The Master of Verona

Thirty-Five

Cangrande halted his pursuit of the Paduans at Montegalda, refusing to let his men cross the Paduan frontier, lest he be accused of violating the peace himself. Now that he had the just war he'd been hungering for, he had no wish to spoil things.

The armourless Scaliger rode along the line of his soldiers as they cheered him, crying "Sca-la! Sca-la! Sca-la!" Uguccione was grinning through a face smeared with blood. Nico sported an arm that hung limply at his side, yet he hopped up and down in the saddle as he mocked the fleeing knights. Morsicato looked tired as he wrung blood from his beard. Luigi Capulletto looked annoyed that the battle was over, and his brother Antony shared his expression.

But Antony wasn't looking at the backs of the fleeing Paduans. The Scaliger traced Antony's scowl to a figure in a blue cloak. His armour bore the Montecchio crest, the clasp on the cloak carrying the same device. But he was too short to be Gargano. That left only one answer. "Ser Montecchio, welcome back! I trust you've been home to see your father."

"Oui, mon Capitan," replied Mariotto, much to the Scaliger's amusement.

"You provided me good service. I trust all your affairs are settled?"

Cangrande saw Mari's eyes flicker towards Capulletto. "I expect they soon will be."

A frown formed on Cangrande's brow. "Where's your father?"

"He's on our lands, coordinating the net for fleeing Paduans."

"Go join him." Cangrande raised his voice. "I want all Paduan prisoners back in Verona the day after tomorrow. Every one, even the lowliest, is to be treated royally. The nobles may be ransomed to their families, but this time Padua itself will have to pay to get its soldiers back. I'll ransom them as a group."

Nico da Lozzo studied the sky, all innocence. "I don't suppose it's occurred to you…"

"It has. The answer is no. They live." The Scaliger was about to instruct Capulletto to stay with Uguccione, thus keeping the two idiots away from each other, when something pricked at his ears. Light horses and voices calling.

Turning, he saw his sister — her cross-dressing never fooled him. She was probably angry with him for sneaking into town. She'd always loathed his playacting. "Thank you, my dear, for ringing the bell. I felt certain it was-"

His expression changed as she came close enough to reveal her face. Katerina told her tale in a very few words, concluding, "Ser Alaghieri has already started the hunt."

Cangrande issued crisp orders. "Uguccione, trace Pietro. Morsicato, find the Moor, make sure he's well, then follow. Nico, get your arm looked at then find me, wherever I am. Capulletto, you and your brother take fifty men and throw up a cordon west of here. Once that's done, ride to the old Bonifacio estates and see if there's any activity there. If not, find me for more orders. Mariotto, find your father and use his men to throw up a dragnet. Go with him, Benvenito. Bonaventura, you and your cousin comb your lands. Forget the Paduans. I want people searching every castle, hamlet, farmhouse, outhouse, cave, ravine, and riverbed between Illasi and here. Bailardino, do the same thing to the east. Take as many men as you want. Antonio," he said, addressing the elder Nogarola, "take the north. Everybody, throw the net wide and then draw it tight. Take your time, be thorough. They could be anywhere. Whoever finds Pietro Alaghieri first sends word immediately! He's got nearly thirty minutes on us." Cangrande looked up. The daylight was two hours old but the sky was darkening. Always rain, when it comes to Cesco. "Use what light we have. Move!"

Bail called out loudly. "Remember, this bastard has children! Do what you can to pin him, but don't make him desperate!" Thus reminding every man that one of the children was Bailardino's own.

The grim-faced soldiers all hurried off to gather their men. Bailardino cantered to his wife's side, touched her face. She shook her head. "No. Go. Find them!" Bailardino nodded and rode for his men. He didn't misread her anger, which was reserved for herself.

And for her brother. "You're a clever one, aren't you? He was waiting for you, you know."

"What?"

"Cesco. He disappeared last night, after supper. I almost didn't think about it, he does it so often. But he thought he was going to meet you."

"Me?"

She handed over a wax tablet with numbers on it. "I got this from under Cesco's bed. Pathino must have left it for him. Read it." She watched as his mind worked the code. When he tossed the tablet aside, Katerina saw no change in his expression. "You and your games!"

"You, of course, never indulge in them."

"They used his love of puzzles against us. He slipped away from his nurse, thinking you'd be there, and took Detto with him. I imagine they used the secret passage behind the tapestry on the ground floor."

"So it's my fault, not yours. That must be comforting." A page came running up, and he bent down in the saddle to listen.

Katerina waited for Cangrande's attention to return to her, then said, "I heard your orders. While your men are out looking, what will you be doing?"

"I think I'll go see an old friend."

The blow was swift, cracking across his cheek. "No games! Who is it you mean?"

He didn't rub his crimson cheek. But neither did he smile. "I mean Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, who, I have just been told, has been found, badly wounded."

