by David Blixt
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.
"They should be," preened Mariotto. "They come from my family stables. Half of the Capitano's horses come from Montecchi stock."
"I'll have to come have a look," said Antony. "See what the hell you feed these monsters."
Pietro looked at the armour on their horses. "You both realize our horses are much better prepared for whatever's coming than we are."
Mariotto shrugged. "Horses are more valuable."
Cangrande emerged from a stone archway hopping on one foot, pulling on a spurred boot. What an excellent idea. But Pietro had no idea where in the castle to lay hands on some decent footwear, or whom to ask. And it seemed too late now as the Scaliger took a helmet from a page and fitted it into place. It was old-fashioned in design, a silver-plated dome with closing cheek pieces pocked by fifty holes for breathing, the holes too small for any weapon to catch.
Armourless but for the helm, Cangrande leapt into the stirrups of a fine stallion and waved to his band of men. Leaving the doors to the helmet open, he flashed a fine set of teeth at the three young men. "Keep up!" With characteristic abandon, the Scaliger spurred out through the gate. Jupiter jumped up from where he'd been resting and dashed off after his master. The boys followed, joining the rush of soldiers out the gates after the Greyhound.
The Greyhound. The title was certainly apt. How could anyone see the man and not believe he was the prophesized savior of Italy? Pietro's father, at least, had no doubt. And there shall come in Italy Il Veltro… Dante had taken the ancient prophecy and given it form in the very first canto of his Commedia. Having known him less than a day, Pietro would already follow Cangrande della Scala into the Pit of Cocytus.
The thirty riders found a steady rhythm across the hilly land at the foot of the Alps. There were cherry trees on this side of the Illasi River too. A wrong twist of the reins and both rider and horse would come to an ignominious end. The leading horses brought cherries crashing down from the branches, pelting the riders at the back of the formation.
The ride overland was slowed twice by muddy streams. Cangrande's horse didn't slacken pace until actually in the water. The garrison knights were not as confident. They slowed at each sign of water and walked their heavily armoured mounts across. Cangrande didn't wait for them. Once out of the water, he and Jupiter tore off again at a breakneck pace, followed directly by the trio of youths. Soon the garrison was just a distant rumble behind them.
Cresting a low ridge after the second water crossing, Pietro pulled closer to Cangrande's horse and heard something startling — the Scaliger was singing! He was repeating that morning's tune, matching the rhythm to the stride of his horse:
Here lions are,
Here leopards fare,
And great rams,
I saw, butt one and all!
And for a laugh,
That echoes far,
Ha ha ha ha!
Until you want to die!
Noticing Pietro's incredulous stare, Cangrande laughed. "Come on, you must know it by now!" He began again in his deep baritone, and Pietro picked it up the second time through:
Sentirai poi li giach
Che fan guei padach –
Giach, giach, giach, gaich, gaich –
Quando gli odo andare!
This wasn't war they were riding to. It was a joust, a lark, a joyful day of sport. Mari sang out loud and long in his best church voice. Antony joined in, and when they ran out of lyrics they created new ones.
During a lull in singing they passed a vineyard. Mariotto shouted, "It's close to here!"
"Vicenza?" asked Pietro hopefully.
"My family's castle! Montecchio! It's off that way! Through the haunted wood!" He gestured to a thick forest off to the right.
"Haunted?"
Montecchio put his finger to his nose with a knowing look. Pietro laughed warily. "If we live, you'll have to show it me!"
"If? I'll have you by for supper tonight after we whip their hides raw! Then we can face the ghosts!"
"That's the spirit!" cheered Antony, and Mari groaned.
Smiling, Pietro turned back in time to duck a low-hanging branch. "Can't see a damned thing," he muttered, his voice reverberating around his helmet like a lone psalm in a church.
Not long after that, Cangrande slowed, his horse tramping along a line of juniper bushes. Mari said they were still a good four miles from the city proper, but now smoke was visible. Pietro glanced back — the knights of the Illasi garrison were nowhere in sight, probably two miles back. Ahead were the closed northern gates, far from the invested suburb of San Pietro.
