The Master of Verona (59 page)

Pietro's glance backward was to be sure that Poco wasn't doing something foolish. Pietro felt he was in pretty decent shape, all things considered. His breath was coming back, he was armed. Carrara was still on his horse, but Pietro had an idea about that. The halberd wasn't too much of a worry, as long as Pietro didn't lower his guard.

But here came his little brother playing the good little squire. Only there wasn't time! Carrara was beginning his next charge. There was no way Jacopo could get out onto the field, pass off the shield, and get clear in time.

"Pietro! Pietro!" shouted Poco, though in greeting or in warning Pietro couldn't know.

Carrara was closing in. With his free left hand Pietro waved Jacopo off. "Down! Down! Get back!"

Jacopo ran faster. Pietro mentally cursed his little brother. They were both going to die. Carrara could trample them and claim it was a terrible mistake, the boy shouldn't have been out there.

The savvy crowd redoubled its jeers for Carrara. Swearing aloud, Pietro did the single thing he knew he shouldn't — he turned his back on his attacker and ran to meet his brother. He heard Marsilio's sour laugh behind him as the Paduan spurred in pursuit.

Pietro and Poco now had a single chance, one that hinged on Pietro reaching his brother before Carrara removed his head from his shoulders. Pietro's right leg was trembling and weak, ready to collapse at every step
. Come on, damn you! You can hold up a little longer
! Why couldn't Poco run faster? Remembering the split skin at the soles of his brother's feet, remnants of the foot Palio last night, Pietro thought savagely,
I should have asked Antonia to be my squire
!

Antonia was watching the scene on the Arena floor in absolute terror, no longer able to turn away. The crowd made more noise than ever, most calling foul on Marsilio. Behind her, Bonaventura's friend was mocking the idiot squire that was running into a duel at the wrong time. She sent another withering glance his way, then silently urged Pietro on.
Don't die, big brother
!
Do something
!

Pietro reached Jacopo barely five yards ahead of the charging horse. He was screaming something to Jacopo and waving his hand in the air. Apparently Jacopo understood, for he lifted the shield in both hands and flung it forward. In one move Pietro dropped his sword, caught the shield, and pivoted. Driving the spearhead at the bottom of the tall shield into the earth, he dropped to his knees. Jacopo slid across the dirt to shelter himself with his brother behind the shield's protection.

The nobles on the balcony went hoarse crying their praise. Even Mariotto stood to cheer as Carrara's horse balked at the obstacle, veering to the side instead. Pietro caught the spike of Carrara's halberd on the shield and deflected it easily.

"Oh thank God," breathed Antonia. The bastard behind her was booing again. She whipped around, unable to contain her annoyance any longer. "What is
wrong
with you?"

The short fellow looked surprised. "What?"

"Why are you rooting for a Paduan?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded hotly. "A Paduan fighting a Florentine? Neither one is Veronese." He gestured to Bonaventura, hooting and cheering beside him. "My cousin married a Paduan, so I'm supporting the family. Besides, Florence is a cesspit. Have you read what Dante said in his
Inferno
?"

Antonia stared at him in disbelief. All she could think to say was, "That's my brother."

Bonaventura's cousin shrugged. "Then
you
cheer for him."

Petruchio Bonaventura smacked his cousin across the back of his head. "Ferdinando, show some manners!"

"What, to her?"

Resisting the impulse to hit the oaf, Antonia turned away. Down the balcony Nico da Lozzo was proclaiming, "This is the best fight I've seen in years!"

Guglielmo da Castelbarco agreed. "After this, I'll back Alaghieri in any tournament he chooses!"

Bailardino turned to address Giacomo da Carrara. "Your nephew likes his advantage."

"He always had an eye for the easiest course," agreed the elder Carrara. "To my shame, if not his." He looked back towards the field of battle. "Not that it seems to be doing him good now."

Under the deafening cheers, Pietro panted behind the shield's protective cover. "How am I doing?"

"Getting your ass kicked," Jacopo grinned back.

Pietro took a swipe at Poco's head, then gestured towards the far wall. "Get out of here!" He peered over his shield to where Carrara was pulling around again. "Now!" Jacopo ran while Pietro looked for where his sword had gone. It lay to his left, between himself and Carrara.

