The Master of Verona pa-1

by David Blixt

  Thrusting the question aside, Carrara gestured Asdente over to again discuss the order of riding. "Scorigiani, you're leading the second wave of men, mostly foot. Wait until I'm well into the city to start your charge. I'll flush out the figli di puttana, and you can come in and decimate them."

  "Gladly," replied Asdente, his broken mouth looking old and evil.

  Carrara grunted, remembering what Asdente had said upon being offered the junior command. "Of course I'm damn well coming. After the last Vicentine adventure, my reputation is covered in mud. They won't let me lead a band of eunuchs to a brothel. I'm in for anything that will restore my reputation."

  Marsilio turned to his captain of the horse. "You ride with me — though I want a few hundred foot soldiers with us, too."

  The captain nodded. The Paduan troops were happy to have Carrara at their head. They might not have been so serene to follow him had they known his uncle would have opposed this venture. Marsilio hadn't told them. He had more important things on his mind now than his uncle's approval. He had a city to win, and a treacherous Count to watch.

  In a low dale two miles to the west of the Paduan forces, Uguccione della Faggiuola was also reviewing his own dispositions with Nico da Lozzo. Mariotto Montecchio was nearby, clad in new French armour. Also present was Benvenito Lenoti, soon to be Mariotto's brother-in-law.

  "Where the hell is Bonaventura?" growled Uguccione. "The Illasi group was supposed to be here an hour ago."

  "They'll be here," said Nico.

  "They better get here soon. Twenty men could make the difference."

  Mariotto was silent. He too wanted Bonaventura's men to get here soon. He had something to say to Antony.

  Life was nearly perfect for Mari. United with his wife, reconciled with his father, he felt he stood at the precipice of a whole new life. The only blight was his shattered relationship with Antony. Mari wanted a chance to set things right before the battle, in case something happened.

  Beside him, Benvenito was nervous, eager to talk. War was very different than life in the lists. "Any word on Bonifacio?"

  Uguccione chuckled nastily. "A farmer told us that a group of soldiers and horsemen tramped across his field under cover of darkness. Had to be him, moving into position. I haven't sent out scouts, in case he caught them. We know where he's supposed to be, and when."

  "How many men-at-arms do the Paduans have?"

  "About a thousand in all," said Uguccione. "They'll outnumber us, but just barely. Bailardino's whole garrison is hidden away inside the city. And there's another force waiting for the Paduans. Cangrande commissioned someone to wear Bonifacio's armour to amuse the enemy. They'll engage first."

  Mari laughed. "Clever. And where is the Scaliger?"

  "Off whoring in Cremona," replied Uguccione disdainfully. "Actually, he's probably on his way by now. He and Passerino were raising holy hell with the Cremonese a week ago, just to put the Paduans at ease. But however fast he rides, he'll miss today's fun."

  At the sound of hoofbeats they turned. Bonaventura's force was arriving, late but fresh and ready to fight. Capulletto rode in among these men and moved to a place in the front line, as his rank dictated. His brother Luigi was in the row behind him, looking sourly eager.

  Mariotto had hoped for a little more privacy, but now was the only time. He cantered over. "Morning, Antony."

  "Montecchio."

  Mari tried to remember that he deserved the cold greeting. "I wanted to talk to you."

  "Good. I want to talk to you, too." He reached to belt and drew a silver dagger. "Remember this? I've had this since the Palio. You might not have noticed, but we switched daggers that day." He rotated the blade until the name showed, the acid-etching looking quite dark against the light colour of the blade. "After we're done here today, I'll give it back to you."

  Mariotto's blood drained to his boots. "Antony, I — what are you saying?"

  Antony slipped the dagger into his tall boot. "I'm saying if we live through this battle, I have a blade with your name on it."

  Mari stared, then nodded. With nothing more for either to say, Mariotto returned to his station in the right-hand files of knights and men-at-arms, his mind not at all on the impending battle.