"What are you going to do?"

Cangrande met her eyes. "I'm going to beat the life out of him until he tells me where the boys are. Care to watch?"

Stupido, stupido, stupido.

Pietro repeated the imprecation over and over as he rode though Vicenza's western gates. He'd traced the kidnapper this far with relative ease, but now the search grew more difficult.

How could we have been so blind? Even the Scaliger had been fooled. They knew the Count of San Bonifacio was behind it all, and still they hadn't seen that the whole attack this morning was a feint, a costly, bloody feint that disguised the real target.

Still, Pietro couldn't fathom the reason — unless Bonifacio wanted to remove the Scaliger's only heir. But then why not kill him outright? What could the Count gain by taking him?

Of cold consolation was the fact that they now had a name for the kidnapper. Gregorio Pathino, he called himself. Katerina's description had matched the newly restored exile, Nogarola's guest, to Pietro's scarecrow of two years before. No wonder he'd avoided supper last night. Of all people, only Pietro could identify him.

A kidnapper thrice over. Not only had he snatched young Cesco, he'd grabbed up little Bailardetto and Pietro's groom Fazio as well.

Katerina was even more panicked by Bailardetto's disappearance than Cesco's. If he was truly Il Veltro, her foster-son had the protection of destiny. But Detto had no mythic shield. Worse, in her terror, Katerina had revealed a horrifying fact — Tharwat had made a chart for Katerina's real son as well as her adopted one. This chart said Detto was in danger of an early death, well before he reached his prime. Katerina hadn't told anyone, not even her husband, but in her fear she'd blurted the truth to Pietro.

The moment she'd finished, Pietro had ridden back to the palace, exchanging his warhorse for Canis, collecting Mercurio and one of Cesco's shirts, then heading for the northwestern gates out of the city. He'd questioned everyone he saw, a task made more difficult since everyone wanted information from him as badly as he wanted it from them. Quickly he gave up until he reached the gates — the same gates he'd come through three years before, the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Vicenza. Here he asked the guards if they'd seen anyone pass out. They'd said yes, twenty minutes before a tall man had ridden out with two children perched on his saddle, a youth trailing behind. Ignoring their questions about the battle, he'd set off at once.

Pathino. It was good to have a name. Probably not his real name, but useful all the same. Pietro could focus all his loathing on that one name. Pathino. Gregorio Pathino. The man who had murdered Cesco's nurse in Verona, probably murdered the oracle as well. The man who, failing to steal little Cesco, had thrown him to the leopard. Gregorio Pathino. It was a name to hate.

Pietro couldn't help remembering the Moor's words last night. A new influence, a danger to Pietro and the child. Could that new influence be Pathino? Would the kidnapper escape? And then what? Give the child to the Count? Sell him into slavery? The possibilities were terrifyingly endless.

Once he reached an open space, Pietro dismounted and knelt next to Mercurio, holding the scrap of Cesco's clothing up to the greyhound's nose. Within seconds the greyhound lifted his snout to the air, then dropped it to the ground. Remounting, Pietro followed the dog south. South and west. The direction surprised Pietro, who had expected to be led towards Padua. If they headed far enough in this direction they would reach Verona in a few hours. Could that be? Was Pathino taking the boys to Verona? Or was he just making a wide loop to avoid the two armies? That made more sense. So where was he going?

Pietro hoped he was traveling more swiftly than the ex-banker, encumbered as he was with the children and Fazio. But what if Pathino decided he needed to move faster?

"Come on, Mercurio! Fly! Let's see those winged feet!"

The sounds of battle are unmistakable, even from far off. Eight miles to the southwest of Vicenza, at the Montecchio estate, the distant clashing was clearly audible in the still summer air. Forewarned, the residents of the castle were forearmed, but that didn't stop them from worrying. Lord Montecchio, dressed in full armour, fretted over his son, while his daughter kept plaiting and unplaiting her sister-in-law's hair as they waited for news.

Antonia Alaghieri hadn't intended to stay on at Castello Montecchio once the young master had returned. She believed her presence would be awkward as the two lovers settled down to a true married life. But a few kind words from Gargano and Aurelia as well as the pleas from Gianozza convinced her to stay. If Mariotto was heading directly out to war, the girls needed a friend to help ease the waiting. So Antonia found herself in the tallest furnished tower of the castle watching the three Montecchi fret over the outcome of the ambush just a few miles away. She was fretting too, concerned for Ferdinando, her — friend.

Distraction was the key. The girls had already admired all the fine clothes and gifts Mariotto had brought back from France, unpacked from the baggage that had arrived this morning. They'd pored through the illustrated pages of the many books he'd purchased at the papal court. They had discussed the furniture and the wine and all the little trinkets. Now they were experimenting with braiding pearls and jeweled combs into Gianozza's hair as a template for Aurelia's wedding day.

