The Master of Verona

Thirty-Three

"I hope you're a decent actor," whispered Morsicato. At the far end of the courtyard Muzio almost had the gate fully open.

"Did you want to play the part?" hissed Pietro. "I could stab you in the thigh."

"You should have thought of that earlier."

"I did." Another worry popped into Pietro's mind. "What if the Count's with them?"

"He won't be." Morsicato didn't sound too sure.

"But what if he is?"

The doctor shrugged. "If he is, I won't have to pay you my losses from last night."

"Wonderful," muttered Pietro. He glanced behind him. The Moor had moved his horse to the back of the group, hoping to go unseen. He was rather distinctive-looking in his light, Eastern-style armour and conical helmet, and it was doubtful that the Count would travel with such a man.

Pietro addressed his men. "All right, listen. The city has been betrayed. The Paduans are about to come through that gate. They won't know who we are, though, and that works to our advantage. Just follow my lead and don't attack until I give the signal." Then pray that Bailardino and Uguccione get here in time.

Reading Pietro's thoughts, Morsicato said, "They'll be here."

"I'm sure. Christ, are they racing cattle ahead of them? There can't be that many horses in the Feltro." Muzio finally heaved the tall oak doors wide. "Here we go."

The first rider through the gate was fully armoured and wore the colours of Padua. Behind him came the captain, bearing the standard that proclaimed their origins for all the world to see. There followed a hundred more soldiers, spreading themselves out behind their leader.

Pietro knew the leader's crest all too well. "Shit! It's Carrara!"

"You don't have to fool him long. Go!" The doctor kicked his heel and nicked Pompey's leg. The massive horse jolted forward, Pietro with it. The charade had begun, whether Pietro liked it or not.

"Hell and damn," he murmured as he raised his hand in greeting. Why couldn't Carrara have been sensible and commanded from the rear?

Carrara spied Pietro at once. A look of rage swept over the Paduan's face inside his open visor. Giving his horse the spur he came straight towards Pietro.

"No, no, you pezzo di merda," whispered Pietro, "don't come here. Talk to your men, look around, sharpen your sword. Just don't — "

Carrara reined in beside him. "Count. I thought you were supposed to remain up on the walls." In reply to the cold greeting, Pietro grunted once. "I thank you for getting that gate open. Now get out of my way. My men can take the city."

Pietro said nothing.

"If you think that you're going to take the credit for this — this is my day, Bonifacio! Remember that!" Carrara turned away contemptuously and rode back to his men.

Pietro sagged in his saddle. Oh God, thank you. How did I escape that one? In his anger, Carrara hadn't noticed that the armour fitted poorly, nor that the wearer was half a foot shorter than the Count. Certainly Pietro had none of the Count's bulk. But somehow, impossibly, the disguise had worked.

Morsicato rode forth to join him. "Well, you pulled that off."

"He's too concerned with his own dignitas," said Pietro softly. "He thinks the Count will steal the glory of the moment."

"He's in for a shock."

"Maybe not." Paduan soldiers were still streaming through the open gate. The yard was filling up rapidly, and there seemed to be no end of them in sight. "The moment Marsilio has enough men through that gate, he'll massacre the city. If Bailardino doesn't move now — "

"Buenas dias!" A voice echoed around the cobblestoned yard, reverberating off the many houses and apartments that enclosed it. All eyes looked up to the roof of a nearby tavern where a tanned man in a floppy hat was standing, wineskin in hand. It was the notary who had hitched a ride to Vicenza with Pietro's men. He was dressed in the same clothes, though he might have had a shave — it was hard to tell under the shadowy hat.

"Señores!" he called drunkenly down to the Paduan knights. "I welcome you all! I hear Padua is very nice this time of year! I'll have to come and visit! You have fine women, yes?" He dropped his boodle bag and watched it spatter all over the road in front of the tavern. "Ah, now there's a sorry sight! I don't suppose any of you have a little ale to spare? Or better yet, wine?"

Seeing that this Spanish drunkard was no threat, Carrara started giving orders. Yet still the man persisted. "Can any one of you give me a drink? I can pay!"

A Paduan captain shouted, "We don't need your money."

