The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  "That will take time. It will be no help to him tonight."

  "But you agree?"

  "I do. Yet some things are best left to the unfolding of time. All we can do for him tonight is be spectators."

  Together the duo made their way to the Arena.

  Twenty-Six

  A half an hour before sunset, Pietro Alaghieri rode towards his first duel. Possibly his last.

  The Arena was even more packed than for the horse Palio. Somehow in a single hour word had gotten around the whole city. This entertainment had it all — sex, politics, personal and family quarrels. Better, these were the two from the Palio the day before. The Paduan had even been Ser Alaghieri's prisoner after Vicenza.

  Pietro emerged through the main gate on the west side, breath smoking in the chill air. He wore the newly made armour presented to him for his knighthood. He'd also taken a page from Carrara's book and dressed lightly under it in anticipation of the heavy work to come. Over all he wore a thick cloak he would doff before the fighting started.

  He rode his monstrous new destrier. The Scaliger's groom hadn't known the warhorse's name. At this point it hardly mattered. It would take weeks of training for the beast to respond to a rider. His life was in hazard now.

  Leading his nameless horse, as the rules of chivalry dictated, was a woman, whose token he would bear into battle. The young woman was his sister, Antonia, drafted quite against her will.

  "This is not the reunion I had in mind," she said tartly.

  "I wanted it to be memorable," murmured Pietro in reply.

  "If you lose, I won't cry."

  "Just promise me you won't poke fun if I make an ass of myself."

  "You realize there's a place in Hell for those with excessive pride?"

  "You know, I think I read that somewhere."

  Antonia couldn't help herself — she chuckled. Removing a scarf from around her neck, she handed it up to him. A knight must always carry a lady's token into battle. Pietro wished instead he could have a glove from a certain married lady in the crowd. Doubtless Carrara had one from Gianozza.

  Behind Pietro came Poco atop Canis, preening with excitement. Against his better judgment, he'd let his brother be his squire. Pietro had wanted an experienced page, and Jacopo was still walking gingerly on his cut feet. But when his brother offered to be his second, Pietro found he hadn't the heart to say no.

  Seeing Antonia's fur scarf around Pietro's neck, Jacopo protested. "Imperia, I gave you that!"

  "Yes you did," replied Antonia tartly, "and it's awful and ugly and I hope it gets covered in Carrara's blood because then I'll never have to wear it again." Poco made a face at her, which she returned. Pietro made a visible appeal to the heavens.

  Held high over Poco's head was the banner of the new Capulletti, commissioned this morning by Ludovico's steward. The Alaghieri party was followed by a pair of servants bearing between them Pietro's coffin, as the law dictated. It was perverse that most of the last hour had been spent finding a carpenter to sell him one. More perverse was the fact that he'd had to pay for it out of his own purse — Antony's father hadn't wanted to spring for it.

  Don't think about it. Focus on the fight.

  The act of arming hadn't stopped him from receiving a series of visitors. Bailardino had come, and Nico da Lozzo. The handsome monk, Brother Lorenzo, had come at the instruction of his Bishop to make certain that Pietro's soul was prepared in case the worst should happen. He taken the opportunity to apologize. "I'm so sorry — I didn't know! It was so romantic, they were obviously in love! What could go wrong? But I shouldn't have married them…"

  "It's all right," said Pietro, slipping into the gambeson before letting Poco buckle on the chest plate.

  "I saw a duel once, back in… back home. It was terrible. I vowed never to be party to such a thing again. Now I am the cause of one!"

  Pietro wondered who was confessing to whom. "You're not the cause."

  "But it isn't my fault, not really. My bishop said to be serviceable to the Paduans…"

  "I don't have that much time," said Pietro pointedly.

  "Then I'll be brief," said Lorenzo. Pietro made confession and the young brother had fretfully told Pietro he'd be praying for him.

  The one person Pietro had flatly refused to see was Mariotto. Claiming the impropriety of an interview at this time, he asked the steward to send Mariotto away. The steward had returned while Pietro was strapping on his leg greaves. "Ser Montecchio says he regrets the position he has placed you in, and that he understands why you feel the need to act as you are."

  "Big of him." It occurred to him that Mari probably thought Pietro didn't care about the wedding, only the duel with Carrara. What if my petition had been denied and I'd been forced to fight Mariotto? Could I have done it? Probably not, he admitted.

