The Master of Verona

Thirty-Two

Vicenza

22 May 1317

Feeling unrested, Pietro awoke to a light tapping on the door to his suite. Fazio was up quick as a snake to answer it. Outside were Morsicato and Bailardino, with a few servants behind them. The doctor was wearing armour. Pietro stood and shook his head clear. Pulling on his breeches he said, "What time is it?"

"About two hours before dawn," said Bailardino. "Time to armour up and gather your men."

Fazio made for the chest that contained Pietro's armour, but Pietro stopped him. "Not today." He pointed to the servants bringing in another chest. As they lit the tapers about the room, Bail threw back the lid of the trunk, revealing another set of armour, much more worn than Pietro's. The helmet sat on top, a peaked dome with gilded metal rings providing the protection for ears and neck. Underneath it lay the breastplate. This was both gilded and plated in sliver, the two shimmering colours acid-etched into fantastic flowery swirls. At the center were two stars in opposition. For some reason, Pietro found this troubling.

"Gaudy, isn't it?" Bail was grinning at Pietro's expression. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to swallow your pride and wear the awful thing for at least a few hours."

Pietro slipped a shirt over his head. "It's not that. How am I going to fit it? He must be built like a wall!"

Bail snapped his fingers and the servants began strapping padding to Pietro's midsection. "Oh, this is good," he groaned.

"Don't knock it," said Morsicato from the door. "Many knights would kill for extra protection."

"Most knights would get killed in extra protection," retorted Pietro.

The breastplate was put in place, then the codpiece, followed by the arm and leg greaves. As he helped Pietro fit on the gloves, Fazio asked, "Whose armour is this?"

Bailardino chuckled. "It's the armour abandoned by Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio when he fled Vicenza three years ago. The Scaliger's been saving it for just such an occasion. When the invaders get to the gates they'll see a friendly face beckoning them in. Everything will be as inviting as possible."

Fazio nodded thoughtfully, then asked Pietro, "But why give it to you, ser?"

Pietro patted his leg. "Because the Count and I share a limp. We both list a little in the saddle. It will make the disguise that much more effective."

Fazio looked into the empty trunk. "Is there armour for me?"

"No," said Pietro. "No, don't argue. You're staying at the palace. I don't want to have to explain your death to the Scaliger's wife. Now help me get down the stairs."

Bail wished him good luck, then did the same for the doctor — it had been decided the night before that Morsicato would join Pietro's band of soldiers. Bail wished he could as well, but Katerina had pointed out that the Paduans were sure to have spies in and around the palace. If he were to disappear moments before a 'surprise' attack, the whole thing might fall apart.

The hardest part of leaving the palace was convincing Mercurio to stay behind. The hound sensed something was afoot, but he was a hunter, not a war dog. Eventually they were forced to lock him in a side chamber without windows.

When Pietro, Morsicato, and Fazio emerged from a side entrance to the palace, the sky was still dark. So when a shadow beside the door moved every man drew his sword. "Who's there?" demanded Pietro in a whisper.

He was answered by a rasping voice scraped from a friendly throat. "The Arūs."

Pietro lowered his blade as the Moor stepped close. He was dressed in some kind of eastern battle gear, lighter and quieter than theirs. Pietro sheathed his sword and took the hand the Moor offered him. "I hope you brought that falchion of yours."

"Don't be nervous, Ser Alaghieri. You will not die today."

Pietro let out a short laugh, half hope and half disbelief. "My stars said that?"

"They did."

"What about me?" demanded Morsicato.

The Moor looked at the face under the nondescript armour. "Is that the doctor's beard I see? My apologies, ser dottore, but I did not consult the heavens for you."

"Marvelous," muttered the medical man.

As they resumed walking, Pietro apologized for drawing his sword. "I'm a little jumpy today. I had this dream last night…"

Theodoro's brow furrowed. "Tell me."

"Oh, it was nonsense." Yet Pietro took time describing it.

The Moor was quiet for a moment, then said, "That's from your father's poem. The descent among the violent."

Pietro noted the Moor's grasp of Dante's work. But he was feeling foolish for even mentioning it. "It was nothing."