The Paduan saw it too. He was slightly slumped after that last charge. Hopefully his ribs were hurting him. Seeing Pietro's discarded sword he jerked his reins, urging his horse forward. Pietro took a step, then saw it was hopeless. Carrara hadn't overshot him by much on that last charge, and he'd easily reach Pietro's lost weapon first.

That might not be a bad thing
. Pietro had the shield to defend himself, but more, this shield was designed to be a weapon as well. Gripping the haft in both hands he held it longways across his body. If Carrara wanted to charge again, he would have to leave the sword. If he wanted to grasp the weapon, he'd have to dismount and face Pietro on foot. Either was better than the current circumstance. Pietro had one weapon left on his body, the eight-inch-long silver dagger at his right hip — valuable only if he could close enough distance to use it.

Surprisingly, Carrara chose to dismount. Perhaps the jeers from the seats ringing them had stung his pride. Holding the halberd in his left hand, he dropped to the ground directly over Pietro's lost sword. Reaching up, he drew his own sword from his saddle scabbard and fitted it into his gloved right hand. He swung it at the halberd's haft once, twice. The shaft splintered in two. Now the head of the halberd was a hand weapon.

Sending his horse off to his waiting squire, Carrara advanced towards Pietro, brandishing both sword and halberd head. The helmet hid all Marsilio's features except the flash of teeth that emerged in the darkening glow of the winter evening. Puffs of white breath escaped the steel helmet like a dragon's breath.

Pietro planted his feet, the right ahead of the left. That put his wounded shoulder at the back of the driving force, but that couldn't be helped. Besides, he'd always been told the power lay in the hips, not the arms.

Carrara's first blow was, predictably, with the sword. The halberd head was awkward to use this way, unbalanced without the haft. Pietro caught the downward stroke easily, then beat the shield's right side forward to block the halberd's hook.

But the clumsy hook was a feint. Pietro saw the sword driving down, trying to slip over Pietro's guard. Twisting hand over hand Pietro spun the shield around and sent the thrust into the dirt. There was the hook again, coming up under the shield this time. Now Pietro understood Marsilio's plan — attack with the sword and use the halberd to strip the shield away. Pietro would never have the opportunity to lift the shield to drive the bottom spearhead forward.

Beating the hook away a second time, he was already moving to block the sword stroke. He knew where it would fall and he caught it easily.
If I can't use the spearhead I can still use the shield to attack
. He glanced right. Yes, there was the hook again. Pietro caught the hook with a spearhead and flicked it upward. Before the next sword stroke could descend, Pietro pushed off his back foot and rammed forward with the shield, slamming into Carrara's body with all the force he could muster.

Carrara kept his feet, though he did trip over Pietro's sword. Before he could recover, Pietro drove forward again, this time with the spearpoint at the bottom end of his shield. Marsilio sidestepped, bringing his sword around and forward to beat the point away. But the force of his own blow brought the other end of the shield into play. The side of the tall oval struck Marsilio in the shoulder above his wounded ribs. He staggered, dropping the halberd to clutch at his metal-sheathed side.

Expecting a counter-attack, Pietro stepped back and picked up his sword. He hadn't expected Carrara to be so thrown by a single hit. When he looked up he knew he'd missed a chance to win the duel outright. Pietro thought about the sword in his hand and the tall, ungainly shield that would be impossible to manage singlehanded. He tossed it aside. He and Marsilio would face off sword to sword, point to point.

To the crowd, Pietro's gesture of discarding his shield seemed the perfect act of chivalry. To the soldiers in the crowd, it was the practical action of a smart soldier. But Antonia was confused. "Why did he drop his shield? The spear on it has a longer reach!"

"Too heavy," grunted Guglielmo da Castelbarco, eyes on the fray.

"Good,
mi filio
," whispered Dante.

Down in the pit, Marsilio and Pietro were circling each other. Each panted for breath, glad of the brief respite. Keeping his right shoulder low to ease the pressure on his ribs, Carrara pulled off his helmet as Pietro had done. "Are you — ready to finish — this, boy?"

"Yes," hissed Pietro through gritted teeth. His right leg was shaking and he'd just noticed the blood seeping from the dent in his shoulder plate. "But you won't like — how I end it."