A handful of men stood atop the outer ring of walls. Pietro remembered thinking just this morning that the Roman walls of Verona were obsolete, but if an army penetrated a city's outer walls, it would be just those walls that the citizens would rally behind. Walls were fortification against beasts and lunatics as well as armies and weather. But now Vicenza's walls held out friend and foe alike.
The trio pulled up when Cangrande did. Jupiter stopped too, panting. The Capitano removed his silver helm to better view the scene. "How now? How now? What have we here?"
Pietro squinted, looking for whatever it was that the Capitano thought he saw.
"It's clear," said Antony brightly.
"Indeed it is," replied Cangrande.
"Shouldn't we go on, then?" asked the Capuan.
The Scaliger waved a hand at the open field below them. "I was thinking we should have a picnic."
Mariotto snickered and Antony looked put out. Pulling his horse around to face them, Cangrande turned his back on the city he'd ridden all afternoon to rescue. Swinging one leg up, he rested it on the neck of his sweating beast, careful of the spur.
"A picnic?" asked Antony.
"Well, we missed the wedding dinner. Things are always escaping me. I should have brought some wine from Illasi for us to share. Or at least some sausage. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Jupiter? Yes! Sausage!" The hound barked twice in assent.
The trio didn't quite know what to make of the Scaliger's demeanor. Pietro watched the great lord of Verona lift his face to scan the sky. "What are you looking for, lord?"
"Velox."
"Velox?"
"Fortis Velox — the merlin. He's been trailing us, but I don't see him now. At least I have Jupiter. I can use him to instruct Ponzino and Asdente how to hunt foxes."
Pietro couldn't make heads or tails of this conversation. It was Mariotto who knew a cue when he heard one. "Foxes?"
"Yes, foxes. But I thought they already knew." He sighed.
Antony was smiling. "How do you hunt foxes?"
The Capitano took on the air of a patient teacher. "There are two ways. You can beat the bushes and chase it when it emerges. Or you can lay a trap and let it come to you."
Now Pietro was smiling as well. "What kind of trap?"
"Why, a nice plump chicken, of course. With three big feathers." He held three fingers over his head, imitating the three flags hanging limply on the walls of the city behind him. "We are the foxes, my boys. Here is our chicken. And look — the guard dog is away! What could be better?" A finger went up in the air. "But the fox is a clever little devil. He sees no guard dog, no fence, no impediment at all between him and his plump, juicy chicken. What does this make him think?"
"Too good to be true," said Pietro.
; "Just so." The Scaliger turned to look over his shoulder at the open slopes between themselves and the city. "A hunter must choose his bait carefully. In this case, our Paduan friends have been a little too cautious. I doubt they honestly expected to see me here today. But they know I'm worried that the population of Vicenza might change sides if faced with a prolonged siege. It's common knowledge that I am not at the height of my popularity inside the city."
"What does that matter?" asked Antony. "You're their Vicar."
"The only authority I have," said Cangrande tranquilly, "was given me by Emperor Heinrich, and what good is the favour of a dead man? So Ponzino de' Ponzoni, from all evidence a decent though uninspired soldier, knows I am worried about the safety of the Vicentine garrison. In the throes of that fear, I might do something foolish, like riding out alone and unarmed to the defense of an invested city."
"My lord," observed Antonio, "that's what you did."
"Ridiculous. I had you three. So I arrive, and what do I see?"
Again Pietro looked towards the city gates. There was a stone bridge, pre-Roman by its decrepit appearance. It crossed a deep dip in the land that had probably once been used as a moat but had since dried up. Around the bridge there was nothing but grassy slopes slowly changing colour as the season dictated. Not even a bird stirred. "Nothing."