  Against his own better judgment, Pietro had allowed Poco to bard him fully — petta, arm and leg greaves, a chainlink skirt. The heavy armour would protect him while on horseback, but if Pietro fell, the weight would drag him to the Arena floor. I'll just have to try not to be unhorsed. It was amusing, though — just yesterday he'd doubted if he'd ever wear the Scaliger's gift. 'Unused, unbloodied, hanging on the wall' — sure, if I'd been lucky!

  His destrier was fully barded as well, bearing the whole compliment of armor. Along the head was the metal and leather testiera, which fitted snugly over the horse's face. A large spike for goring made the beast resemble a unicorn, and the horse's eyes were protected by a criss-crossing of metal bands over the eye-holes. Protecting the chest was the pettiera which protruded forward so as not to inhibit the horse's movement. Fore and aft of the leather saddle sat the two arciones, hard wooden constructions that protected the rider's groin, rump, and knees. Behind the saddle hung the many scaled layers of the groppa, from which extended a small ornamental device in the shape of a small lizard from whose mouth hung the horse's braided tail.

  Across his horse's groppa hung a linen banner in crimson and silver, the Capulletto colours.

  With a great deal of help, Pietro had settled himself on the back of the war-horse. The reins were covered with metal discs to protect them from being cut by an opponent's sword. The reins led to bits, so called because the horse bit it. The bits had long shanks and high ports, providing greater leverage on the curb which exerted pressure on the horse's mouth. Then he rode a mile through Verona streets and entered the Arena.

  Carrara was already inside, waiting atop a destrier borrowed from Cangrande's stables, a massive grey beast that looked like a wall in motion. We're both riding unfamiliar animals. No advantage there. To add insult to injury, Carrara wore the red ribbon marking him the victor of the Horse Palio.

  Standing beside Marsilio's horse in a fine dress meant for one wedding and worn for another, Gianozza della Bella looked a vision of youthful femininity: ivory breasts hardly swelling below the bodice, her ebony hair had fallen just loose enough to give her a slightly untamed look. Who could honestly blame Montecchio? I can.

  Carrara said something flippant to his cousin before cantering forward. Pietro whispered to his sister. "Time to go. Find father. He's in the balcony up there." He gestured with his chin.

  Antonia debated for a moment the proper blessing. Finally she settled on, "God give you strength." Then she followed Gianozza up to the balcony where Dante could be seen in the front row. At least I was able to improve his seating arrangement, thought Pietro wryly.

  He gave a spur and the destrier picked up the pace, cutting across the Paduan's path. With a deft flick of his reins Carrara pulled his mount alongside. "Touchy. At least you look like a proper knight. Brand new armour, eh? Not a scrape on it. For show, I suppose. You could keep it that way. Are you truly ready to have me hand you your head over a trifle?"

  Pietro wasn't even aware of opening his mouth. "I'm ready to drive my sword through your skull."

  "Good luck with that. Thank you, by the way."

  "For what?"

  "Ever since Vice
nza my soul has longed for a chance to even up with you. With the help of the girl, I took my vengeance on your two idiot friends. But you're the real prize."

  Pietro thought his teeth might shatter, he was grinding them so hard. "Happy to oblige."

  "Yes, Pierazzo, when I kill you, I'll only have one more. I'll make it my life's work to kill the Greyhound of Verona."

  Pietro knew he meant Cangrande, but in his mind's eye he saw Carrara's boot on Cesco's little neck. The image made Pietro's hands shake. Carrara saw it and, misunderstanding, laughed. "Oh yes! And his putanna of a sister — the donna di strade you moon after! I'll bet she ruts like an icy cunt. But that's fine — I'll warm her up."

  "Shut your filthy mouth."

  "Oh ho! So Capuletto's not the only one forced to love from afar. Such romantics!" Carrara's mockery echoed around them.

  Reaching a position before the Scaliger's balcony, the combatants brought their horses to a halt. Scanning faces in the dying light Pietro saw Katerina sitting beside Bailardino, Cesco in her arms. Good. Here, under the eyes of the citizenry, he's safe from another kidnapping attempt.

  Antonia was slipping in beside Pietro's father. Mariotto and Gianozza gazed at each other, separated by Mari's sister Aurelia. The lovers knew the outcome of the duel would represent God's sanction or condemnation of their union.

