The Master of Verona (24 page)

Handing the food to her brother, Katerina said, "No fasting tonight, if you please, Francesco. You need strength."

"We'll see," was the reply. "Certainly Pietro may eat."

She shook her head. "You're too obstinate to be related to me. Here." From the folds of her skirts she lifted a long, thin metal object the width of her hand. "Don't forget an offering."

Cangrande opened the object at two hinged corners. Pietro leaned forward and saw a gilded triptych with a saint on both outside panels, flanking the Virgin and child in the centerpiece.

Cangrande squinted at the religious icon. "San Giovanni I can make out. But who is the other?"

"Zeno, of course." It took Pietro a moment to remember that San Zeno was the patron saint of Verona.

Cangrande was turning the icon over. "When did you have this made?"

"Years ago, for just this occasion."

"It's a nice touch." Cangrande placed the icon in a leather satchel hanging from his saddle. He mounted.

Katerina laid a hand on the horse's neck. "Be civil. Reassure."

Cangrande leaned down from the saddle and placed a kiss upon her forehead. She stepped back and pulled wide the stable door. The noise from the rain was deafening. Cangrande pulled his cloak tighter about him and kicked his heels. Unperturbed by rain, Cangrande's ebon horse set out into the shuddering night.

Pietro wanted to wish the lady farewell, but the lead from the Capitano's horse was tightening, so he kicked his one stirruped foot. His horse responded at once. Passing Katerina, Pietro smiled from under his hat. Her returning smile made his heart pound so hard that he barely noticed the rain pelting his hat as he was engulfed in darkness.

They exited Vicenza through a series of narrow eastbound gates. The Scaliger produced a ring of keys at each. Pietro couldn't be sure in the rain, but he thought these gates were unguarded. Probably because they were too small for an army or even an armoured horse. Pietro had to lie flat on his mount's neck as Cangrande led the horses through on foot. Passing under each wall there was a brief, blessed slackening of rain, and Pietro heard Cangrande humming cheefully.

Once they were out of the city they turned. Pietro imagined they were heading south, but there was no way to tell. He kept his eyes on the treacherous road beneath him. The water had turned the dirt to mud and the mud to a sloshy river that sucked at the palfrey's hooves. Around them the trees bent low under the wind.

Suddenly they stopped. Pietro thought he saw Cangrande dismount again and dash forward. Danger? This close to Vicenza? Pietro's hand slipped under the cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword. His heart hammered until he saw the Scaliger return, a lighter shadow in the shadowed night. He passed his own mount and stopped beside Pietro, who leaned down to hear what Cangrande was saying. "We're at Quartesolo. Had to make sure the bridges aren't washed out. The river's leaping up. Brace yourself." Pietro thought he saw a flash of a grin.

Remounting, Cangrande started them across the first bridge. The lead tightened and Pietro followed. His horse's shoes had just contacted the stone of the bridge when a huge wave came crashing up over Pietro, drenching him sideways. It was followed by another, and another. Pietro hugged his palfrey, leaning down to keep from being washed from his saddle.

Then they were over the first bridge and onto the second. Pietro wondered how many bridges connected the suburb of Quartesolo across the swelling river. The sagum cloak was well waterproofed, but nevertheless Pietro was soaked to the skin. His left boot was soggy in the stirrup. Only his aching right leg, under two layers of cloak and his father's breeches, was dry.

The thunder cracked mightily overhead as they left Quartesolo behind. They turned off the main road onto some kind of well-used dirt path. The smell of damp earth and raw wind was thick in his nose. Lesser branches flipped end over end through the air, the twigs pelting him. It was as if the mortal world was being scoured raw.

Lightning began to strike, the dry vapor pent up in the clouds above the rain catching fire and exploding down towards the earth, ripping the fabric of night. The accompanying sound made horses uneasy, but less so than Pietro. The flashes of illumination made the riders visible for miles.

Pietro felt his hat pelted by something harder than rain. Holding out a hand, he felt the sting of hail in his palm. A bad omen, a poor night to be traveling.

He lost all sense of time. With its crashing rain, wind, and now hail, the night seemed endless. Sometimes Cangrande stopped to check the road ahead. Pietro was grateful for these breaks, not just for the chance to stretch his muscles but because they managed brief snatches of conversation, the thunderous downpour eliminating any chance of being overheard.

