The Master of Verona (15 page)

The bolt did not carry Pietro out of his seat. The moment passed. He felt the horse beneath him, the air around him, but nothing else.

I'm alive. Oh, dear God, I'm..
.

As the horse's hooves met the earth, Pietro dragged air into his lungs and screamed. His eyes opened wide, tears at the corners. He looked down and saw a bolt sticking out of his right thigh just above the knee, continuing on through the meat and out the other side. The power of the bolt at this close range had carried the metal head straight through the leather beneath him and into the metal covering the horse's ribs, pinning Pietro to the massive warhorse.

The horse plowed on, every hoof-fall shooting lightning through Pietro's leg. Each step moved the powerful horseflesh, in turn tugging and jerking Pietro's leg. The youth slipped right in the saddle to alleviate the pull, but it did no good. Blood seeped from both sides of the wound as Pietro's life force mixed with his mount's.

Through a blurred veil of sweat and pain, he saw the Paduan reloading. "No." Ducking low and hanging on, his thoughts were incoherent. All he knew was that he had to keep riding.

In the ring of resisting soldiers Il Grande glanced at his nephew. "If they break, ride like hell." He glanced at the lone rider bearing down on them. "He's brave."

Marsilio had no comment about the rider's bravery, busy looking for a clear shot. The coward had ducked behind the horse's armoured head. It was no longer about stopping the horse. The rider had cost him his chance at Cangrande, and Carrara was determined to kill the bastard before they were forced to turn and flee. "Come on, show your face!"

The
destrier
clambered up over the barricade of dead horses and men, its hooves tearing a purchase through the flesh, plunging forward into a wall of spears. One of those spears penetrated the heavy armour, but it was not nearly enough to check the beast's charge. It lowered its head, the single unicorn spike goring the first two men in the wall.

The lowered head exposed the rider. "At last!" crowed Marsilio. He pulled the trigger.

Pietro was barely able to see inside his helmet, but he felt the impact of something bouncing hard off it. The blow snapped his head back and canted him right in the saddle, towards his bad leg. Entirely limp again, Pietro wasn't able to put his weight on his right stirrup, and so began to fall. Through the narrow slit of the helmet, everything was confusion. He thought he saw a sword's blade coming at him, but already he was past it as his steed barreled on. There was a cracking of wood, something ripped in his leg, and he screamed. All he knew for sure was that he was falling. Releasing his sword, he threw his arms wide to find something to catch onto. Cries were all around him, but as his fingers gripped something metal there was a startled shout. For a moment he was suspended in the air, hanging between his saddle and whatever he'd grabbed hold of. Then he toppled to the earth, the bulk of what he had hold of falling with him to land heavily beside him.

Gasping, eyes filling with tears, Pietro struggled out of a helmet that fit him more snugly than before. On the ground beside him lay the dark youth, holding a broken crossbow. Since he was wearing armour, the fall had been much more damaging for him.
Good
, thought Pietro. He reached for the fellow's belt and removed a dagger. There were men all around him, and he expected a sword to split his head in two at any moment. Twisting about, he slashed with the knife at — empty air?

The gap in the Paduan line had broken the last of the men. The Paduan men-at-arms turned tail and ran. Seconds later, Vicentine horses thundered past Pietro to round up and kill the last of them.

The only Paduan who didn't run appeared to be someone of authority. He remained on horseback, his hands raised in the universal gesture of submission. "I surrender!" he shouted, his eyes on the young archer lying unmoving at Pietro's side.

Pietro stared around blankly, then thought of his helmet. Picking it up, he discovered a crossbow bolt running all the way through the steel, end to end, just below the crest. He remembered his head rocking back and realized the bolt must have penetrated above his scalp, in the gap just above his head. A shiver of insane laughter ran through him.
Thank God for my wide head!

There was a groan beside him. The young Paduan sat up only to feel the pressure of Pietro's blade against his Adam's apple.

Marsilio da Carrara blinked, taking in the youth kneeling next to him with a look of contempt.

Pietro was just grateful to be alive. With his strange half-smile he said, "I guess you're my prisoner."

Halting the pursuit at Quartesolo, Cangrande set his men to rounding up the Paduans, a chore that would take days. The broken army had scrambled in every direction, throwing themselves down into ditches on either side of the road. Some had jumped into the flowing waters of the rivers that intersected at Quartesolo, whether they could swim or not. Many of them floundered in the muddy waters, weighted down by armour and weapons they struggled furiously to shed. Cangrande's men, who just moments before had been their destroyers, now became their saviors, stripping themselves of their own armour and diving in to rescue their Paduan brothers.

There was no more fighting. It had never been a battle, it had been a rout. Now the rout was over.

Under a tree on a hill to the south of Quartesolo, Cangrande dismounted his blood-spattered stolen horse. Walking around to the front of the animal, he unbuckled the
testiera
that covered its head, let the piece fall to the earth, and began to stroke the long nose absently. Jupiter dropped and lay at his feet, exhausted.

