The Master of Verona (75 page)

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!"