"Exactly! Not a thing! An open field for me to ride across and devour the chicken. How wonderful!" Cangrande pulled a comic frown. "Only I am a little disturbed. As a child I was forced to recite my Gallic Wars, my Vegetius, even my Homer. I know the importance of surrounding an invested city. It prevents reinforcements from strengthening the will of those unfortunates besieged. It's the basic principle that Caesar used so brilliantly at Alesia. Now, if I have read these works, I know that my worthy opponent the Podestà of Padua has read them as well. I wonder how he could have forgotten so basic a lesson? But he must have! For I see no troops! The hen house is open and ripe for pillaging." He gestured to the open expanse of land between them and the gates.
Pietro nodded. "Where are they?"
"Under the bridge," answered Cangrande with a bored sigh, "and possibly in the ravine further north. If he had any brains, he'd have put a thin line of men in the open. Then I might have raced for the far gates in the hope of outrunning the guards. At that moment the hidden soldiers could have leapt out and slaughtered me." He sighed in evident disappointment. "Upon reflection, I would wager it was Vanni who set it up. One thing is for certain, though: Bonifacio is not handling the details. That's excellent news. It means they're poorly organized and not making use of the wiser heads among them." He grinned at the trio as they drank in his every word. "Someday I'll meet an equal, and then you'll see some fireworks, boys." Then, mock-mournfully, he added, "But so far, it hasn't happened."
"So what do we do?" asked Antony. "Just sit here?"
"I think we can make it," opined Mariotto. "We know where they are. With luck, we can be past them and to the gates before they ride out from their bridge."
Cangrande shook his head, "Though I always like to have it, I never expect luck to side with me. Too often she's a fickle bitch. And though you're right, we might make it past them, they could still raise an alarum, and I don't want Asdente and the Count to know I'm here. Yet."
Antony practically spat. "So we do nothing?"
"We remind Asdente of a fact he seems to have forgotten."
"And that is?"
The Capitano's blue eyes twinkled. "I am not the fox in this drama. I am the hound."
"The Great Hound," supplied Mariotto.
"The Greyhound," said Pietro.
The Scaliger's blue eyes fixed on Pietro coldly. Flustered, young Alaghieri braced himself for a rebuke. Before it was delivered, however, Cangrande cocked an ear. "How now? What noise is this?" Behind them, the Illasi garrison was arriving. "Not bad time for horses so heavily laden. Now, I'm going to have a word with my commander and then, because you've been so patient, I'll take you with me on a little constitutional."
He cantered away, leaving Pietro wondering what he'd said. For the first time in their brief acquiantance, the Greyhound had seemed genuinely angry. The chill from those blue eyes still clung to Pietro's skin. I called him the Greyhound. But isn't that his title? The beast was on all his banners. Pietro's own father had referred to him as such over and over again. Why, then, had his eyes blazed at the mention of it?
Whatever it was, Mariotto had missed it. "Constitutional?"
Antony rubbed his huge hands together. "I'll say this — he isn't boring!"
Pietro squinted out at where Cangrande had said the enemy would be waiting in ambush. At first he saw only the vague multicoloured shapes that danced inside his eyes. He blinked them away and tried again. For several seconds he saw nothing at all. Then a shadow under the bridge shifted. Pietro didn't think it was a trick of the light. The Capitano had been prescient. There were mounted knights under the bridge, waiting.
So focused on the spot under the bridge, Pietro didn't notice Cangrande's return, and jumped when he heard the Scaliger say, "Shall we take their bait, signores?" Without waiting for a reply the Scaliger spurred ahead out of the treeline and down the hill. Antony and Mariotto followed on either side, and Pietro quickly followed.
"Slow and easy," murmured Cangrande. They obeyed, cantering down the slope four abreast, their horses grateful for the relaxed pace. They rode at an easy gait, Cangrande feigning an interest in their surroundings—the hills above, the fields around. Their leader was a consummate actor, and their meandering progress belied the thudding of the young men's blood.
If I die today, thought Pietro, will my father write the tale? Will he make us brave or foolish? He tried to put words together as his father would, but the only words that came to him were from L'Inferno. He found himself speaking them aloud:
Just so do I recall the troops
afraid to leave Caprona with safe-conduct,
Finding themselves among so many enemies.
