The Master of Verona (11 page)

Pietro watched as the Capitano's men ruthlessly chased each of the Paduans down and killed them. It was the first time Pietro had seen so much death and he made sure he did not turn away. Eerily, Cangrande's men made no noise. The Paduans screamed and shouted, but the Veronese soldiers did their best to do their work in silence. Only the scrape of metal and the thump of hooves marked their passing.

Then the silence was complete. No Paduan had been spared.
That's odd
, thought Pietro with a shiver.
The Scaliger is famous for his clemency
.

Reining in beside the Capitano, he asked about this. Cangrande shrugged. "I couldn't let them live." Pietro thought he heard a touch of regret. "If I had, they would have warned Asdente and the Count. I'm in no position to take prisoners, and without an army at my back I need all the advantage surprise can give me." Cangrande swung his horse back towards the invested city. "Now let's walk these tired horses where they can rest. We have work to do."

At an easy trot Cangrande and his three companions rode up to the gate of Vicenza.

Within minutes Cangrande was standing on the steps to the main palace in conference with Antonio Nogarola, a gruff man of medium height and rotten teeth. They were related by marriage and tragedy, these two families, the Nogarolese having tacked themselves firmly to the tail of the ascendant Scalageri star. Quickly Nogarola apprised the Scaliger of recent events. Eavesdropping shamelessly, Pietro thought he heard a reference to a cat and a mention of fishing rods. Then clearly he heard Cangrande ask, "Is she safe?"

In response Nogarola pointed to the windows of the palace above them. "Within, giving orders to the servants. It was her idea to fire the houses in San Pietro."

"Of course it was." Cangrande's voice was bemused. Pietro lost the next words as they turned to look up into the palace. Whatever Nogarola said, Cangrande merely shook his head in reply. "I brought about thirty men."

"I've got about fifty who have horses and can ride them…"

Apropos of nothing, Pietro realized where else he had heard the name Vicenza before. Back in school in Florence, he'd been examined beside the son of a rich Pisan called Vincentio. Probably meant he hailed from Vicenza originally.

Pietro's ears pricked up as Cangrande and Nogarola turned back towards him.

"...knows I'm here she'll do something foolish."

"Such as?" inquired Nogarola.

"Such as putting on breeches and a helmet and hiding among the knights. No, let her remain ignorant of my presence until after the battle. Is there any sign of our friendly saint?"

"The Count?" Nogarola spat at the ground. "He's out there. Waved his flag and San Pietro fell over itself welcoming him. You'd think the San Bonifacio clan would be tired of opposing you. They keep losing."

Cangrande shrugged. "It's in his blood."

Nogarola's eyes scanned Cangrande's unlikely companions. He knew Mariotto, of course. Cangrande introduced Antony then pointed to Pietro. "Lord Nogarola, Pietro Alaghieri."

"Alighieri — any relation to the poet?"

Before Pietro could reply, Cangrande said, "Pietro appears to be his own man." A fresh set of horses arrived girded for war. "Come. Time to live forever in glory."

Nogarola unclasped the scarlet general's cape from his shoulders and handed it to Cangrande. Just as he fixed it in place, an old woman emerged from a nearby doorway. She was visibly drunk, stumbling into the street. Cangrande scooped her into his arms and plucked the wineskin from her fingers. "Mother,
con permisso
." He quaffed it in one pull and with a twinkling eye handed it back, thanking her.

The next moment he was kneeling. Those who saw the gesture likewise knelt to pray, the height of the crowd cut in half as man after man dropped to his knees.

The Scaliger's sword scraped as he drew it from his scabbard. Laying the hilt against his forehead, the Capitano began a quiet prayer: "
Ave, Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicat tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc hora mortis nostrae. Amen
."

The omission of the single word
et
changed the tenor of the last line. The alteration was subtle, but significant.
Now, in the hour of our death.
Rising, Cangrande and Nogarola stalked off to give orders.

Pietro remained where he was, struck dumb — not by the business with the wine or the prayer, but by what Cangrande had said. It was a wholly new thought, arriving breathless and filling shoulders, diaphragm, knees. Pietro had been taught from birth that his duty in life was to reflect well upon his father. For all his years, he'd endeavored to become the ideal son. That he might have succeeded never occurred to him. He constantly saw himself as a failure to both his father and his name.

Seven words from Cangrande and a tangle in Pietro's liver was torn loose. In that moment Pietro Alaghieri began the process of emerging from his father's shadow.

It was lost upon him that, in so doing, he passed into one even more dreadful.

The evening sky was a glorious red as Count Vinciguerra of San Bonifacio viewed the shambles of the Paduan plan.

The slaughter of the suburbanites had ended. That was the good news. The bad news was that the day was wasted, and with it all momentum and surprise. The citizens within the main gates were now girded for a siege. It was up to the Count to give them one. Ponzoni was useless. He couldn't get past the idea that the sacking should never have happened. Why couldn't the little pimple see that the only way to justify it was to take the city? A goal that the Count despaired of reaching with every hour that passed.

It should have been so easy! They had more than enough men to storm the walls of the inner city and savage the guard. But the Paduan men-at-arms had dispersed, all semblance of discipline vanished. The glorious army of justice was now drinking and sleeping in the gardens surrounding the outer wall, using their armour for shade.