"I smell smoke," said Gargano. The girls, whose sense of smell was better, had detected the acrid scent long before. "There," he added, pointing, "there's a haze on the horizon."

"I'm sure they're in no danger," said Antonia reassuringly. "The Paduans will break and run, and they'll all be fine."

Lord Montecchio shook his head. "I should have gone with them."

"Lord Faggiuola wanted you here," she reminded him. Gargano's responsibility was to lead the hunt for Paduan fugitives once the battle was finished. Yet he was impatient. Barely forty in years, he was as fit as any man his age, a tried warrior anxious to take up a sword in the Scaliger's defense.

They heard hoofbeats. All four moved to the window to see a horseman ride through the gates. But the angle from the tower was poor, and the cluster of men surrounding him made it impossible to see. Someone shouted, and all the castle's soldiers took up the cry.

"The devil take this," cried Montecchio. He crossed to where his cloak lay, and Aurelia moved quickly to fit it over his shoulders. It was an exact duplicate of the one Gianozza had draped over her husband's shoulders that morning, a heavy blue knit that didn't flap up while riding. Gargano placed his helmet on his head. It was new, a gift from his son, a fierce French mantle that resembled the one given Mariotto by the pope.

"I'll send word," he said, already racing down the steps.

Aurelia looked at the other two girls. "Do we follow?"

"I don't know," said Gianozza.

"Of course we follow," declared Antonia. She snuffed the candles, Aurelia picked up their cloaks, and Gianozza opened the door only to find the passage blocked by her father-in-law running back up. But now the cloak was spattered in blood and reeked of smoke.

Suddenly she was enveloped in a swooping embrace, quite unfatherly in nature. "Francesca!"

"Paolo!" Husband and wife murmured a few endearments to each other. To Aurelia, Mariotto said, "Benvenito is downstairs, gathering up more men. He's fine. Not a scratch." She hugged her brother and fled the room to find her betrothed.

Gianozza asked the question Antonia could not. "And Ser Bonaventura's cousin?"

"Ferdinando?" asked Mariotto. Not having been at court these last years he was surprised by the question. "Fine. Whole, hearty, and obnoxious as ever."

Antonia didn't sigh, didn't smile. She merely nodded. "What's happening?"

"We can't stay. Cangrande's bas- his, ah, natural son, Francesco, has been kidnapped, along with Bailardino's son. Pietro's out looking for them now."

Antonia started. "Pietro who?"

"Your brother! By the Virgin, I was shocked. I didn't even know he was in the area, much less hidden in the city. I thought he and the Scaliger weren't on speaking terms. Goes to show you can't — "

"Wait a moment," said Antonia sharply, her hand slicing the air before Mariotto's face. "Start from the beginning."

Mariotto related the course of the battle and the bizarre aftermath of kidnapping and treachery. "Pietro's out there now, on the trail. We're to spread out through the countryside and find them."

"Then go!" shouted Antonia, pushing on his chest. "Pietro may need you this second!"

"He can take care of himself," Mariotto assured her. "He held that street longer than anyone thought he could." He glanced at his wife. "There's one thing. Antony threatened me this morning, before the battle. He wants a duel. Today, or as soon as we're done carrying out the Capitano's orders."

Gianozza gasped. "You won't fight him, will you? It's against the law!"

Mari stroked her cheek. "Law or no, I can't let a challenge like that pass. It would stain my reputation. It's too bad, too. Today, fighting side-by-side — it was almost like old times." He ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed hair. "Francesca, I have to go." He kissed her, nodded to Antonia, scooped up his helmet, and ran.

At once Gianozza crumpled to the floor. Antonia rushed to her side, thinking, The poor thing never seems to have trouble producing tears. She wept now, ruining the bodice of her lovely new French dress as she whimpered and wailed, while Antonia talked her up to her knees and convinced her to pray. They prayed to the Virgin, and San Pietro, San Giuseppe, and San Zeno.

As they prayed they heard Gargano's auxiliary forces ride away. Gianozza started to go to the window but Antonia dragged her back down to the hard stone floor to finish their prayers.

By the time they finished, Gianozza's tears were dry. Hiccoughing, she asked her maidservant to bring a bowl of water to wash in. "I'm a baby. Antonia, please don't tell Paolo that I wept this way. It might embarrass him."

It embarrassed me. Anxiety mingled with annoyance made Antonia snappish. She couldn't help demanding, "Why do you call him that?"

"It's a pet name. I call him Paolo and he calls me — "

"Francesca, I know."

Gianozza heard the disdain. "What is it?"

"Nothing. Really."

"You don't approve of Francesca da Rimini?"

Antonia couldn't hold back her snort. "Hardly!"

"Why not?"

"Gianozza, if you've read my father's poem, then you know that Francesca and Paolo are in Hell!"

"Yes, but she has an excuse for that — it wasn't their fault, it was — "

"It was what? The poetry made them do it? The weather? The stars?"

