The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  Cangrande draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Someone, assist the groom to his seat at the head of the table. He seems to have found the liquid courage he needs to face his wedding night — if only he can remember what to do!" With an accompanying roar the group broke apart and prepared to move into the feasting hall below.

  A hand slapped Pietro's shoulder. "Nice job of wriggling."

  Pietro didn't bother to turn. "You're just jealous, Poco. You couldn't have done it." As a boy, Pietro had had such trouble with his brother Jacopo's name that he'd reversed the sounds, turning it into Poco. As Jacopo grew older, the nickname became an appropriate joke — he was short for his age. He'd also inherited their father's protruding lower lip, which set his young face in a perpetual pout.

  "Who needs Aristotle?" asked Poco.

  "Anyone with sense," came the voice that made them both stiffen. Dante's fingers clipped his younger son a light flick on the ear. "Pietro, who is your new friend?" Pietro told him. The poet looked surprised and uttered a mysterious, "Interesting."

  "Why interesting?" asked Pietro.

  But Dante was already heading towards the door. "Come along, Jacopo. Pietro, I'll see you downstairs."

  Cowed, Poco trailed closely behind as Dante made for the exit. The bridegroom was being physically carried out the same doors by three friends while a fourth friend plied him with bread and water. Little Mastino and Alberto followed, poking the groom in the ribs to see if they could make him vomit.

  Mariotto and Pietro hung back from the crowd of guests wandering out to their various suites to change for the meal. It would be at the least another half hour before they were all seated and able to eat, and Pietro recognized it as the perfect time for Mariotto to approach the young Capuan he was obliged to befriend.

  The fellow was staring out the arched palisade at a rider galloping into the courtyard below. The Capuan's doublet and hose were very fine, but showed a reckless neglect around the elbows and knees. His muscles looked as slack as a sackful of horsefeed, which is to say not at all. Hearing footsteps on the marble behind him he turned, face haughty. "I'll be there in a minute." He must have thought they were servants.

  "Ah, good day," said Pietro. "I'm, ah, my name is Pietro…"

  "He's Pietro Alaghieri of Florence." Mariotto made sure to pronounce it correctly. "The son of the great poet Dante. I'm Mariotto Montecchio."

  "Veronese?"

  "Just like the best horses, I was born and bred right here."

  After a brief pause, the sandy-haired stranger realized he had not reciprocated the introduction. "I'm Antony — Antonio Capecelatro, second son of Ludovico Capecelatro of Capua."

  "Well met, Antony. We were wondering if you'd care to explore the city with us."

  Antony frowned. "I thought you said you lived here?"

  "I do," said Mariotto.

  "Don't you know it already, then?"

  Mariotto was flustered. "Well, yes — I do. But Alaghieri here is new to Verona. So are you. I thought we might go out after dinner and explore the city together. Maybe we can find some contests or games to take part in."

  "Games?" said Antony, livening up. "Are there games here?"

  "All the time, when the Capitano is in residence. He commanded games for tomorrow. Didn't you hear?"

  The Capuan was skeptical. "All princes do that — and they're always pitiful!"

  Mariotto smiled knowingly. "You haven't seen Cangrande's games. He held a Corte Bandita three years ago, and eight men died. Three more lost an eye apiece." His own eyes gleamed. "There are cat-battings and bear-baitings. And there's the Palio every year. The toughest race in Italy."

  The Capuan was intrigued. "Inventive, is he?"

  "You have no idea," said Mariotto. "Now, do you want to come with us tonight — or would you rather wait here with the old men and the women?"

  Antony clapped Mariotto on the shoulder. "I should throw you over the balcony for that, pipsqueak!"

  Eyes beaming, Mariotto said, "Try it! Look, we can find our supper in the city, and perhaps meet some women. Tomorrow there'll be knife fights and wrestling matches on the bridge — maybe even a goose-pull!"

  To a mental list of Mariotto's attributes, Pietro added fickle. Feeling himself being relegated to the role of tagalong, he said, "Maybe we can have a swimming race in the Adige." Swimming was one arena Pietro excelled in.

  Antony reached out a hand to grip Pietro's shoulder. Though not taller than either youth, his bulk and wide peasant hands made him seem gigantic. "I will follow you two to the end of the earth, if it means not another minute of poetry — no offense, Alaghieri."

  "None taken," laughed Pietro, moving out of range of Antony's grasp and surreptitiously rubbing life back into his arm.

  One of the huge falcons let loose a cry. The birds were all still on their perches, waiting for the Master of the Hunt to return them to the aviary. Having been disturbed by the noisy dance, they were still fidgety.

  "Do you want to see my bird?" asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. "Dilios!" The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master's voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. "He's still small enough that I can hold him without protection." He indicated his arm, which bore only the sheath of leather from the light-coloured farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto's arm with its pounces. "Here, Dilios. There's a good boy."

  "Dilios?" said Antony, puzzled. "What kind of name is that?"

  "Greek." Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.

  "The only survivor of Thermopylae," supplied Pietro.

  Antony look a little embarrassed. "I'm a dunce about literature." Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.

  Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios' leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.

  Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger's greyhound, tail stiff, head low.

  Something was happening. With a quick look among them, the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios' blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall, they watched and listened.

  "This happened this morning?" The Capitano's eyes scanned the few written lines again and again, ripping every ounce of meaning from them.

  "Just — before dawn," gasped the rider. "Ant- Ant-"

  The Scaliger looked up. "When you can! Don't waste my time!" The youth cowed, Cangrande's tone softened. "Get your breath back, then tell. You did well getting this past the enemy. A minute more won't break us." The parchment was glanced at once more. A wry grin came to the thin lips. "Good for you, Ponzoni. I didn't think you had it in you."

  Mariotto frowned, then turned to his new friends and mouthed the word Padua.

  Cangrande turned his full attention to the messenger. "I'm going to put some questions to you. You will answer with nods. Understand?"

  The young rider started to speak, then caught himself and nodded.

  "Vicenza's suburb is taken?"

  Nod.

  "They put up a fight?"

  Shake.

  "They went willingly?"

  A hesitant, almost fearful, nod. There was no change in the face that questioned him.

  "Antonio Nogarola is in charge in the city?"

  Nod.

  "Bailardino must still be in the north."

  It wasn't a question, but the
young messenger nodded anyway.

  "Has he fortified the inner city wall?"

  A nod, but there was some hesitation.

  "He was just ordering it when you left."

  A vigorous nod, then the lad opened his mouth. His breath had returned. "Not only the walls — Ser Nogarola ordered the houses in San Pietro fired — to deprive the enemy of cover."

  "Excellent!" He clapped a hand on the messenger's shoulder. "You've done well. One more question — was there any sign of the Count of San Bonifacio?"

  "They say he lead the assault into the suburb."

  Cangrande swore, then patted the boy on the shoulder. "What is your name, youngster?"

  "Muzio, lord."

  "Muzio, you've completed your charge. You may now have any bed in the palace, including mine. Just repeat what you told me to my master-at-arms below. Ask for Nico da Lozzo. Tell him I said to muster as many men as he can and ride to Vicenza." His eyes flickered to a wineskin hanging from the lad's belt. "Is it full?" Without being asked the boy unslung it from his belt and handed it to the Capitano. "My thanks," said Cangrande, gripping the skin in one hand while the other made a fist to gently prod the boy's shoulder. "Now go tell Nico what you know. And tell him I've gone already."

  Full of new energy, the boy made to run off when the great man touched his shoulder. "One last question. Is the wife of Bailardino Nogarola well?"

  "She was when I saw her, lord. She was helping Signore Nogarola give the orders."

  "Of course she was. Go now, lad."

  The sound of the boy's footsteps echoed among the empty loggia. For a moment the great man stood alone. He lifted the wineskin to his lips and drank off the contents in a single pull, then tossed the empty bladder aside.

  In a flurry of movement the Scaliger approached one of the perches. His hands moved among several of the birds waiting there. They made noise as he released the tether from one of them. It was the same merlin he had petted earlier. With a light step, the blindfolded bird was on his shoulder.

  To the seemingly empty hall Cangrande said, "If you're coming, try to keep up." Then he disappeared behind the billowing curtains of the nearest arched window.

  Jupiter began to whimper as the three hidden watchers cautiously emerged. Save for the greyhound and the falcons, they were quite alone.

  Glancing around, Antony said, "Where the hell…?"

  "Was he talking to us?" wondered Mariotto.

  "He didn't know we were here," said Antony with certainty.

  Pietro dashed to the arch Cangrande had disappeared behind. The lord of Verona was gone. The only thing here was the greyhound, straining against the railing to the balcony. Looking at the cobbled street one level below, Pietro said, "He jumped."

  "What?" Mariotto and Antonio joined him, arriving just in time to see a golden-headed blur race out from the stables below them, heading east down a private street. Not bothering with stairs, Cangrande had found a horse and started out for Vicenza.

  Pietro shared blank looks with Mariotto and Antony. Then in inspired unison Mariotto and Antony imitated Cangrande, leaping off the balcony to the stables below, Mariotto still bearing the bird on his arm.

  Pietro thought they were both crazy. But already he had swung his own legs over the rail and was dropping down to the cobbled street. In seconds he was joining them in their search for horses.

  Above them the greyhound raced for the door, down the stairs to the stable, determined not to be left behind.

  Five

  On a borrowed — stolen! — horse, Pietro tried to keep up with Mariotto and Antony as they tore after Verona's Capitano. Already he was out of sight. Blessedly they'd taken the time to saddle their horses, something Cangrande hadn't bothered with.

  It was not hard to trace the path he had taken. He'd barreled through streets, dodging or jumping all obstructions, shouting out curt warnings. Shaken citizens were just recovering as three more horses dashed past, two of their riders whooping and hollering. All assumed it was another of the Capitano's games — a hunt through the streets, with a live rider as the prey. Stranger things happened every day.

  Reaching the Roman bridge on the bank of the Adige, they were stymied by a caravan of millet-bearing mules. There was no trace of the Scaliger. But before they had passed a dozen words with the onlookers, the dog Jupiter dashed past them, heading north towards a smaller bridge atop the Adige's oxbow embrace of the city.