"You recall the proverb regarding early morning dreams?"

Pietro did. They were the ones that most often came true.

The Moor was pensive. "Perhaps I should not go with you."

Morsicato said, "Afraid? Do your stars say you won't die today?"

The Moor looked at the doctor with a level gaze. "The dream indicates danger to the boy."

Fazio piped up. "You should stay with Ser Alaghieri. What if he needs you?"

"I'll be fine." Pietro wondered if his voice carried any conviction. The truth was that he liked the idea of that wicked falchion covering his back.

The Moor said, "Someone needs to look after Cesco. Just to be certain he's safe."

Fazio puffed out his chest. "Why not me? You won't let me fight, but I'm fourteen. I'll be a man next year. I can watch over him."

"That might answer," allowed the Moor.

Pietro considered. "Very well. Take Mercurio, Cesco likes him."

Fazio saluted. "I won't let the boy out of my sight!" He rapped on the door and was readmitted by a Nogarola servant.

"A good solution," said Morsicato. "Keeps him busy."

"I hope so." Pietro led the way to the stables that housed his soldiers, all soundly asleep. Someone groaned, "What time is it?"

"What's the matter?" asked a veteran, snapping awake at the sight of Pietro in full armour.

Pietro cleared his throat. "Today, we have — that is to say — ah…"

Morsicato stepped forward into the light of the single taper. "There's a plot to take the city. Word has reached the Podestà this morning that the Paduans are planning an attack." He glanced at Pietro, who added, "I've offered our services to defend the city. So, ah, arm yourselves. Quickly."

They were already moving, throwing open their packs. Even the least experienced ones worked with a minimum of fuss, helping each other with chain mail and gauntlets, swords and pikes.

Pietro spent a few moments stroking his palfrey's long head. "Sorry, but today's work is for Pompey." He used a small stool to clamber onto his destrier's back. "Is everyone ready?"

"Yes!" The son of Pietro's neighbour was anxious for his first battle.

The Moor stepped into the light. "Don't be too eager."

"Who the devil is that?"

"A heathen!" All the men wheeled about to draw weapons.

Pietro put his horse between them and the Moor. "He's with us!"

One veteran looked horrified. "You want us to fight side by side with a back-stabbing Moor?"

"As long as he's beside you he can't stab you in the back, can he?" countered Pietro. "Look, there's no time. You trusted me with your lives. I trust him with mine. That should be enough. Now let's get moving."

At that moment the enemy was scaling Vicenza's walls. Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, led his small army of mercenaries and exiles up the battlements of San Pietro, repeating the action he'd taken three years earlier. Reaching the top, the Count's men quickly secured the turrets and made their way to the guardhouse. The guards put up no resistance, moving aside to allow the invaders access to the gates. The Count looked about him in delight. Whatever today brings, within a month the Scaliger will be no more.

As promised, his sympathizers within the walls cheered the returning exiles. The Count saw a large man with dark skin and a floppy hat leading the citizens in their repeated brays for the invading force. Other citizens, seeing which way the wind was blowing, began slipping north or east, away from where a battle loomed. They would wait, expecting the Scaliger to again miraculously appear and rescue their city.

The Count, too, was hoping for Cangrande to come. He had a special treat in store for the wily lord of Verona.

In the meantime, he had a job to do. He had his men lash ladders to the battlements, making it a chore for the Vicentines to dislodge the invaders. As he beat the lax with the flat of his blade he glanced downwards and saw the man in the floppy hat disappearing around a corner. Excellent. He's off to spread the word. We're coming.

At the base of a hill just south of the city, Marsilio da Carrara waited for the Count's signal. Carrara was uneasy. It wasn't the impending battle. It was the Count's manner. The old bastard had seemed positively overjoyed to have Marsilio with him. Why?

That the Paduan Anziani had come to Marsilio and not his uncle was a measure of how his stature had grown — Vicenza, the Palio, the duel, a few skirmishes with Treviso last year — all marked him as the first in the new generation of Paduan nobles. When they'd presented this plot to him, Carrara had approved every measure except the involvement of the exiled Vinciguerra. But the plan relied on the Count. To counter-balance this, Marsilio insisted on picking his men, his place of hiding, and his own time to attack; on being present for every war council; and on reading over Vinciguerra's every order before it went out.