"What do I care — as long as you die!" Marsilio's sword rose high, slashing forward in the 'thrust of wrath.' Pietro parried with an upward stroke, the force of it resounding through his body. His blade came immediately down, cutting the space occupied a moment earlier by Carrara. Sidestepping, Marsilio was already bringing his sword around for a second blow. Pietro caught this too, beating the strike away. Marsilio was focusing on Pietro's wounded shoulder, directing his attacks at Alaghieri's left side. Pietro returned the favor, parrying Carrara's next blow and immediately riding his blade in a
glissade
towards the Paduan's wounded ribs.

Broadsword fighting was not a matter of finesse. It was more a question of bashing your opponent enough to crush a bone or drive the wind from them. Broadswords were not even particularly sharp. They were, in effect, huge metal clubs to beat each other with. Alaghieri and Carrara hacked and slashed at each other, trading blow for blow. Their attacks brought them closer to the Scaliger balcony in movement that resembled a crescent. Pietro would block a strike to his left that would stagger him sideways. He'd then deliver a blow to Marsilio's right that would have the same effect, returning them to even footing.

After seven minutes with no decision, both men pulled back, desperate for air. The battle had to end soon. Both felt it. They were past the first rush of battle, the excitement and fear that made the humours flow and wounds easy to ignore. Fatigue was setting in, and fear was causing little hesitations. The falling snow had thickened, the sun was setting. Soon it would be too dark to see. Cangrande had refrained from sending torchbearers into the Arena, probably to force an early end to the duel.

But both men were determined to finish it with a victory. Carrara was the first to return to the attack. Drawing a long breath, he ran forward, his broadsword spinning in his grip, flicking this way and that in a skillful series of
mollinelli
, the windmill attacks.

Pietro could only watch and retreat, unsure where Carrara's blade would fall. His hands shook, his vision blurred, his stomach tightened. He might faint soon. He had to end this. For a deadly moment his mind froze. He couldn't think what to do.

Again an image came to Pietro's mind. Cangrande, mace in hand, using the handle to block while he spun and struck. The murder stroke. Gripping his sword near the point with his gloved hand, he used his guard to beat aside Carrara's arcing blade and spun around. With a hand at either end of his weapon, he intended to put all his weight behind the naked tip above his left hand and drive the tip straight through Carrara's breast.

Carrara blanched, instinctively bringing his blade down to parry. But too late. There was the tip of Alaghieri's sword, inches from his chest.

Then the traitor in Pietro's body made itself known. His weakened leg buckled, and Pietro's sword merely scraped across Carrara's breastplate, sending sparks flying into the snowy air. It was Marsilio's luck that it didn't pierce the metal, but that was all the luck he had. Sheer chance had trapped his sword's cross in Pietro's own guard. The force of Alaghieri's strike sent the Paduan's sword flying.

Pietro's vision was so blurred he didn't see it. He'd wagered everything he had on this thrust. When it failed to drive home, he thought he was finished. Then, blinking, he saw his opponent was disarmed before him. It was as if the Virgin herself had descend to kiss his hands.

He extended his swordarm, aiming the point at Carrara's throat. He barely had the breath to say, "Yield."

"Never!" Carrara turned. Ducking low, he threw out a hand to balance himself on the cold dirt of the Arena floor. His armoured leg shot out, driving into the fold of Alaghieri's right leg, just above the knee.

The pain seemed to start from the ground, rising through Pietro like water through a geyser. From the elation of victory, Pietro's world turned to agony. All he knew was pain. The snowflakes seemed to hold still in the air, as if time had ceased to flow. Each flake drifted into his sight, unique creations of a benevolent God who would surely now call Pietro to his bosom.

Then the ground hit him, face first, slamming his forehead with a stunning blow.

As one the crowd was on its feet, howling. To strike a man's wound received in the duel was an accepted practice. To strike a cripple's bad leg was decidedly unchivalrous.

Pietro struggled to rise, but his body wasn't answering. He felt himself being rolled onto his side. Above him was the tip of a
miseracordia
, a thin dagger meant for driving into the chinks of a wounded man's armour. Marsilio lifted Pietro's wounded shoulder to drive the needlelike blade through his armpit, into his heart.

On the very edge of consciousness, Pietro's breathing was laboured. His left arm was growing numb. Carrara was about to murder him and he was helpless to stop it. He saw the arm draw back, ready to drive in the killing stroke. Pietro's right hand fumbled towards his own dagger, strapped to his right hip. The Paduan slapped the hand away with a scorn.