It was at one of these stops, when Cangrande came to tell him the road ahead was particularly sodden and they would be turning off to a side track, that Pietro finally asked the important question. "Lord, where exactly are we going?"

Cangrande leaned close. "Exactly? We're entering the land of La Lupa." Chuckling, he returned to his horse and led the way across to an uphill track.

La Lupa. The She-Wolf.
What does that mean?
Riding doggedly behind Cangrande, bits of the ancient prophecy came back to Pietro. The mythic Greyhound was supposed to kill the She-Wolf before Italy's great golden age could begin. But what could any of that have to do with this journey? Was Cangrande chasing his destiny, or—

There was a crack, not thunder but a horrible rending sound. An attack? Pietro checked the reins and reached for his sword. He was looking this way and that, unable to see a thing. Cangrande shouted "Pietro! Move!" At the same moment Cangrande yanked on the lead. Pietro kicked with his left heel and the palfrey darted forward just as a rotten tree collapsed across the road where Pietro had been. It took down another tree across the road, throwing clumps of earth up into the air to rain down on them.

Cangrande tugged urgently on the lead. Pietro was shaking and needed a moment to collect himself. Then he heard what the Scaliger was hearing — voices! Someone calling out to help a poor traveler who had shouted.
Who does that?
thought Pietro perversely.
Who helps strangers these days?
There must be an inn or a church not far off the road. Cangrande's shout had saved Pietro and imperiled them both. Pietro kicked his left heel again and followed Cangrande as they rode as fast as the rain would allow. He could swear he heard hoofbeats close behind them, racing as fast as his heart.

At last, after carefully climbing a slope that begged to slip out from under them, Cangrande halted with an air of finality. Pietro couldn't see more than a couple feet in any direction. There was no light at all. He tried to figure out the distance they had covered. In this slow going it couldn't be more then ten or twelve miles. The fact that Cangrande had led them so unerringly in the complete darkness was yet another in a string of feats that made Pietro believe the Capitano was something more than human.

Slowly Cangrande edged them forward, and Pietro sensed rather than saw a structure of some kind. Possibly a hut or small house. Cangrande dismounted, and this time Pietro did the same. He stood for a moment, stretching out his muscles and arching his back.

A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. It was too quick to take anything in, but closing his eyes Pietro could see the afterimage of the building. At the top of its walls Pietro could swear he'd seen a jutting timber post. Were they going to a barn, a stable?

Cangrande led his horse to a tree a dozen yards from the building, using a low branch as a makeshift hitching post. Pietro copied him. As he was tying the reins, Cangrande leaned close. "Bring the sword."

Pietro drew the knife first and tucked it in his belt. Then he unsheathed the sword and paused. What to do about his crutch? Were they going into trouble? He had to assume they were. He decided to leave the crutch. Holding the sword low on his right side, he limped after Cangrande towards the unlit structure.

There was no door, just a stone frame. Cangrande paused under the lintel and stood there, listening and looking like a hound catching a scent. Pietro strained to hear something beyond the rain.
Is there someone in there? Is it an ambush?
Heart thudding, ears pricked to the slightest sound, Pietro stood in the door, facing the rain and guarding the Scaliger's back.

A rasping noise brought him spinning around, sword ready to strike. Cangrande was kneeling and striking a flint on the stone lintel, covering it close with his hand. In moments he had lit a taper. He lifted a candle from a nook near the door. Careful to shield it from the wind, he placed the lit candle back in its sconce. The illumination it cast was poor, as if the weather commanded the air to obstruct light's passage. But in the hazy light Pietro discovered that he was standing in a small chapel with benches set up in rows. At the far end was an altar with a massive carved stone cross suspended above it.

Cangrande crossed the chapel in just four strides. Kneeling before the altar, he used the haft of his sword for a cross as he prayed. Finished, he stood and shook himself as a dog would, throwing water everywhere. Then he turned and grinned. "Pietro, you're soaking. Don't you want to come in and get dry?"

Pietro didn't need telling twice. Genuflecting in the aisle, he followed Cangrande's example and spread his cloak on a bench to dry. He then gratefully settled himself on a bench a couple rows in, away from the rain spitting through the doorway. Cangrande had brought his two spare cloaks with him indoors, now hanging them up to dry on a peg by the door. Pietro felt foolish — he'd left his atop his mount.
At least I remembered the sword.