"Antonia, your father felt such pity for them when he talked to them that he fainted."

Perhaps her father was correct when he said a little learning was a dangerous thing. "Gianozza, do you understand allegory? In the poem, my father isn't Dante the poet, he's a character. He represents every man. Of course he feels pity for them — what Christian soul wouldn't? But it's God, not man, who put them there, and God is infallible. The Lord knows Francesca's excuses are meaningless — the fault is hers. She's the one who committed the sin, and no matter what she says, she's the one who will suffer for it."

"But — but it's romantic, it's — "

"It's tripe! And Paolo knows it! He weeps even as she speaks because he understands, you see? He knows why they're made to suffer. But Francesca convinces herself that it's anyone's fault but hers — even God's. Francesca is one of the worst people my father comes across in Hell. Technically, she's even guilty of incest! She's everything that's bad in women, from Eve all the way down to today! That you idolize her is worse than scandalous. It's impious!"

Gianozza walked suddenly to the window, where the smoke rising from Vicenza was now visible. She was silent for a long time. A very long time.

Antonia began to feel guilty. She got to her feet and sighed. "Gianozza, I'm sorry. I'm worried about my brother. Here I am fretting about Ferdinando and I didn't even know Pietro was here, I thought he was safe at university, and now he's out there again… I probably spoke too harshly. I'm sure I did."

"No. You're right. I'm a fool."

"What?"

Turning to face her, Gianozza had a wild look. "I'm a fool. I just saw the romance of it. I should have married Antony. I mean, he's not so bad. But I thought that — it was the poem that Mari read to me that night. He read to me from L'Inferno, and I heard their story and I thought it was a sign, a sign we were meant to be together. But now I see that if it was a sign, it was a sign that I would go to Hell! And Mari, poor Mari! He will, too. For my sin! It's my fault that Mariotto will be killed! He'll die dueling Antony, and he'll go to Hell, and it will be my fault!"

Antonia realized there and then that Gianozza didn't love poetry — she loved love. Poetry was just the vehicle. The girl had to be set straight. There was poetic love and there was real life. "Gianozza, I didn't mean — "

"No! You're right! It will all be my fault! If I'd only given Antony what he wanted!" Gianozza turned back to stare vacantly out the window.

She's living a French romance, thought Antonia with amazement. But she didn't know what else to say, and now that Gianozza had stopped crying Antonia had another duty. Opening a small box that contained her writing things, she took out a sheet of paper, her inkwell, and a hardy quill.

Gianozza turned from the window, clutching herself tight. "What are you doing?"

"Father needs to know," said Antonia, writing swiftly. "Do you think you could find a servant willing to ride to Verona?"

"Yes." Gianozza walked over to a wardrobe and pulled out a riding gown and coat.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't stay here and do nothing. I'm going to see your letter is delivered, then I'm going to find Antony and stop this feud nonsense, however I can!"

Mercurio hadn't slackened his pace. So far they had mainly stayed on the road, veering off only twice. Both those times the trail had led to a clump of trees, and Pietro imagined that Pathino had heard some noise on the road that had frightened him into taking cover. Each time he'd returned to the road a few yards ahead of where he'd left it and continued on his way.

If Pietro remembered rightly, this road led past Mariotto's lands at Montecchio, past Montebello and Soave, and directly towards San Bonifacio. So when Mercurio turned off a third time, Pietro thought it was another dodge. He was surprised, therefore, when the hound failed to return to the road. Determined as ever, Mercurio headed south among bushes and trees.

Perversely, Pietro wished he hadn't fought so hard in the battle. Pathino could be lying in wait behind one of these trees. Pietro's sword arm was weary, his right leg weak. He slowed Canis' pace, which earned a withering look from the eager dog, pressing the hunt before him. But Pietro didn't want to risk falling to a hasty ambush. The closest aid was a half-hour behind. If Pietro let himself be killed, Cesco, Detto, and Fazio would disappear like breath into the wind.

Pietro's most valuable sense in this environment was his hearing, and he strained to listen for the slight hints of breathing or metal clanging or a horse shifting. He heard water running — a brook or a stream. Birdsong, and all around him an angry wind rustling the leaves.

And something else. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Pietro's instinct was to kick his spurs and race forward, but he forced himself to dismount and advance slowly. The hound crept along close to his side. Poking through the brush with his sword, he saw a riverbank. And the source of the noise.

A toddler sat on the bank, whimpering in fright. Pietro dismounted and hurried forward, looking about warily. At the sight of Pietro, the toddler shied away, protecting his right arm. The hound sniffed at Detto, then walked directly to the water's edge and strained to cross.

"Bailardetto," said Pietro, watching the opposite bank. The sky was darkening under storm clouds, and it was hard to see through the first rank of trees. He tried to keep his voice friendly. "Do you remember me? We met last night. I'm a friend of your mother."