  Pietro's soldiers raced into position. Word was filtering back that exiles were scaling the southern suburb walls and approaching the gate to the city proper. Citizens followed a well-ordered plan to evacuate this part of the city.

  Pietro turned a corner and saw the gate across a wide expanse of a courtyard. He halted his men. This was the same gate that had stopped the Paduans three years before. Today the gate would open like magic, the bribed Muzio pretending to follow the Paduan plan. It would be up to Pietro's band to hold the gate until Uguccione and Bailardino's hidden troops arrived. He wondered how many the Paduans had brought. He wondered how long he could hold. He wondered what on earth he was doing.

  He could hear the cheering exiles and mercenaries. The time was close. A guard (Pietro assumed it was Muzio) started pulling the ropes that controlled the massive gates. One of Pietro's men looked at him anxiously. "What's he doing? Surely the gate should stay closed!"

  "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." Pietro drew his sword and held his breath.

  On the walls of San Pietro, Vinciguerra's face was red with excitement. So far his plan was going perfectly — better than perfectly. He nodded to his three archers, lined up along the outer wall. As one they lit their arrows and shot them high into the breaking dawn.

  "There's the signal!" called Asdente.

  After all the worries about the Count's possible treachery, Carrara's reaction was immediate. He turned to the troops. "Men! Now we reclaim what is rightfully ours!" The quick speech was the retelling of a history so well known it was taken for granted — the noble Guelphs, supporters of the pope; the wretched Ghibellines, tools of the empire, the worst tool being the bastard of Verona. Marsilio ended by invoking the motto that defined Padua: "Muson, Mons, Athes, Mare Certos Dant Michi Fines!"

  His men cheering him, Carrara spurred his horse and cried, "Ride! For Padua! For Patavinitas!"

  Mounted or on foot, his troops raced towards Vicenza. As they ran they cheered, hoping to frighten the city into submission with noise alone.

  The Count watched them come, Carrara at the front as a brave leader should be. Brave but foolish. More experienced, Asdente held his troops back a little, allowing Carrara to enter first. Only when the battle was desperate should a commander fight in the thick of it. The Count planned to hold himself in reserve. He'd done what he promised for the Paduans. He'd gotten them in.

  A young red-headed fellow came running by. His armour was poor and his boots were falling apart. But his sword was well cared for. "You there," shouted the Count. "Your name!"

  "Benedick, lord!"

  "Signore Benedick, I charge you to come back once we've reached the inner walls and tell me."

  "I will, my lord." On foot, he raced to catch the mounted Paduans who thundered across the bridge and under the archway, the site of the massacre when Cangrande had dressed common citizens as archers and broken a whole army with only eighty men.

  Let the Pup come, thought Bonifacio with a savage joy. I hope he does. I hope he's got some miracle at hand to salvage this. Let him feel the taste of sweet victory before I dash the cup from his lips.

  Vinciguerra's voice joined the other exiles on the wall as they cheered the three thousand Paduans racing towards victory.

  Three thousand. More than Verona's generals had anticipated. Far, far more. The Anziani of Padua had decided that this first thrust of the renewed war would also be the last.

  Three thousand, faced by thirty rustic men-at-arms, under the command of Pietro Alaghieri.

  Thirty-Three

  "I hope you're a decent actor," whispered Morsicato. At the far end of the courtyard Muzio almost had the gate fully open.

  "Did you want to play the part?" hissed Pietro. "I could stab you in the thigh."


  "You should have thought of that earlier."

  "I did." Another worry popped into Pietro's mind. "What if the Count's with them?"

  "He won't be." Morsicato didn't sound too sure.

  "But what if he is?"

  The doctor shrugged. "If he is, I won't have to pay you my losses from last night."

  "Wonderful," muttered Pietro. He glanced behind him. The Moor had moved his horse to the back of the group, hoping to go unseen. He was rather distinctive-looking in his light, Eastern-style armour and conical helmet, and it was doubtful that the Count would travel with such a man.