Worse than the attack not moving forward, their army was vulnerable. No guards had been posted anywhere in San Pietro. Few of the nobles even wore their weapons, choosing instead to partake of the lesser knights' pleasures. A sea of excess stretched before the Count. Asdente's brutal methods were required here. God knew nothing else worked. But Asdente was nowhere to be seen, and weak-stomached Ponzino couldn't bring himself to become that sort of man — a man without honour. It was a damned nuisance that the army was saddled with a general who owned a conscience.

Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio approached the one Paduan commander who had the authority to wrench them free of this mess. Giacomo da Carrara was standing with Albertino Mussato, historian and poet. For all the reported antipathy between those two families, they seemed amicable enough. A good move on Carrara's part. It was never wise to get on the wrong side of a writer.

But Carrara was one to watch. This unflappable, unreadable man was on the rise. Three years before, there had been five noble families who stood united against the Pup. Murder and death removed two the next year, da Camino departed to assume the lordship of nearby Treviso, and Nico da Lozzo had defected. This left Carrara, or 'Il Grande' as he was known, standing alone in the field. It was he who had calmed Padua after the great internal upheavals of the past year. The Count could discern nothing in him beyond a profound patience and a great deal of steel.

Not bothering to bow, the Count simply burst into their conversation. "It's time to intervene, before the whole day is lost."

Carrara nodded. "Albertino was just saying something similar — though he used more words." Mussato snorted.

The Count continued. "We've got to get Ponzino out of sight and tell everyone the orders he's issued."

"He's issued orders?" asked Mussato.

Carrara smiled. "I think Count Vinciguerra means that with him out of sight, no one can say he didn't issue them."

Mussato cocked his head. "Are we sure the Dog isn't here already?"

"Our spies say that not only is he home for his nephew's wedding, but that his puppet, Bailardino Nogarola, has gone to beg some help from Germany. The only one left to command is Nogarola's brother."

"And the Dog's blaspheming bitch of a sister," spat the poet.

The Count gazed steadily at Carrara. "You're the one he'll listen to."

Another voice entered the fray. "And if we get him to hide in his tent, who will be issuing these orders?" Coming to stand beside his uncle, Marsilio da Carrara was darkly handsome. He stared at San Bonifacio, sour suspicion etched into his young face.

"Marsilio." The elder Carrara's tone carried a warning note. "He's right."

"He's Veronese! He's one of the Greyhound's men!"

Giacomo barked out his nephew's name again, harshly, but the Count didn't require anyone to fight his battles for him. Not his personal ones, at any rate. "I am Veronese," said the Count equably. "There is no title I bear more proudly. My ancestors were grinding yours into dust in the days of the first Roman Republic. What I am not,
boy
, is the servant of some jumped-up usurper. The Count of San Bonifacio is no one's minion. I am the scion of a great line. Call me a Scaligeri sympathizer again, and you'll be the last of yours."

The boy's uncle edged closer, face grim. "We are all gathered here to put down Cangrande, nephew. We are allies in that cause. Now stop wasting time. We have work to do."

Bonifacio lifted his helmet and placed it firmly on his head. It had been his father's helmet, and his grandfather's. Peaked and plumeless, its face guard didn't lower into place but closed like a gate on both sides. Wearing it, Vinciguerra looked like a cathedral, a wide form capped by a scarred silver steeple. Mounting his horse, he deliberately closed the cheek pieces, cutting off Marsilio's suspicious stare. "Let's go."

With the connivance of the elder Carrara, they finally convinced Ponzino to return to his command tent, there to weep for his lost honour. Emerging, the Count and Il Grande gave orders they claimed originated with the
Podestà
. In minutes the necessary work was finally begun — the gates in the outer wall were undergoing a belated destruction, and guards were set around the perimeter of the camp, if not in the suburb itself.

The Count collected what few men he could to continue the demolition of the gate south of San Pietro. He'd decided it would be easier to destroy the gate itself rather than carve a hole in the stone walls. It would take fewer men. Lord knew, there were few enough willing to work.

Having found no time to sleep, he felt sluggish, dim-witted — twice he found himself listing right in the saddle while watching the dismantling of the great wooden and metal gates. Years ago a sword stroke had broken Bonifacio's leg. It had mended crooked, and on foot he was not sufficiently mobile. In the saddle, though, he was as capable as a twenty-year-old, which was all that mattered.

Except now it was beginning to show. He never used to get so tired. Despairing of staying upright, Vinciguerra dismounted to lift an axe himself. It was not the gesture of unity and cooperation it appeared. It was to give him something to
do
, in the hope that action would keep him awake.

He swung the giant axe into the wood near the lower hinge of the inner gate. More men were hacking at the outer set of gates on the other side of the stone archway. As he finished his next swing he paused to wipe sweat from his brow. It was hot. The clouds he'd spotted four hours before were still far to the east and provided no relief. He'd retrieved his plate armour from his tent, but had no desire to wear it. The solid breastplate and gorget lay within reach, as did his helmet, no doubt hot enough to burn naked flesh. He still wore the trousers with the wide metal bands to protect his legs, for they were harder to get on and off. It made his legs clatter slightly with each stroke of the axe, and his bad leg ached under all the weight.

After a few minutes Young Carrara arrived. He took up an axe and began alternating strokes with the Count. Vinciguerra chose to find the teenager's distrust amusing.