his feet to the tiled floor and sat, his head in his hands.

Nerves, that's all. I'm afraid for the battle tomorrow — today, probably. I'm not an oracle or a prophet, my dreams don't come true.

But the truth was he'd had a dream like this one before. Three years before, the very day he was wounded, he'd lain in a room in this very palace and dreamt almost the same dream. It was only now that it came back to him. Was it some kind of portent?

It's a sign, all right. It's a sign I've read father's poem too many times. L'Inferno has eaten into my brain. This has nothing to do with tomorrow.

Still, as he laid his head to rest once more he recalled the dream Cesco's final words: If God won't help me, the devil won't fail me. An apt phrase for the coming dawn.