Like a beaten man, Vinciguerra had agreed. "Marsilio, I'm an old man. I've given up the hope of ever seeing Verona again — unless I'm in chains, and I'll die before I let that happen. But I can live to see Vicenza stripped from the Pup. For that, I need your help." He'd stood there, humble, begging for Marsilio's help. Knowing his uncle would never have approved, Carrara had decided it was worth the risk.

Still, he'd been suspicious. So he'd given the Count a new shadow, one that trailed him to secret meetings around Padua, assignations at a house and at a church in the countryside. Carrara had laughed aloud when he'd discovered the Count was just keeping a mistress as well as his childless wife. Randy old goat. If that was the extent of Bonifacio's deceiving, a broken man's solace, then the attack could go forward.

But this morning it had been a different Count saluting him and riding off to scale the walls. Cheerful, energetic, almost giddy with delight. It raised Marsilio's hackles. Yet the Count couldn't be planning a betrayal — he was spearheading the attack! If he chose to, Carrara could hold his reinforcements just long enough for Vinciguerra to be cut to ribbons. The Count had to know that.

Thrusting the question aside, Carrara gestured Asdente over to again discuss the order of riding. "Scorigiani, you're leading the second wave of men, mostly foot. Wait until I'm well into the city to start your charge. I'll flush out the figli di puttana, and you can come in and decimate them."

"Gladly," replied Asdente, his broken mouth looking old and evil.

Carrara grunted, remembering what Asdente had said upon being offered the junior command. "Of course I'm damn well coming. After the last Vicentine adventure, my reputation is covered in mud. They won't let me lead a band of eunuchs to a brothel. I'm in for anything that will restore my reputation."

Marsilio turned to his captain of the horse. "You ride with me — though I want a few hundred foot soldiers with us, too."

The captain nodded. The Paduan troops were happy to have Carrara at their head. They might not have been so serene to follow him had they known his uncle would have opposed this venture. Marsilio hadn't told them. He had more important things on his mind now than his uncle's approval. He had a city to win, and a treacherous Count to watch.

In a low dale two miles to the west of the Paduan forces, Uguccione della Faggiuola was also reviewing his own dispositions with Nico da Lozzo. Mariotto Montecchio was nearby, clad in new French armour. Also present was Benvenito Lenoti, soon to be Mariotto's brother-in-law.

"Where the hell is Bonaventura?" growled Uguccione. "The Illasi group was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"They'll be here," said Nico.

"They better get here soon. Twenty men could make the difference."

Mariotto was silent. He too wanted Bonaventura's men to get here soon. He had something to say to Antony.

Life was nearly perfect for Mari. United with his wife, reconciled with his father, he felt he stood at the precipice of a whole new life. The only blight was his shattered relationship with Antony. Mari wanted a chance to set things right before the battle, in case something happened.

Beside him, Benvenito was nervous, eager to talk. War was very different than life in the lists. "Any word on Bonifacio?"

Uguccione chuckled nastily. "A farmer told us that a group of soldiers and horsemen tramped across his field under cover of darkness. Had to be him, moving into position. I haven't sent out scouts, in case he caught them. We know where he's supposed to be, and when."

"How many men-at-arms do the Paduans have?"

"About a thousand in all," said Uguccione. "They'll outnumber us, but just barely. Bailardino's whole garrison is hidden away inside the city. And there's another force waiting for the Paduans. Cangrande commissioned someone to wear Bonifacio's armour to amuse the enemy. They'll engage first."

Mari laughed. "Clever. And where is the Scaliger?"

"Off whoring in Cremona," replied Uguccione disdainfully. "Actually, he's probably on his way by now. He and Passerino were raising holy hell with the Cremonese a week ago, just to put the Paduans at ease. But however fast he rides, he'll miss today's fun."