Barely two years old, Detto was too scared to speak in any coherent way. But in the midst of his tears the boy called for his mama. Pietro knelt and reached out a hand. In response the child held up his good arm to be picked up.

"May I see it?" asked Pietro, indicating Detto's other arm. "It's all right," he said reassuringly when the boy shied, "I won't touch it." There was a livid bruise growing, and scraped skin all around the elbow. Pietro ruffled Detto's hair. "It hurts, but you'll be all right." In response the boy buried his face into Pietro's neck. Pietro put an arm around him and patted his back lightly. At once Detto's breathing relaxed and his mouth found his thumb. Keeping his sword arm free, Pietro hugged him even closer.

It was while he was holding the sniffling toddler that he saw Fazio. The teenager was facedown, half-floating in the shallows of the opposite bank. The water around him showed wisps of blood.

What to do? Pathino had crossed here to hide his tracks, leaving Detto and Fazio behind to delay his pursuers. Pietro released Detto, rammed his sword into the sandy earth, and used his fingers to lift Detto's chin. "Hey there, little man. Which way did your brother go?" The child looked at him without comprehension. "Cesco. Which way?"

"Da' wey." Bailardetto pointed downstream.

Pathino wants me to turn back, so I won't. But what do I do with Detto? If the boy had been older he would have set him in Canis' saddle and sent the horse back. As it was… "Detto, I need you to be brave. Brave, like your father. We've got to go help Cesco. Is that all right?"

The child looked up at Pietro with huge watery eyes. How much did he understand? Then Detto nodded. "Help Cesco," he parroted.

Retracing his steps to the trees, Pietro led Canis back towards the water and retrieved his sword. Then, with the boy in his arms he somehow managed to mount. Placing Detto on the front of the saddle, Pietro started off across the river. Mercurio dove in after, paddling to pick up the trail on the other side.

They passed Fazio's body. Pietro tried to shield the child's eyes from the sight of the dead groom. Fazio, I'll make Pathino pay, I swear it.

The Count of San Bonifacio lay under guard on the bloody field. Dying, he wondered how long it would take. He was lightheaded and his vision swam in and out of focus.

Then, blinking, he saw Cangrande. The Pup. They had never met, these two. Never passed a conversation in private. But there was a look to the family that the Count knew too well. Now he was coming closer, accompanied by a woman garbed as a man. She, too, had the family look. His sister, no doubt. Vinciguerra pulled himself as upright as his wounds allowed. Settling his back against a tree stump, he steeled himself.

"My dear Count." Cangrande's tone was neither cold nor angry but warm, almost affectionate.

"Puppy."

Dismissing the guards, Cangrande knelt to examine the Count's bandaging. He clucked his tongue. "This is bad. We have to get it clean. It doesn't hurt too much?"

"It's numb, now." The Count wondered what this solicitude was for. He was dead already, and dead men are immune to charm.

"I imagine you bandaged it yourself? It's not a bad job, but perhaps a doctor should see it."

"Don't bother."

"I'll try to find one, nevertheless. As my guest, now, you are to be treated as the lost brother you have always been." Vinciguerra blinked while Cangrande looked around. "Damn. Morsicato was just here. You know, Count, he treated a wound almost exactly like this three years ago. If not for him, my friend Pietro Alaghieri would have lost his leg, if not his very life." He looked down at the leg again. "This does seem a little worse than Pietro's. I wonder where Morsicato got himself to."

"You sent him on an errand," supplied Katerina.

Cangrande frowned in puzzlement. "Did I? Oh yes, he's looking after some knights in the city. Well, there are other doctors. We'll get you to one, Count, never you fear. You'll be up and making trouble for us again in no time." Cangrande patted Vinciguerra's shoulder as one might pet a troublesome child injured by his own folly. The Scaliger stood and turned, clearly planning to move on. His sister looked as if she had swallowed something distasteful, but said nothing as Cangrande made to go.

"Wait!" said the Count sharply. "What about the boy?"

"What boy? Pietro? He recovered from that injury. A touch of a limp, but today he was able to don armour and lead his men in a glorious battle inside the city. Not often a man gets to see such valour in action. Pietro was the very picture of knighthood — as he should be, since I invested him. Now, if you'll excuse me, Count, I am a trifle busy."

The blood-loss was affecting him again. "No — not Alaghieri. The boy — her boy — your son — Francesco." He took a breath. "Send some men back to the palace, O mighty Scaliger. You'll find your little prize has vanished from under your nose."

Cangrande looked amused. "You mean Pathino? My dear Count, do you really think us as foolish as that? Didn't you hear me? I said Pietro was here. He was the one that foiled Pathino's attempt two years ago, and his memory is excellent. He recognized your agent and informed my sister at once. Your man has had a score of eyes on him all night. Really, Count — such a fellow as Pathino to carry out your bold plan?"