  Far from Mari and Gianozza, Antony was propped up on pillows close to the edge of the balcony. With him sat his brother and father, who looked to be arguing still.

  Leaning over the edge of the balcony in eager anticipation were Cangrande's two nephews, Mastino and Alberto. No need to wonder who little Mastino was rooting for. Guglielmo da Castelbarco and Passerino Bonaccolsi sat behind them. Close by, Nico da Lozzo gave Pietro a high sign of victory, ignoring the angry glare of the Capitano. "Give him what for, Pietro!" Others joined in with Nico, cheering not his cause but Pietro himself.

  The Scaliger spoke, but Pietro couldn't hear him, his ears filled with his own hammering heartbeat. Yet he recited the ritual oath and gave the forced handshake, quick and humiliating. Then Ziliberto dell'Angelo gave the signal to begin. For a mad moment Pietro wondered what bizarre pecking order placed the Master of the Hunt in charge of judicial duels. Shaking away the thought, he placed his helmet on his head and rode to the Arena's far end where Jacopo waited with lances and other weapons. "Are you ready for this, big brother?"

  "Just stay back where it's safe," instructed Pietro. "Father'll kill me if I let anything happen to you." Even under the circumstances the threat of Dante's wrath seemed both real and terrible.

  Poco nodded, swallowing several times. He's more excited than I am, and just as scared. Terrific. All I need is a squirrelly page.

  Up on the balcony, Antonia could hardly watch. Her brother looked so small atop that beast, dwarfed by his own armour. Carrara's armour was molded to his shape, creating the appearance of grace and poise where Pietro looked clumsy and brutish.

  Yet her brother lifted his lance with ease. As the challenged party, Marsilio had been offered choice of weapons. His squire held up his first tool of destruction and the crowd gasped. He'd chosen a halberd.

  Gripping her father's sleeve, Antonia asked, "What does that mean?"

  "Carrara's chosen a polearm rather than a lance." That Pietro had stuck to the traditional lance was probably wise, Dante informed her. Her brother hadn't ever fought with a halberd, and it was a tricky weapon to wield, having a spike, an axe, and a hook, all at the end of a long pole. "They'll have an equal reach. But Pietro has a shield, one with a good spike for goring if he gets in close. Carrara's weapon is for killing, Pietro's is for unseating. If he can get Carrara to the ground without losing his own seat he'll have the choice of finishing it there and then. All he has to do is avoid the halberd's head."

  Was that all? It sounded like a lot to Antonia. For the first time she understood why young men devoted so much of their time to learning about different types of weapons and combat. But Pietro had spent more time with his head in books than actually on the turf.

  On the Arena floor, Pietro was thinking much the same thing. His one lesson in swordplay hadn't covered fighting from horseback, let alone polearms. But he'd seen enough jousts to know the rules, and a little strategy. Don't hit the horse, knock the other fellow out of his seat. Easy. I'll have this wrapped up by supper. He laughed at himself, and it sounded a little hysterical to his ears. Across the Arena floor Carrara looked deadly peaceful. Pietro had the insane urge to make faces inside his helmet. Maybe he should wave. Or give Carrara the fig. But no, that was unchivalrous.

  Cangrande gave the nod, Tullio d'Isola dropped the flag, and Pietro spurred at Carrara, who was kicking his own mount into motion. The crowd surged to life as the two combatants raced at each other.

  Pietro fought the instinct to lean forward. His armour was heavy enough to unseat him if he got unbalanced, and that would be a stupid way to lose. Instead he held his lance crooked in his arm and tried to breathe as the monster beneath him thundered across the pitch. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. He and Carrara were surely both going to die. That halberd was a wicked-looking thing. It was angled right for Pietro's heart, and only a heartbeat away.

  There was the clatter and scrape of metal on metal as Pietro beat away the halberd's spike with his shield and Carrara's horse sidestepped the lance. A thousand voices seemed to sigh.

  On the balcony, Antonia was covering her eyes. "What happened?"

  Dante was terse. "They missed. They're circling around again."

  Antonia peeked. Yes, Pietro was almost directly beneath her, turning his warhorse about for the next charge. His round shield bore a scar just below its center. With a shout she could feel, he urged his mount on to another charge. This time Antonia kept her eyes open almost to the moment of impact, then saw what Carrara was doing and gasped.