A sly look entered the notary's face. "If I had money I would not be begging. No, my — how you say, currency — my currency is information. I can tell you where Señor Nogarola is right now. And his men."

A lump formed in Pietro's throat as Carrara rode nearer the Spaniard's perch. "Tell me. Now."

The Spaniard countered with a demand of his own. "Where's my drink, señor?"

Carrara ordered ten of his men to break down the door to the tavern. "There! You can drink yourself dead on what's inside. Now tell me where they are!"

The notary belched in a satisfied way as he heard the final crash of the door coming down. "Why, they're right here!"

Immediately four of the Paduans flew backward from the tavern, crossbow bolts piercing their chests. Vicentine men-at-arms sprang up from hiding places in all the surrounding buildings.

Rows of crossbowmen appeared from all corners of the yard. In windows, behind barrels, from rooftops, as one they fired. Two dozen Paduans jerked from their horses. The Paduan standard fell. Two Paduans lifted it again only to be dropped in the next wave.

Pietro stared up at the man on the tavern roof, who now tore the hat from his head. The soot of yesterday washed away, the sun-bleached chestnut hair gleamed in the dawn light.

Cangrande della Scala.

"That son of a bitch!" Even as Pietro gasped in delighted outrage, Carrara was shouting, "Attack! Attack!" There was no way to retreat even had he wished to. And Carrara still had the advantage of numbers. "Attack!" he cried again, spurring his horse directly at the tavern.

Crossbows were devilishly slow to load. As hundreds of unscathed Paduans moved towards their ambushers, the Vicentines on the ground level dropped their crossbows and drew their swords, while those above reloaded and took aim.

Carrara stood in his saddle and swung up at the Scaliger, who skipped backward along the tiled roof. Bending, he ripped up a clay tile and threw it backhanded to shatter against Carrara's helmet, rocking the Paduan back in his saddle. Another tile struck his shoulder, a third crashed against his head. Marsilio peeled away, racing his horse out of reach of the projectiles. Immediately Cangrande shifted targets, aiming for the Paduan men-at-arms who were swarming up the sides of the tavern to reach him.

Pietro was watching in awe. It was Morsicato who said, "Time to jump in, I think!"

"Right!" Pietro led his men into the center of eight hundred Paduans who had formed a ring of shields to defend against the crossbows. Believing Pietro's force to be friendly, the Paduans opened the ring to them. His men guessed his thoughts, and so pretended until the last instant that they were coming in to reinforce the Paduan center.

Reaching the center of the ring, Pietro wheeled about and used his sword's pommel to begin clubbing at the backs of the Paduan knights, knocking them from their horses. Bearing in mind what the Code said about attacking from behind, he didn't aim to kill, but focused on unseating as many as he could.

For a moment shock confounded the Paduans. Then from the roof Cangrande cried, "Betrayal! We are betrayed!" The Paduans picked up the chorus. Suddenly all was chaos. Beset on all sides, the gates blocked by more of their fellows trying to stream in, the besieged Paduans had nowhere to go but further into the city-

— where they ran into the waiting jaws of the Nogarola brothers. Fully armoured, Bailardino resembled a huge bear and Antonio looked like a stocky one-armed ferret. They'd brought their horsemen up at the first sound of real fighting, and now the Paduans came running headlong into a wall of Vicentine spears. Still more crossbowmen on the roofs took down the second row of knights, so that the third row was facing a wall of their own dead.

Carrara screamed at Pietro, "Damn your eyes, you traitor! I'll see you dead for this!"

"Come and try it!" called Pietro, not bothering to disguise his voice.

But Carrara was no longer paying attention. Pietro traced his gaze to the gate the Paduans had come through. The hidden Vicentines had rushed forward to heave it shut to cut Carrara off from reinforcements. The Paduan leader was spurring hard in the direction of the gate. If Padua was going to win, that gate had to stay open.

"Stop him!" cried Pietro.

Carrara ducked low as a half dozen bolts hissed overhead. Dozens of Paduan soldiers were huddled behind wounded or dead horses, every one waiting for the moment to charge and take their revenge. Carrara called out for them to follow as he pressed on towards the gate. Recognizing the dire need for reinforcements, they obeyed, hacking furiously.