  Mariotto watched the greyhound go and cried, "He's making for the Ponte di Pietro!" Wheeling their horses around, they followed in the dog's wake.

  The stone and wood bridge was not as sturdy as the Roman one, and thus was less crowded. Passing under the open gate, they left the city, hoping against hope to catch up to the wonderful madman leading them on.

  Pietro could already feel the stiff leather saddle biting into him. The stirrups hurt his slippered feet. It had been almost a year since he had ridden this hard, and in sport, not war. Not that Capecelatro acknowledged the difference. He shouted as though this were nothing but a great adventure. Mariotto was infected with the Capuan's joy, and Pietro wished he could feel it, too. Yet his misgivings held him in check. What is the Scaliger thinking? He can't take on the whole Paduan army single-handed!

  He won't be single-handed if we can catch him, insisted the devil's advocate in his head.

  And what can we do? he retorted. We don't even have knives! Stupid wedding etiquette!

  Still, he didn't turn back. Seventeen years old, he'd been raised on stories of the battle of Campaldino, where a certain young cavalryman named Durante from the undistinguished house of Alighieri had fought with distinction. Poet, lawyer, politician, and soldier. So much to live up to. Pietro spurred on.

  Tongue dangling, the hound Jupiter again dashed ahead and barked. Seconds later Cangrande came into view. He glanced back but didn't slow down, counting on the boys to catch him up. Indeed, he didn't stop until they reached a bridge just south of San Martino. A man was bathing on the near bank of the Fibbio. He leapt from the water and, throwing a grubby cloak over his nakedness, ran to collect his toll.

  Reining in, Cangrande looked back with an abashed grin. "Anyone have any money?"

  Pietro reached into his meager purse and paid the hermit for their passage.

  "Thank heaven for the infernal son," said Cangrande, grinning. "Well — come on!"

  They soon left the road, angling north through patches of wood and hills. Antony called out, "Where are we going?"

  Cangrande was already pulling ahead, leaving it to Mariotto to answer. "If he keeps going he'll pass the castle at Illasi. He took it last year, rebuilt it, and filled it with loyal men. We'll probably change horses there and gather troops. To get there we have to ford the Illasi River."

  "Lead the way!" roared Antony.

  Taking his place in the rear, Pietro winced as the saddle jumped under him.

  They heard the river before ever they saw it. Two hours had passed since the mad leap from the balcony, and sweat poured down the animals' bodies. Pietro sympathized — he couldn't feel anything other than the chill sweat on his face. He was sure he'd never walk again. Or unclench his hands. Or relax his jaw. He was having a devilish time just keeping himself in line behind Mariotto and Antonio. Both were excellent riders, the one well taught and used to the saddle, the other a born sportsman. And the unsaddled Cangrande was outstripping them all. Pietro felt stupid and sluggish.

  They had to stop outside the gate of the castle at Illasi while Cangrande proved who he was, then they were in a courtyard scarred and blackened by old siege fires. Servants were sent running to and fro, horses were being saddled, knights donned armour.

  "What about us?" asked Antony loud enough for Cangrande to hear him, but the great man was busy in conference with the garrison commander.

  "I'll get fresh horses," said Mariotto and ran off.

  "I'll steal some swords," said Antony.

  "I'll…" Pietro couldn't think of anything to do, so he exami
ned the hurrying soldiers. Thirty or so. Versus the full armed might of Padua. The madness hadn't ended. It was still impossible.

  His father's voice said, You could stay here. No one would think less of you.

  Except you, thought Pietro.

  He saw the hound Jupiter lapping from a puddle. The dog is smarter than I am. Walking to the nearest barrel, Pietro drew himself some water. It was heaven.

  Doing a quick head count, Pietro guessed there were about twenty-five men in the garrison here now armouring themselves. Better than four, he thought. Though not much.

  Antony returned with swords and helms. "They don't have spare armour. Just gambesons."

  Pietro found himself fitted with the Eastern-style armour whose popularity had grown in the West since the Crusades. Composed of layers of cloth, rags, or tow, it was quilted to a foundation of canvas or leather, then covered in linen or silk. Usually a gambeson was an undergarment in battle, a secondary layer of protection.

  Pietro's helmet was a simple practice helmet of plain steel, little more than a bucket with a cross cut for eyes. It didn't fit well, leaving four inches between the dome and his scalp. Do I have a wide head?

  His sword was a decent three-foot-long bastard, the technical term for a hand-and-a-half grip. Plenty of burrs but servicable. Pietro strapped a leather baldric across his chest and fitted the sword home on his left hip. There. I might fool someone for a moment.

  As opposed to Pietro, the Capuan wore on his head a coif of mail. A single band of thick metal encompassed his head. Below and above that band, chain links clinked and clattered together. The links went under his chin and hooked in front of his left ear.

  Mariotto arrived with fresh horses. Pietro eyed his, a fine dusty gelding.

  "These are beautiful horses," observed Antony as he mounted.