  Pietro was riding full tilt for Carrara when the other suddenly veered his horse, trying to get the halberd's axehead sweeping around in an arc. Too late to stop, Pietro swerved and brought his shield across. He missed with the shield but, dumb luck, got his lance across the halberd's path. There was an awkward 'clack' as the axehead was deflected.

  The line of both their charges broken, the two horses moved away from each other. Desperate to disengage, Pietro was trying to pull his horse back to a safe distance to begin a new charge. In these close quarters his lance was all but useless, while the halberd bore hook, spike, and axehead. Which Carrara now brought into play.

  Above, Antonia watched in horror as she saw her brother's horse step the wrong way, opening up his back to a blow from the axehead — a blow that descended, aiming for the center of Pietro's spine. No matter how strong the steel of his back-plate or how much of the impact the gambeson absorbed, he would be stunned, leaving him open for a killing blow. Antonia screamed.

  How Pietro got his shield up and over his head he never knew. He felt the halberd's axehead strike, the impact twisting the muscles in his left arm. He turned his head in time to see the silver hook at the halberd's back catch the edge of the shield and rip it downward. Pietro involuntarily released his grip on the shield, but the strap across his upper arm held it in place.

  His eyes were on the axehead. Carrara was swinging it around to literally disarm his foe by taking Pietro's arm clean off. The lance in his right hand was useless, so he raised his left arm, shield dangling, hoping to somehow ward off the strike.

  The stars favored Pietro again. His shield's spike caught the halberd between the axe and the shaft and deflected the blow. Pietro was still kicking with his spurs, and finally the destrier under him responded, tearing away along Carrara's left side. With a flick of his own spurs Marsilio twisted about in pursuit.

  Pietro cursed. In close-quarter fighting he was at a disadvantage. Raising the lance, he pitched it backward. With any luck, Marsilio's horse would trip on it, and so end the fight. That wouldn't happen, of course, but it was pretty to think so.

  Pietro's ha
nd scrabbled to draw his sword from the saddle's scabbard. It was a longsword, more than twice the length of Pietro's forearm. He'd tried it out before the duel. It was slightly point-heavy, the better to bring a blow down onto an opponent's head or neck. Brandishing it in his gloved right hand, he shifted in his saddle. Carrara was behind him, spurring hard to close the gap and bring the halberd to bear again. Swinging the weapon from the very end of the shaft, the Paduan had a long reach but poor leverage.

  It was an impossible situation. So long as Pietro allowed himself to be chased in circles around the Arena, Carrara had the upper hand. But the moment he stopped, he would be eviscerated by the spike or axehead.

  An image suddenly appeared in Pietro's mind. The Scaliger, facing a spear on one side, a sword on the other, and a morning star behind. He recalled the Capitano's leg snaking out to grasp the spear. Pietro couldn't do that with the halberd. But he could remove the halberd from play, if he was willing to sacrifice… Yes. But first, he had to build Carrara's confidence.

  Pietro recalled Cangrande's lesson as they looked at the walls of Vicenza. Show the enemy what he expects to see. Yanking his reins inward, Pietro cut across the Arena floor in a close facsimile of panic.

  "What's he doing?" demanded Antonia.

  "I'm not sure," her father breathed.

  They saw Pietro twist the reins again, cutting south instead of west, and Ludovico Capulletto roared in outrage. "He's running away!" His two sons were silent, for different reasons. Antony was rigidly watching the duel unfold. Luigi, silently rooting against his brother's champion, hoped Carrara's weapon would find its mark. Their feelings horribly conflicted, Mari and Gianozza were unable to turn away.

  "He's a coward," sneered young Mastino della Scala, inviting a clout from Guglielmo del Castelbarco.

  "Kill him, Carrara!" cried someone. Antonia twisted around to see a short fellow seated beside Ser Bonaventura. They looked related. She gave him a frosty glare, then returned to covering her eyes.

  Down in the Arena something drifted across the slit in Pietro's helmet. A snowflake. Calm and gentle, snow had begun to fall. If it got any heavier, it could be an aid, obscuring his actions from view. But he couldn't wait for the weather. Pietro touched his mount's left flank, turning it north. He'd lost all sense of where Marsilio was. Hopefully he'd gained a few steps. If not, his next move would see him killed.