Pietro saw a youth working hard to close the gate against the tide of invaders. Pietro had seen him three years before, in Cangrande's palace. Muzio, the fellow who had today pretended to betray Vicenza. Now that the charade was done, he was straining along with a dozen Vicentines assigned to this single vital chore. They all pulled the ropes that swung the doors, hauling against the press of Paduan bodies on the far side.

Pietro kicked and kicked, but there was no room for his horse to maneuver out of the struggle. He watched as Carrara carved a path towards the rope. Muzio's back was to the fray, so he never saw the blow that separated his head from his shoulders. His hands continued to pull for a long moment, then the body crumpled. Vicentines scattered under the fury of Carrara's attack, freeing him to turn his rage on the thick rope controlling the door. One cut, two, three, four. The thick braid parted. With no more resistance, the vanguard of Asdente's fifteen hundred troops began to swing the gate open again.

Pietro felt the change in the momentum at once. The yard was thick with struggling bodies pressed against each other, fighting for room to maneuver. But more Paduans were appearing every second. Soon sheer numbers would force the Vicentines out of the yard. Leaving his thirty men in the middle of the fray to be unhorsed and run through.

The sun now broke the horizon, glinting off the bloody armour of the Paduans and Vicentines battling for possession of the city's heart. Pietro could hear Carrara urging on Asdente's reinforcements pouring through the widening gap. Then the Paduan turned his mind to the bowmen, pointing at torches in brackets along the city wall, still lit from the night just ending. "Burn them! Burn them out!" Carrara lifted a hanging torch from its bracket and, riding to the side of a building full of snipers, tossed the firebrand into a window on the first floor. Carrara's men immediately caught on, grabbing anything flammable and holding it against the structure.

With the unseasonable dryness that had plagued the Feltro this year, the flames were quick to spread. In minutes the ambushers on the second and third floors would find themselves shooting through smoke.

Other Paduans quickly applied the idea to other buildings. Smoke filled the courtyard, ending the effectiveness of the crossbows. They could shoot, but the Vicentines had no idea if they were aiming at friend or foe.

Pompey slipped on cobblestones made slick with blood. Pietro lurched in the saddle, just avoiding the pike that drove upward for his head. Morsicato speared the pike's owner, calling out, "We're in trouble!"

"We'll hold!" Pietro glanced around. There were about twenty of his thirty men left in their saddles — not bad for being so horribly outnumbered. The element of surprise had worked for them, and the bowmen had kept most knights too busy to fight back. But now, with smoke blocking their covering fire, Pietro was sure that the Paduans would rip apart the 'traitors' in their midst.

A blow on his shield rocked him back in his saddle. He returned the blow with all the strength he owned. The attacker reeled back, then lunged again. Pietro dodged, swallowing smoke that had drifted into his helmet. His eyes were tearing up, his lungs were choked. He swung his shield, felt it connect, and used the respite to tear off the borrowed helmet. Already his adversary was back, but Pietro got there first, throwing the hereditary helmet of the San Bonifaci clan at the man's head. As the man ducked, Pietro got his sword around to bash in his skull. The Paduan sagged sideways in his saddle, then his face disappeared as Pietro's well-trained horse opened his mouth and clamped down on a target. The Paduan screamed in his throat as he died.

Pietro was already on to his next opponent, blocking a mace aiming to remove his head from his shoulders. "Where's Cangrande?"

"Don't! Know!" said the doctor, hacking with each word. Pietro let Pompey bite another horse's neck, then pulled the reins. In the melee the destrier managed to turn enough to let Pietro face the tavern. It was obscured in smoke, quick to burn because of the barrels of alcohol within.

Pietro's men moved to cover his back, several chanting a fighting song as they beat at the Paduans around them. Some of those Paduans began singing as well, and both sides of the struggle set up their cuts and parries to the sound of their mixed voices united in song.

A gust of wind cleared the smoke, inviting a hail of crossbow bolts from above. The archers had decided to risk the flames in order to snipe away when opportunity presented itself. Fifty Paduans dropped away in a hail of blurred streaks. Suddenly unopposed, Pietro looked up to wave his thanks.