  Pietro addressed his men. "All right, listen. The city has been betrayed. The Paduans are about to come through that gate. They won't know who we are, though, and that works to our advantage. Just follow my lead and don't attack until I give the signal." Then pray that Bailardino and Uguccione get here in time.

  Reading Pietro's thoughts, Morsicato said, "They'll be here."

  "I'm sure. Christ, are they racing cattle ahead of them? There can't be that many horses in the Feltro." Muzio finally heaved the tall oak doors wide. "Here we go."

  The first rider through the gate was fully armoured and wore the colours of Padua. Behind him came the captain, bearing the standard that proclaimed their origins for all the world to see. There followed a hundred more soldiers, spreading themselves out behind their leader.

  Pietro knew the leader's crest all too well. "Shit! It's Carrara!"

  "You don't have to fool him long. Go!" The doctor kicked his heel and nicked Pompey's leg. The massive horse jolted forward, Pietro with it. The charade had begun, whether Pietro liked it or not.

  "Hell and damn," he murmured as he raised his hand in greeting. Why couldn't Carrara have been sensible and commanded from the rear?

  Carrara spied Pietro at once. A look of rage swept over the Paduan's face inside his open visor. Giving his horse the spur he came straight towards Pietro.

  "No, no, you pezzo di merda," whispered Pietro, "don't come here. Talk to your men, look around, sharpen your sword. Just don't — "

  Carrara reined in beside him. "Count. I thought you were supposed to remain up on the walls." In reply to the cold greeting, Pietro grunted once. "I thank you for getting that gate open. Now get out of my way. My men can take the city."

  Pietro said nothing.

  "If you think that you're going to take the credit for this — this is my day, Bonifacio! Remember that!" Carrara turned away contemptuously and rode back to his men.

  Pietro sagged in his saddle. Oh God, thank you. How did I escape that one? In his anger, Carrara hadn't noticed that the armour fitted poorly, nor that the wearer was half a foot shorter than the Count. Certainly Pietro had none of the Count's bulk. But somehow, impossibly, the disguise had worked.

  Morsicato rode forth to join him. "Well, you pulled that off."

  "He's too concerned with his own dignitas," said Pietro softly. "He thinks the Count will steal the glory of the moment."

  "He's in for a shock."

  "Maybe not." Paduan soldiers were still streaming through the open gate. The yard was filling up rapidly, and there seemed to be no end of them in sight. "The moment Marsilio has enough men through that gate, he'll massacre the city. If Bailardino doesn't move now — "

  "Buenas dias!" A voice echoed around the cobblestoned yard, reverberating off the many houses and apartments that enclosed it. All eyes looked up to the roof of a nearby tavern where a tanned man in a floppy hat was standing, wineskin in hand. It was the notary who had hitched a ride to Vicenza with Pietro's men. He was dressed in the same clothes, though he might have had a shave — it was hard to tell under the shadowy hat.

  "Señores!" he called drunkenly down to the Paduan knights. "I welcome you all! I hear Padua is very nice this time of year! I'll have to come and visit! You have fine women, yes?" He dropped his boodle bag and watched it spatter all over the road in front of the tavern. "Ah, now there's a sorry sight! I don't suppose any of you have a little ale to spare? Or better yet, wine?"

  Seeing that this Spanish drunkard was no threat, Carrara started giving orders. Yet still the man persisted. "Can any one of you give me a drink? I can pay!"

  A Paduan captain shouted, "We don't need your money."

  A sly look entered the notary's face. "If I had money I would not be begging. No, my — how you say, currency — my currency is information. I can tell you where Señor Nogarola is right now. And his men."

  A lump formed in Pietro's throat as Carrara rode nearer the Spaniard's perch. "Tell me. Now."

  The Spaniard countered with a demand of his own. "Where's my drink, señor?"

  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.