Kneeling down to pet his hound, the Scaliger did not glance back at the city that was now indisputably his. His gaze was directed south, beyond the men who ran to safety. The south and east, where lands were lush and green, with rivers and vineyards, mills, ranches, farms. Harvest was three weeks away. This was some of the richest land in the world, fought over and died for throughout history. This was the Trevisian Mark. This was the Feltro.

Cangrande della Scala, titular Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, looked down on the half of the Mark that he did not rule. If anyone could have seen his face in that moment, they would not have been able to decide if his eyes bore responsibility — or delight.

He was twenty-three years old.

Though the battle had seemed to last hours, it was over in less than twenty minutes. Of actual bloodshed there had been little, as armed engagements went. The dead numbered only seven Paduan nobles and fifty-seven foot soldiers. With the exception of the Carrarese, all the mounted knights had fled the field. Of the remaining foot soldiers, many were wounded. But the real surprise came from the number captured. Over a thousand men-at-arms had surrendered themselves to a band of just eighty men.

A modern Caesar, Cangrande was famous for his clemency towards captured foes, and today he was true to form. Returning to the northern edge of Quartesolo, he welcomed captured Paduan nobles as old friends. The poet Albertino Mussato had been discovered in the moat bearing no fewer than eleven wounds, the worst being a cracked skull and a broken leg. His wrist, too, hung at an ugly angle. It was a miracle he'd survived. Trampled by his own side, he'd flung himself headlong into the foul water of the moat. Addressing him, Cangrande commended his valour. In great pain, lying on a makeshift stretcher, the poet-historian was as gracious as the situation allowed.

Sitting awkwardly and wrapping his leg using strips torn from a dead man's shirt, Pietro observed this exchange. He had already presented his prisoners to the Scaliger. Cangrande had used his own belt to cinch Pietro's leg just above his wound. Fortunately the broken wooden shaft protruding through both sides of his thigh prevented too much bleeding, but it hurt like the devil. Sure that the Paduans were in good hands, Pietro hauled himself onto a stray horse and went to find his friends, carrying his skewered helmet with him.

Behind him Cangrande was particularly flamboyant in his praise of the two Carraras. "That was a feat without equal, attempting to stop an army in full retreat."

Il Grande inclined his head. "It was quite a feat to put fear into the hearts of over ten thousand men."

"Still, you two deserved to win, purely for heart!"

Marsilio snarled. "That won't stop that little shit from collecting my ransom, will it?"

Cangrande gazed back at him, amused. "You'd rather Pietro had killed you?"

"Is that his name?"

"Pietro Alaghieri of Florence, recently arrived from Paris, via Pisa and Lucca."

"To our detriment," observed Il Grande. "Dante's son?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Genius must run in the family. As I told my nephew, a brave lad."

Marsilio opened his mouth, but his uncle stepped on his foot. Instead of the intended insult, the youth found himself saying, "Your army isn't here, is it?"

"Sadly, no. By this time, my army is probably just exiting the gates of Verona."

"So you won by luck."

"I suppose so!" replied the Scaliger brightly.

"Not by brilliant generalship," pressed the Paduan.

"Never underestimate the power of luck," said Il Grande.

Cangrande smiled at the young Carrara. "Of course, when you know the extent of my trickery, you will be furious."

"What's that?" But he was already talking to the Capitano's back. Someone had run up to Cangrande carrying a large breastplate decorated with azure. Etched in acid were two stars in opposition, one high and left, one low and right. He whispered softly in the Capitano's ear. Cangrande examined the armour, chuckled once, then looked at Il Grande. "You know to whom this belongs."

"I do."

"A shame he's fled my hospitality."

"His loss, I'm sure."

"You're too kind." Cangrande handed the armour back to the soldier and issued instructions. "Take three men and return to where you found this, then trace the most direct path to Padua from there. If you haven't found him in an hour, turn back. Don't go past Camisano. Go." The man bowed and went, leaving Cangrande wearing an expression of delight on his lips. The Count of San Bonifacio's life was going to be more difficult for his flight, not less.

Leaving the Carrarese in the hands of some knights with explicit instructions to take them into the city and see to their comfort, the Scaliger made his way to where Antonio Nogarola had fallen. Nogarola was awake, screaming bloody murder at the men who insisted he return to the city.

"I'm fine, damn you!" he cried, staunching the flow of blood from his shoulder with a dead man's tabard. He kicked at one of his servants who had come to the battlefield to tend the wounded. "Go help someone else, I don't need you! I'll be in when I'm good and ready!"

"You always were a baby when you were sick." Cangrande stooped over Nogarola's shoulder and lifted the bloody cloth away from the wound. "It's not good. Can you move the arm?"

Nogarola grunted. "Some."

Cangrande replaced the cloth around the crossbow bolt. "I'll handle the mopping up. You go back and have that looked at." After a friendly pat on the older man's good arm, he was off.