At the sound of hoofbeats they turned. Bonaventura's force was arriving, late but fresh and ready to fight. Capulletto rode in among these men and moved to a place in the front line, as his rank dictated. His brother Luigi was in the row behind him, looking sourly eager.

Mariotto had hoped for a little more privacy, but now was the only time. He cantered over. "Morning, Antony."

"Montecchio."

Mari tried to remember that he deserved the cold greeting. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Good. I want to talk to you, too." He reached to belt and drew a silver dagger. "Remember this? I've had this since the Palio. You might not have noticed, but we switched daggers that day." He rotated the blade until the name showed, the acid-etching looking quite dark against the light colour of the blade. "After we're done here today, I'll give it back to you."

Mariotto's blood drained to his boots. "Antony, I — what are you saying?"

Antony slipped the dagger into his tall boot. "I'm saying if we live through this battle, I have a blade with your name on it."

Mari stared, then nodded. With nothing more for either to say, Mariotto returned to his station in the right-hand files of knights and men-at-arms, his mind not at all on the impending battle.

Pietro's soldiers raced into position. Word was filtering back that exiles were scaling the southern suburb walls and approaching the gate to the city proper. Citizens followed a well-ordered plan to evacuate this part of the city.

Pietro turned a corner and saw the gate across a wide expanse of a courtyard. He halted his men. This was the same gate that had stopped the Paduans three years before. Today the gate would open like magic, the bribed Muzio pretending to follow the Paduan plan. It would be up to Pietro's band to hold the gate until Uguccione and Bailardino's hidden troops arrived. He wondered how many the Paduans had brought. He wondered how long he could hold. He wondered what on earth he was doing.

He could hear the cheering exiles and mercenaries. The time was close. A guard (Pietro assumed it was Muzio) started pulling the ropes that controlled the massive gates. One of Pietro's men looked at him anxiously. "What's he doing? Surely the gate should stay closed!"

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." Pietro drew his sword and held his breath.

On the walls of San Pietro, Vinciguerra's face was red with excitement. So far his plan was going perfectly — better than perfectly. He nodded to his three archers, lined up along the outer wall. As one they lit their arrows and shot them high into the breaking dawn.

"There's the signal!" called Asdente.

After all the worries about the Count's possible treachery, Carrara's reaction was immediate. He turned to the troops. "Men! Now we reclaim what is rightfully ours!" The quick speech was the retelling of a history so well known it was taken for granted — the noble Guelphs, supporters of the pope; the wretched Ghibellines, tools of the empire, the worst tool being the bastard of Verona. Marsilio ended by invoking the motto that defined Padua: "Muson, Mons, Athes, Mare Certos Dant Michi Fines!"

His men cheering him, Carrara spurred his horse and cried, "Ride! For Padua! For Patavinitas!"

Mounted or on foot, his troops raced towards Vicenza. As they ran they cheered, hoping to frighten the city into submission with noise alone.

The Count watched them come, Carrara at the front as a brave leader should be. Brave but foolish. More experienced, Asdente held his troops back a little, allowing Carrara to enter first. Only when the battle was desperate should a commander fight in the thick of it. The Count planned to hold himself in reserve. He'd done what he promised for the Paduans. He'd gotten them in.

A young red-headed fellow came running by. His armour was poor and his boots were falling apart. But his sword was well cared for. "You there," shouted the Count. "Your name!"

"Benedick, lord!"

"Signore Benedick, I charge you to come back once we've reached the inner walls and tell me."

"I will, my lord." On foot, he raced to catch the mounted Paduans who thundered across the bridge and under the archway, the site of the massacre when Cangrande had dressed common citizens as archers and broken a whole army with only eighty men.

Let the Pup come, thought Bonifacio with a savage joy. I hope he does. I hope he's got some miracle at hand to salvage this. Let him feel the taste of sweet victory before I dash the cup from his lips.

Vinciguerra's voice joined the other exiles on the wall as they cheered the three thousand Paduans racing towards victory.

Three thousand. More than Verona's generals had anticipated. Far, far more. The Anziani of Padua had decided that this first thrust of the renewed war would also be the last.

Three thousand, faced by thirty rustic men-at-arms, under the command of Pietro Alaghieri.