Suddenly he spied Cangrande. Still atop the tavern, the Scaliger was hopping away from spears and pikes thrusting up at him from below. He'd run out of missiles to throw, and the untiled patches in the rooftop now blazed with fire. Any moment now the roof would collapse under him. The Paduans saw this and penned the Capitano in, jeering darkly.

Far from looking concerned, Cangrande called back lighthearted insults to his assailants below. A few Paduans ignored the flames and climbed the roof to confront him, hoping to claim the honour of having killed the great Scaliger lord. Unencumbered by armour, he danced around their slow and clumsy attacks, kicking them from the flaming roof. One, more determined than the rest, rushed at him with sword low, ready to eviscerate the Scaliger from groin to chin. Cangrande skipped backward across a piece of roof that was already showing some sparks flying up through a hole. It held — barely. When his attacker reached it moments later, the weight of his armour sent him crashing through the timbers and into the inferno below.

The Capitano picked up the tune the soldiers sang and blared it loudly, defying the smoke that billowed around him. The fire was burning so hot now that the Paduans had to cease their harassment and back away from the blazing tavern. Cangrande could only have moments before the timbers collapsed under him, too.

Pietro turned to Morsicato. "Pull the men back to the Nogarola line! We'll be slaughtered if we stay here!"

Morsicato was putting down a pesky Paduan. By the time he turned, Pietro was driving though the Paduan soldiers towards the tavern. "Pietro! Where are you going?"

Pietro didn't bother with his sword and shield. He dodged his mount between the Paduans, calling out as he did so. "Francesco! Francesco!" By using the Scaliger's baptismal name he hoped the Paduans wouldn't realize whom he was trying to rescue.

A thunderous crash came from the tavern. Clouds of sparks and great billows of smoke rose from the building. The Paduans let out a massive cheer. Still Pietro called. "Francesco! Francesco!"

Another gust of wind revealed the Scaliger. He was standing on the lip of the roof, covered in soot and smoke that made his dyed skin even darker. He coughed, staggering and half blind.

"Francesco!"

The Scaliger's head came around. Seeing the friendly face, Cangrande's eyes flickered about him. One Paduan was edging closer to jab upward with his spear. Ducking low, Cangrande grabbed the spear with both hands and kicked the shaft. The Paduan's grip slipped, allowing Cangrande to yank the spear free. Reversing the spear in his hands, Cangrande leapt.

How he saw where to place the spear's tip through the smoke Pietro couldn't tell, but the spear landed in a space between two cobblestones. Cangrande swung his body around the spear and vaulted like an acrobat three feet from Pietro. "Ride!"

Pietro was already giving Pompey the spur. Cangrande ran alongside, his hands clutching at the second arcione of the saddle. With a heave, the Scaliger leapt up across Pompey's rump. "Go go go!"

Shock held the Paduan men-at-arms in place for a few seconds. Then as one they howled their pursuit. A sword edge came flying at Pietro's head. He took the blow on his shield even as his armoured horse drove on through the furious Paduans.

In his ear, Pietro heard a muttered, "Gracias, señor." He was too busy to reply, weaving in and out of the clusters of Paduan soldiers. He felt some movement in the saddle behind him as Cangrande dragged a weapon free and busied himself parrying blows from behind. There were too many, though — blows were coming faster and faster. Pietro could feel them glance off his armour. He was absurdly grateful for the extra padding of his disguise. It was far worse for Cangrande, who wore no armour and had to twist to avoid every blow.

Seeing a gap in the Paduan lines, Pietro urged his mount on. Faster! But destriers were bred for endurance, not speed. Only the smoke and Cangrande's quick hands kept them from mortal harm. Pietro saw more horses, closing in on them from the front. He caught a spear-tip on his shield, but saw a longsword descending for his skull. Father, forgive me...

A falchion intercepted the weapon. Pietro slashed his attacker's face, not seeing but feeling the Moor riding beside him. There was a rumbled noise from deep within the black man's chest as his wicked point found an exposed throat.

Suddenly Cangrande shouted, "Veer right!"