"One does one's best with the tools at hand," replied the Count, his mind racing. Clearly they hadn't discovered who Pathino really was…

"True enough," said Cangrande brightly. "I am fortunate, then, in my tools. Pietro apprehended Pathino as he tried to abscond with my sister's charge."

"So you don't claim him as yours?"

Cangrande let ring a full-throated, roaring laugh. "You know, Count, you're the only one to ask! The only one! No one else has dared. Perhaps I'll even tell you, someday. Then again, a man who entrusts such as task to someone like Pathino cannot be worth confiding in. Really, Count — Pathino? What a pathetic plan it must have been. Where on earth was he going to go?"

Vinciguerra actually opened his mouth to reply before catching himself. "You don't have him, do you?" He saw Katerina stiffen and knew he was right. "O very good! Very nicely done! I almost told all. My lord Scaliger, I take my hat off to you!" Vinciguerra gave a mock salute.

An instant later his dry chuckling turned to a scream of agony as the lady ground her heel into his wounded leg, not so numb after all. "Your tool took not only your prize, but also my only son. I want them back, Count, and I warn you, there is nothing I will not dare to regain them." Her voice was everything her brother's hadn't been, yet beneath it all was that same eerie calm. The lady did not make idle threats.

The foot lifted, the weight disappeared, and the Count gasped for breath. "Dear madam, your threats are of little value. My life's blood is slipping with each breath I take. It will take a day, perhaps more, but soon I will be finished. It is only a matter now of how I expire. What do I care if I die in a comfortable palace or in your dungeon, with thumbscrews loosing more of that same blood?" He transferred his eyes to his nemesis. "Your heir is gone forever, my lord Scaliger."

"Even if that is so, it does you no good, in your present state." Cangrande's words were not a threat, merely a statement of fact.

"For myself, that is true," agreed Bonifacio. "Soon the eternal night shall pass over me and I will have no cares. But I hear you believe in prophecies. Then listen to this one — your line shall never be free of my hate."

Cangrande knelt down. "Vinciguerra, friend, loyal son of Verona, do you want to appear before God with this sin on your hands? The death of this child alone is enough to blacken your soul before the Almighty."

The Count shrugged. "My sins be on my head and there an end. Come what may, I am reconciled. Perhaps I will end up among the eternally violent. You may join me there."

Cangrande rested on his haunches for several moments more, then lifted his head to the darkening sky. The clouds had not yet entirely obscured the sun, but soon they would make an artificial night. "If the boy dies, Count, your soul will twist in the land of the treacherous. The pit of Antenora, where those souls who have betrayed their country and their cause lie frozen forever." He gestured for the guards who bore a litter between them.

Feeling faint, the Count was determined to have the last word. "My cause has never wavered, my little lord of the ladder. I have longed only for a Verona free of you and your ilk. You'll ruin the homeland of my fathers. Better the city should fall altogether."

The guards transferred Vinciguerra's bulk from the ground to the litter. Before they carried him into the city, Katerina leaned over to speak in the Count's ear. "Tell me where they are, or I shall make certain you live to enjoy all the pain your wound can give."

"You are welcome to take what vengeance you can, dear lady, I've already had mine. Pathino has gone to ground where you cannot find him, and your son with him. Your son too, my lord!"

Cangrande was in the process of mounting a fresh horse. He looked to the guards. "See he's well treated, and given something to make him sleep. He needs rest."

As he was carried off, the Count tried to look over his shoulder, but dizziness made the corners of his vision turn black. Lying back on the stretcher, he could see only the darkening sky above him. Then suddenly he passed under a huge stone lintel. He was entering Vicenza for the last time. Smoke drifted past his face and he closed his eyes, trying to remember every word of the exchange. It was all the victory likely to be given him.

At that moment Antonia was pleading with Gianozza, begging her to see reason. A broken army on the loose, no men left in the castle to escort her — this was no time to go riding through the woods. "Mariotto and Antony are surrounded by soldiers and have many more important concerns than some foolish duel. If you were to venture out, you'd probably wander all night without finding either one! And what could you do if you did? You might make matters worse. Come, write a letter to Antony if you must. But stay here!"

Gianozza was busy ordering her horse saddled. Seeing her companion was implacable, Antonia threw her hands in the air. "Fine. Fine! If you must go, I'll go with you, even if it means risking my life in the most ridiculous cause I've ever heard of. But if I die, it will be entirely your fault!"

She'd hoped this rant would make Gianozza think twice. Instead the foolish creature rushed forward and embraced Antonia fervently. "Thank you, thank you! You're such a friend! Whatever would I do without you?"

Predictable. I can't make her see reason, and so I become a part of her Romance.

They took the dog Rolando with them, but no men-at-arms. There were none to be had. Antonia brought a kitchen knife for comfort, certain that if they met with any danger it would do her no good.

