The Master of Verona (74 page)

"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.

"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
?"