The command turned them directly into a new line of oncoming knights, but Pietro's trust in Cangrande was unhesitating. He braced himself, but felt only a rush of air as the mounted knights raced past them. Suddenly Pietro found himself riding in the clear.

He looked back. Morsicato had led a charge of Pietro's men, protecting his retreat before wheeling around and sprinting back for safety themselves.

The Paduans decided not to give chase, choosing rather to reform their lines for the next attack. For the moment Pietro's party was safe. They were between the Paduans pressing Nogarola's men and Marsilio's force by the gate. It gave Cangrande a moment to assess the condition of the battle. "Pietro, Tharwat, get your men into the mouth of that alley!"

Pietro obediently steered for the alley indicated, the Moor protecting his flank. Morsicato and the men who had survived this latest ride followed. There were only a dozen now, a third of his original force. Pietro was pleased to see the face of his neighbour's son. "Glad you're still alive!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," the boy replied. He was just Pietro's age, yet he seemed to think Pietro some sort of hero and not just a lucky fool. His eyes traveled to Cangrande and opened even wider. "You — you're the Spaniard!"

"At times like this, I wish I were." It was a lie. The Scaliger had never looked so alive. He addressed Pietro's men, the same men he'd fooled for three days with his accent and his drunken manners. "My name is Cangrande della Scala. This is my city you're protecting. If we live through this day, I promise you all women, honours, and riches. Until then, obey Alaghieri like you would obey God and, for the love of the Virgin, enjoy yourselves!"

They cheered. Cangrande turned to Pietro, beckoning Morsicato and the Moor also. "The Paduans brought more men than we anticipated. A lot more. We'll still win this, but we have to hold. You understand. We must hold! Uguccione is coming, but he'll have to cut his way through the Paduans on the other side of that gate and break through to us."

Pietro asked, "Where do you want us?"

Cangrande nodded to the alley. "Right here. Pretty soon Marsilio is going to think of Thermopylae — he's going to use these alleys and side streets to cut around and bash Bailardino and Antonio from the sides. They'll be massacred unless we can hold these alleys for them."

"We'll hold them," said Pietro grimly.

Cangrande nodded. "Good to see you."

Pietro laughed. "I've seen you for three days but was too blind to know it. What did you dye your skin with?"

"Nutmegs." Cangrande flashed his perfect teeth. "You realize, if we live through this battle, my sister is going to have me eviscerated for letting you risk yourself to save me. Again."

"I won't tell her if you won't."

"A deal!" Cangrande lifted his stolen sword and glanced out into the main fray. "I'll send reinforcements when I can. But first I have to make sure the signal is given. That dimwit Bailardino let himself get cut off from the bells."

"No hurry," said Pietro, raising his voice to add, "We can hold the gates to the inferno!"

His men cheered again. Cangrande clapped the doctor on the shoulder, bowed to the Moor, then dashed out into the blood-slick streets. Grasping the mane of a passing riderless horse, he swung himself into the saddle. His blackened face looked like something from the netherworld. Cangrande saluted with his sword, then spurred towards Nogarola's men, slicing through the threefold lines of Paduans to get there.

Grinning, Pietro ordered his men to hurry up and find something to barricade the alley. The battle was far from over, and they had work to do.

At the other end of the yard Marsilio was greeting Asdente, at the center of the formation just spilling through the gate. "What in all-fired hell is going on?" cried the Toothless Master, looking at the smoking carnage.

"They were waiting! Bonifacio betrayed us!" Carrara slammed his mailed fist into his palm. "I knew it!"

"The Count?" Vanni found it hard to believe the old fox would set them up this way.

"I saw him," confirmed Marsilio. "He was here — even saved Cangrande's life, from what my sergeant said."

Asdente brushed that aside. "What's to do?"

Marsilio looked around. The bolts from the crossbows had ceased as all the fires took hold and archers leapt from windows to try and escape. Some managed to get away. Most were rounded up and pressed back into the burning structures to face their deaths.

"Bring your men in here — all of them. If we take the Nogarola palace, we can press outward and take the whole city."

"What about prisoners?" Last time they had come this way, Asdente had ruined his reputation by slaughtering innocents without orders. This time he wanted explicit instructions.