Twisting in the saddle to face him, Cangrande spoke Virgil's lines from another canto:
And he, as one who understood:
'Here you must banish all distrust,
here all cowardice must be slain.
We have come to where I said
You would see the miserable sinners
Who have lost the good of the intellect.'
Pietro flushed. He hadn't thought he'd spoken loud enough to be heard. "I think my father meant to scorn those who forgo intellect, not praise them."
Cangrande shrugged. "This afternoon he insisted that everything is open to interpretation. Sometimes intellect must succumb to valour."
"I doubt he'd agree."
"He's a poet. He's forgotten what it feels like to live through deeds!"
Antony snorted. "Poets!"
"Give them their due," said Cangrande. "Without them no one would know of brave deeds. And why else do we fight and die but to live on in eternal fame?"
"What else is there to do?" asked Mariotto. "Farm? Raise sheep?"
"Well, there's always women," laughed Cangrande.
"Forgive me, lord," said Mariotto, "but no one was ever famous for loving. At least, no one I'd want to be."
"Hear hear," said Antony.
"Ah, but the best wars are always over a woman!" said Cangrande fondly. "Think of Troy! Helen, she must have been a prize worth winning!"
Antony said, "Think of Abelard! For his love he lost his balls!"
The ensuing laughter carried them down the crest. The enemy had been waiting all day in hope of this moment. The Scaliger, anticipating their impatience, was rewarded. When the four riders were only halfway across the open field, the Paduans crashed from their hiding places under the bridge, emitting shouts of victory.
Expecting some wonderful counter-attack from the Scaliger, the trio of youths were shocked when Cangrande wheeled his horse about and gave it his spurs. "Run!"
For a moment Pietro sat stunned in his saddle. Run? B
ut with Paduan knights bearing down on him, fear crept into his throat and turned his bowels to liquid. He yanked the reins in his left hand and kicked. For one terrifying moment it balked, shaking the muscles on its neck with anger. Spurless, Pietro kicked his heels and yanked at the reins again, hard. Finally the horse obeyed, turning to run after the Scaliger, now a good twenty yards away.
It was an uphill race they couldn't win. The slope was rocky, and Pietro's tired horse was having trouble keeping its legs. The horses in pursuit were fresh, the men driving them eager.
The Scaliger turned in his saddle, looking back at the Paduan soldiers. Pietro saw a hungry smile inside the open cheek pieces of Cangrande's helmet, and understanding struck him.
Atop the hill, the Illasi garrison stepped out of the treeline to face an entirely unprepared enemy. Fully armed and armoured, Cangrande's men swung their shields into place and raised their weapons. Some had axes, maces, morning stars, or spears. Most had long swords.
The Paduans saw the garrison and checked. They had numbers, but terrain and the element of surprise were all with the Veronese. They pulled at their reins, turned their horses' heads. But they knew, they had to know, they were trapped.
Still riding uphill, Pietro was passed by the score of Cangrande's men angling full-tilt down into the ambushers, themselves ambushed in return. Some Paduans fought, some tried to flee. It made no difference in the end.
Pietro watched as the Capitano's men ruthlessly chased each of the Paduans down and killed them. It was the first time Pietro had seen so much death and he made sure he did not turn away. Eerily, Cangrande's men made no noise. The Paduans screamed and shouted, but the Veronese soldiers did their best to do their work in silence. Only the scrape of metal and the thump of hooves marked their passing.
Then the silence was complete. No Paduan had been spared. That's odd, thought Pietro with a shiver. The Scaliger is famous for his clemency.
Reining in beside the Capitano, he asked about this. Cangrande shrugged. "I couldn't let them live." Pietro thought he heard a touch of regret. "If I had, they would have warned Asdente and the Count. I'm in no position to take prisoners, and without an army at my back I need all the advantage surprise can give me." Cangrande swung his horse back towards the invested city. "Now let's walk these tired horses where they can rest. We have work to do."