Cangrande found another candle in a sconce and lit it off the one he'd brought, then rejoined Pietro in the pews by the door. Setting the leather satchel with its icon close to hand, he slapped his thigh. "Well well, here we are. I hope the Lord will forgive us our trespass, and our presumption of being armed. These are dangerous times. How is the leg?"

"Glad of the rest," said Pietro honestly, stuggling to find a comfortable postion.

Laying his broadsword close beside him, the Scaliger opened the neck of a wineskin and passed it across. Pietro gulped down a healthy draught. It was followed by a sweetmeat wrapped in a greasy cloth. The treat was sticky and oozed juices out through the pasty exterior, but it was still almost warm.

The Capitano ate his slowly, interspersing bites with pulls at the wineskin. Pietro was hungry, but his nerves kept him from eating much. Padua was less than twenty miles from Vicenza. If he was right about the distance and direction traveled, they had to be somewhere in Paduan territory. Still shaking from cold, Pietro rubbed his hands and tried to wrap his mind around what they were doing. Was this another of Cangrande's insane plans, one of those things only he could bring off? Had the agreement with Il Grande included a secret negotiation with someone? But no, then Cangrande would have brought someone else, someone like Passerino Bonaccolsi. This seemed somehow — personal.

Not knowing how else to phrase it, Pietro simply asked, "My lord , are we invading Padua?"

"Just the two of us, yes." The Scaliger glanced up from his treat, wiping his mouth with the wrapping cloth. "A little late to be asking, don't you think?"

Pietro reddened. "I was just –"

"Everything to do with Padua has been decided in council over the past three days. It is not what I had in mind, but it's the best I can now hope to do." He popped the end of his sweetmeat into his mouth and pointed to its mate in Pietro's hand. "Are you going to eat that? No? Here, I'll split it with you. The short version is this: Padua will officially recognize my claim to Vicenza and relinquish all rights thereto. Both the Vicentines and the Paduans will retain any land that was theirs before the conflict began. All prisoners on both sides will be released." He gazed sorrowfully at Pietro. "That means, I'm afraid, you'll get no ransom for Marsilio. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

Licking his sticky fingers, Pietro shrugged off the loss — it was a fortune gone, but he'd hardly had time to think about it. Besides, he was used to being poor. Still, it galled him a little to think that Marsilio would be able to crow about keeping his fortune. Both Mari and Antony would be livid on Pietro's behalf. Imagining their indignant outrage, he smiled. He'd made friends for life in those two. Far more valuable than Carrara's gold.

Pietro's loss was nothing compared to Cangrande's. Between the recent battle and other skirmishes, the Capitano had more than two thousand Paduan captives, a least a hundred of whom could have been ransomed at a high price. If he was forcing his men to give up a fortune, he was losing several more himself. "What prisoners do the Paduans have?"

"Though they hold no Veronese of note, they do have many Vicentines. Remember, I wasn't fighting this war in the name of Verona. I was asked by the people of Vicenza to be their champion against the Paduans, and the Emperor named me their Imperial Vicar before he died. This has been mostly a defensive war, in a
cause juste
. That is what I have on my side. The law. The right. Justice." He took another pull at the wineskin. "I haven't been fighting only the Paduans, either. Bologna, Ferrara, and Treviso have all sent food, money, soldiers. They're worried, you see. If Padua falls, they think they'll be next. And behind them all are the Venetians. Venice doesn't want Verona's influence expanded any further. As long as all the inland city-states are warring, Venice has everything its own way." The Capitano's voice grew steely. "I won't allow that, if I can help it."

"You sound as if you're planning a war against Venice."

That drew a low chuckle that almost sounded admiring. "War with Venice is unwinnable. The Serenissima, that most serene city, is unique in the world, I believe — a city without walls. Why bother building walls when you've got the water to protect you? They have no land assets, a recent lesson hard learned from Ferrrara. They have no real armies but their fleets. For land war they just hire mercenaries or, even more practical, get someone else to do their dirty work while they reap the profit. Think of the Fourth Crusade. Profit is their aim, and trade is their sword. They do more with an abacus and a scale than they would with an army." Cangrande got a sly look. "But if I were to plan a war with Venice, I know how I'd do it."