Marsilio paused. What would his uncle do? Take prisoners, ransom them, show them all the mercy and generosity that Cangrande had shown three years before. "No prisoners. Havoc. Kill them all."

Asdente loosed his twisted grin. "As you command." He returned to his men, crying, "Havoc! Havoc!"

We were betrayed, thought Carrara for the hundredth time. Of one thing he was sure. The Count of San Bonifacio would not leave this field alive.

Cangrande slashed right and left, trying to get through the soldiers barring his path to the church. His deadly smile was unchanged, but his thoughts were grim. If Uguccione didn't get the signal soon, the city would fall.

He heard, as he often did, his sister's voice in his head, scolding him. You always leave it too late, Francesco. You never think things through. You play your little games, have your theatrics, and forget what needs to be done!

Well, dear sister, his mind retorted in a parody of conversation, if you think I am too tardy, why don't you take care of it yourself?

His head came up as he heard bells. For an instant Cangrande della Scala was utterly, completely, totally stunned. Then he began to laugh, for he knew — knew — who was ringing the bells, giving the signal to the reserve army.

He turned his horse about and spurred back to the line being held by the Nogarolese. There was nothing more for him to do now but fight.

"It's got to be time," said Benvenito. "It's got to be! They've been in there for half an hour!"

"Fifteen minutes, more like," replied Mariotto, looking at the rising sun.

"I'm getting fed up with waiting," announced Bonaventura, not renowned for his patience.

"He'll give us a signal," said Uguccione softly. "He said he'd give us a signal."

As if in answer came the pealing of bells. Uguccione clapped his helm on his head and shouted, "On! On! Kill the bastards!!"

Bonaventura was already off. Mari kicked his heels as, down the line, Antony did the same, his brother Luigi right behind him. Nico whooped as he dug his heels into his horse's flanks. They led their forces towards Vicenza, towards the unguarded rear of the Paduan army.

The Count saw them come. Just moments before, he'd been waiting impatiently, his horse moving from foot to foot in reflection of his rider's mood. The young soldier he'd sent had come running back with the news that Carrara's men had entered the inner walls. Now they stood together on the wall of San Pietro, watching the army of Verona ride to the rescue.

"Dear God," breathed the red-headed soldier. "What do we do?"

"We can either warn Carrara or save our skins," replied the Count calmly. "Make your choice, son, and stick to it."

Benedick looked down at the Paduans still outside the walls. "I have to fight."

"Eager for victory?"

The red-headed young man looked the Count in the eye. "I don't have a title, or land, or prospects. If I'm going to make a name for myself, I have to fight, and be seen fighting."

"I admire your honesty, Signore Benedick. But let me point out that we are about to be routed. Fight a little, be seen by a commander or two, then melt away into the city. In a week return to Padua with a dramatic wound or two. You'll be a hero."

Benedick looked at the Count with distaste, then ran off to join the battle. "Poor fool," muttered the Count. Despite the danger he was in, he began to laugh. Everything was going according to plan. The Scaliger had indeed gotten word and set a trap for the Paduans. Vinciguerra was actually glad. If Cangrande came through this battle alive, he would find it a most bitter victory.

Katerina released the bell rope and stepped back, nodding to her servants to do the same. "That's enough." She was dressed in men's riding breeches and a shirt and doublet, her long hair hidden under a cap. She was no stranger to male garb, having adopted it often enough in her youth. Today it assured she would not be singled out while running through the streets. A woman in such a crush could easily become a hostage, or worse.

Knowing the plan as well as any of the commanders, she'd recognized when things went awry. The fighting sounded too desperate, her husband too busy fighting to spare even the ten men it took to ring the alarum bell. So, leaving Cesco and little Bailardetto in the care of their nurse and Pietro's groom, she'd run to give the signal to the waiting army herself. It took all her servants' strength to pull the bells, with her own weight added to it. Now she looked at the cuts the rope had burned into her hands and cursed her brother.

Francesco, where are you? Why are you not here, protecting your city, your heir.

Like a wraith, she imagined his reply. If I wanted him safe, why leave him with you? You, who have left him alone.

Hands beginning to shake, Katerina was filled with an indescribable premonition. "Quickly," she commanded, "back to the palace."