Back at the tree that had sheltered the wounded Count, Katerina gazed her brother, seated high in his saddle. "That was quite a beating."

Cangrande shrugged. "He's a soldier. You saw how your threats gave him strength. I was hoping he was weak enough that the ploy would work. It didn't. After that, I hoped he might try to twist the knife, and in so doing give us something to go on. Again, nothing. Try again in a bit, by all means — you are, after all, the expert in killing with small cuts. News of Alaghieri?" This was asked of a messenger, running towards them. The boy said no, but that the doctor sent word that the Moorish astrologer would live. Cangrande grunted, then turned back to his sister, who said, "What about your plea for his soul? That was real."

"It was. Coming or staying?"

"I will be of little use in the hunt. I will return to our friend Bonifacio and we will talk more freely. Perhaps I can employ tactics other than threats."

"Offer him sweetmeats," said Cangrande, kicking his heels. "It always worked on me."

Watching him ride off, she murmured, "Nothing worked on you."

Her own horse was close by. Mounting, she returned to a city still reeling from the battle. As she felt the first pindrops of water, she cursed. The rain would aid in the extinguishing of the fire, but it would make the hunt for the children all the more difficult.

Katerina was not alone in cursing the cloudburst. Pietro had followed Mercurio back and forth across the river three times now. Pathino had evidently doubled back on his trail in an effort to throw off pursuers. Now they had left the river only to be drenched by rain.

The hound pressed on, nose low to the ground, oblivious to the pelting drops. But the rain bothered little Detto, making him huddle against Pietro's chest. Letting the boy burrow beneath his cape, Pietro covered him as best he could. Detto just shivered and whimpered, too tired to cry anymore.

By now Pietro had lost all sense of direction, though he thought the west bank of the river was behind them. If that was true, they were headed back towards Castello Montecchio. Perhaps they would come across some of Montecchio's men and enlist them in the chase.

Mercurio slowed to a prowl. Pietro knew the sign. The dog's quarry was just ahead of him. That meant Cesco was nearby.

Sliding from the saddle, Pietro led the horse into a tight group of trees, hiding it from view. Tying Canis' reins to a branch, he lifted Detto silently down. Putting the child under the horse, he unfolded a blanket from his saddle and covered Detto with it. Wet and cold, the child whimpered some more. Pietro whispered, "Wait here," and hoped the boy understood. He wished he could order the dog to stay with the toddler, but Mercurio was a hunting dog, not a guard dog.

Besides, Pietro needed him. They had to flush out the game.

His leg was agony, so against his will he lifted his cane from the saddle. It was made of mahogany, pitted and scarred where he'd fended off some cutthroats in Venice two years before. Using it was better than slipping and being unable to stand again. The noise of the rain would cover the occasional breaking of twigs.

Sword drawn, he crept forward.

Antony and Luigi Capulletto reached the Castello San Bonifacio to find it still manned by the Scaliger's loyal troops. These soldiers had seen neither hide nor hair of any Paduan and knew nothing of the attack on Vicenza. Learning of the Capitano's kidnapped son, the captain of the guard formed a search party to cover the ground east of the castle.

Mission accomplished, the brothers left their men to spread out while they turned back towards Vicenza. Stopping at an inn along the way, Antony exchanged his helmet for a wide-brimmed hat, the better to keep the rain off his face. Buying three skins full of wine, they continued on.

The brothers encountered a small patrol of men belonging to old Montecchio. It was led by Benvenito, the fellow engaged to Mari's sister. Luigi wanted to join up with them, but Antony said no. So they simply exchanged news and went their separate ways.

"Why the hell not join up with them?" demanded Luigi.

"Because we're going to be the ones to find the boy," said Antony. "And we're not sharing the glory with anyone."

"You mean we're not sharing it with Montecchio."

"With anyone," said Antony. "Look, if you want to go off on your own, do it. It'll make us both happier. I grant you leave."

Luigi bristled at the implication that his brother was his master. "Fine!" He spurred his horse hard up the dirt road, leaving Antony behind.

Antony was glad to be rid of Luigi — always watching, always ready to leap in with a jibe or cutting remark. It was partly Luigi's presence that had made Antony issue that idiot challenge to Mariotto, a move he was already regretting. It was true that a large part of him wanted Mari dead as a salve for his pride. But that wouldn't win Giulia's heart back. Giulia, his perfect woman.

Yet if he'd been able to be honest with himself, it was less about the girl than Mari. His best friend. Among all the drinking companions, panderers, and revelers he'd associated with for the past two years, nowhere had Antony found a friend to equal the one he'd lost in Mari. That betrayal had cut deep. He'd thought their friendship, forged in a day, would last forever. It hadn't. If there was a reason to kill, that was it.

This morning in the close fighting he'd twice been at risk, and the sword that saved him both times had been Mari's. Antony had repaid him in kind, protecting Mari's flank as he battled away at some Paduan spearmen. For a heartbeat the enmity fell away and things were as they had been.

But the challenge had been issued. He couldn't retrieve it, not without shaming himself in front of his friends and father. And that bastard Luigi. Giving his mount a vicious rake with his spurs, Antony pressed on.

Gargano Montecchio led a band of soldiers through the woods. They came across another party of his men, led by Benvenito.

"We saw the Capulletto brothers, they said that the road between here and San Bonifacio is now being watched."

Lord Montecchio nodded. "Then take four men and scour the other side of that hill. Look for Mariotto's party. He knows these parts. There are lots of places a fugitive can go to ground." His daughter's fiancée turned to go, but Gargano laid a hand on his arm. "Son? Watch your back. Having successfully negotiated the battle, it would be a tragedy to lose you before we welcome you to the family."

Benvenito saluted his prospective father-in-law, then called a few men to follow him. The men looked to their lord, who nodded. Reassured of the safety of his own family, Gargano Montecchio returned to searching for the heirs of Cangrande and Bailardino.

It was a nerve-racking quarter hour as Pietro followed Mercurio through the heavy brush. Each moment he expected the muted twang and thunk of a bolt being fired and sliding home between his ribs. Soaked to the skin, Pietro wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. His gauntlets were stiff around his sword and cane. His right leg had hardened into a rigid, brittle limb that hampered each step.

The dog skirted a patch of earth and Pietro saw it was an old game trap of some kind. No, too big for game. It was a pit loosely covered. He had to be doubly careful.

The trees around them were not of a kind. Some were tall and towering, providing a canopy. Some were barely twice Pietro's height, with thin needles that made him wince as they brushed his face. Often these were surrounded by shoulder-high bushes that worried Pietro more than anything, for they could hide a man with ease.

Mercurio pressed on. Ahead stood a series of large rocks embedded in the side of a hill. On the hilltop, above the largest rock, a tree stood tall and glistening in the rain. Passing it, Pietro noticed a twig broken and hanging by the barest thread of bark. Pathino had passed by here. How recently? The rain had turned any footprints to mud. But when he looked at the interior of the twig where it had been snapped, he saw that it was still dry inside. It couldn't have been long.

Mercurio seemed lost, and Pietro wondered if the hound was having difficulty holding onto the scent. Which brought another thought in its wake — if Cangrande used his hounds to trace Pietro, would they be able to follow that tortuous path by the river after a few hours of rain?

Now he was conflicted. He thought of poor Detto. If anything happened to Pietro, Detto might never be found. An insistent voice kept telling him to turn about, cut his losses, and take Detto to safety. He could lead Cangrande's men back here and trap the bastard.

But if Pathino left between then and now, taking Cesco with him, Pietro would never forgive himself. He glanced up at the top of the hill. A hard climb for him. The grass would be slick, the rocks treacherous. Making up his mind, Pietro took a deep breath and carefully placed his cane for the first step.

He'd hardly gone five feet up the slope before realizing the dog wasn't with him. Looking back, he saw the dog snuffling around the large stone. Then Pietro saw a pair of hoofprints in some dry earth sheltered from the rain by the rock. Moving from right to left, he noticed a gap in the center of the rock that was wide enough for a horse to ride through.

A cave. This had to be one of the hiding places Mari's ancestors had used when they absconded with their neighbours' horses. Clever bastard. Pathino intended to hide the Scaliger's son right under his nose, on the lands of the Montecchi.

Pietro was trying to make up his mind when he heard a blessed sound. Hoofbeats. Not Pathino, he was sure of it. He debated making noise and settled for showing himself in the open.

The rider wore the Bonaventura crest. When he saw Pietro he shouted, but Pietro waved him to silence and beckoned him forward.

"Alaghieri?" asked the man.

It wasn't Petruchio, didn't look anything like him. But Pietro thought he remembered the face and took a chance on the name. "Ferdinando? Quiet. He's around here somewhere."

Ferdinando nodded and made to dismount. Pietro gestured him to stay where he was and quickly related the news. "Here's what I want you to do — go that way and find Detto. Get him to safety and bring back Cangrande or anyone else you can find. I'll keep the bastard trapped here as long as I can."

Ferdinando cast a dubious eye over him. "Are you sure? Together we would have a better chance."

"We have to keep Detto safe. And we'll have a better chance if someone knows where I am."

Still Ferdinando hesitated. "If you get yourself killed, your sister will never forgive me."

Why does he care what my sister thinks? "If you know my sister, you know she'd tell you the same thing. Don't waste time, get Detto to safety. I'm counting on you."

Ferdinando muttered something about Florentines. He didn't look happy, but he trotted off in the direction Pietro indicated.

Pietro turned back to the cave. The dog was looking up at him. Detto was safe. That left Cesco. Raising his sword, Pietro ventured silently into the darkness.