The Master of Verona (77 page)

Behind him the Moor swung a captured halberd like a demon's axe. On the wagon's far end, Morsicato was swearing like the devil. The rest of Pietro's men were singing again, much feebler now that their numbers were reduced. The attacking Paduans trampled their wounded and their dead in their desire to break free from the yard and wreak havoc on the city at large.

Half-blind from the smoke, Pietro swung and blocked and beat weapons aside. Someone pitched a torch into their midst. It bounced off Pietro's borrowed armour, sending a flutter of sparks up to singe his face. He winced, then saw an opportunity. As he pulled back from a stab he kicked the stick of burning pitch into the overturned wagon. At once he tasted the gratifying stench of burning straw. In another minute the wagon in the alley's mouth was ablaze and Pietro's men could step back and recover their breath. A few mounted Paduans tried to jump the flaming hurdle only to be skewered on spears or the Moor's halberd, their bodies becoming additional barriers in the blaze.

A skin of wine appeared from somewhere. Pietro sloshed the liquid around in his mouth, spitting away the distasteful remains, then swallowed a few gulps before handing the bag off to the next man. One of Pietro's men was wiping some blood from the Moor's eye. Pietro turned to Morsicato. "How are we?"

"We're holding, but they're going break through somewhere. They have to."

"I heard the bells," said Pietro hopefully. The exhausted doctor just nodded.

The Moor was staring at the sky. "It's going to rain. Good."

The doctor stared at him in horror. "That's good?"

"Of course." The Moor grinned. "It will help the drought."

Morsicato goggled. Pietro's men started hooting. Apparently the heathen Moor had earned their trust. Pietro murmured, "Tharwat. Not Theodoro. Yes?"

The Moor nodded. "You will become used to it."

"Tharwat al-Dhaamin, secret astrologer to princes and kings. I just thought I'd like to call you by your right name…" Pietro's voice trailed away and he looked in the direction of the battle.
Before I die
.

Again, the Moor seemed able to read his thoughts. "You won't die today, Ser Alaghieri."

Pietro laughed. "I take that as a binding promise. So tell me, what does
Arūs
mean?"

"The Bridegroom," rasped Tharwat. "If we live through this, I may tell you the story."

"Now there's a reason to survive."

Suddenly their overturned flaming wagon jerked towards them. It stopped, then skidded another five feet up the alley, away from the yard. Something was bashing at it with tremendous force, pushing it forward.

Pietro swore. "A battering ram! Pull back! We can't stop them here!"

Already his men were retreating. The Paduans had torn doors off the few intact buildings and were using them to bash the wagon up the alley. Pietro's cleverness with the fire didn't seem so clever now that it prevented his men from stopping the moving barricade.

Running to the alley's end, he remounted his horse. It was oddly peaceful the next street over, with nothing but the smoke to show where the battle raged. That and the tremendous noise. He turned to Morsicato. "Go find Cangrande, let him know they're coming! We'll hold this street as long as we can!"

"You can't hold this street yourself!"

"Don't worry about us! I've got a plan! Go!"

Morsicato wheeled his horse about and galloped north on the empty street. At the corner he turned right, circling around to the back of the Vicentine forces.

Pietro looked around at the expectant faces of his men —
my men
, he thought. There were only seven of them left. Nine, counting the Moor and himself. Pietro grinned at them all. "Nine is my father's lucky number."

"Let's hope it runs in the family," said one. "What's your plan?"

Pietro had no plan. He'd said that to get rid of the doctor. Now he looked around at the empty street. No masterstroke of military strategy popped into his head. He shrugged. "We kill every
figlio di buona donna
that shows his face in our street."

Pietro was gratified to see his men's grim nods and determined smiles. They would die, but it was a glorious death, a death their fathers and children could be proud of.

To Tharwat he said, "How are those stars looking now?"

"Too much smoke. Can't see the sky."

"I suppose it's up to us, then." The crashing in the alley was close now. "Pull back, down the street! They'll be blind and stumbling when they come out. They'll be expecting us to run! And they'll be looking north! We'll ride from the south and take the fight to them!" Together they rode to the end of the block and turned their horses about. "It's been an honour knowing you all."

The flames of the cart licked at the corners of the alley. The next bash of the Paduan ram would send it out into the open street.

"Ready," roared Pietro in a choked voice.

The flaming cart shattered as it tumbled into the street before them.

"Now!" Pietro gave his horse his spurs, driving the massive beast forward. He saw the edge of the makeshift battering ram pull back and bash forward again. The wreckage of the cart cleared from their path, the Paduan foot soldiers ran out into the street, turning north to loop around and catch the Vicentine forces from behind. Only a few noticed the nine men on horseback racing towards them from the south. These men tried to warn their fellows, but for the first wave of Paduans through the mouth of the alley there was nothing to do but dive for cover. The nine horses trampled anything in their path, the swords above them slicing through the air around their ears, battering them to pulp.

The charge carried them past, and Pietro's men were in the open again. The Moor looked to Pietro. "Stay or run?"

It was their last chance. They could escape to one of the north or west gates. Pietro said, "We have to hold them as long as we can." They wheeled around.

Scenting victory, more Paduans poured through the unstoppered gap in the defenses. This time Pietro let them come to him. His men shouted curses and jibes, taunts and insults, as their swords met. One fell to a spear in the chin. Pietro killed the spear's owner, shouting, "Come on!
Avanti! Avanti
!"

The astrologer fought like the demon he appeared to be, dark skin covered in blood, scars on his neck and face pulsing white. Pietro blocked a blow to Tharwat's side and together they hacked into the sea of men who hungered for their deaths.

Hands pulled at Tharwat's reins. He fought desperately but was struck a blow that dented his conical helmet. Pietro tried to grasp the Moor's toppling figure, but something bashed into his weak leg. He was wincing but still swinging when a heavy blow to his back unseated him. He felt himself sliding through the air, bouncing off the bodies of Paduan foot soldiers. He struck the ground heavily and lay flat upon his back, still swinging his sword wildly.

Pompey took a step, pulling Pietro with him. His right leg was still in its stirrup, dragging it behind his steed. He sliced the strap with his sword, freeing himself just as a spearpoint angled in for his head. He rolled and the spear struck the road, sending up sparks and chips of stone. He tried to stand but his poor leg sent him back down to his knees. He looked the spearman in the face and was surprised recognize the mounted knight. They'd had dinner once, talked about plays and stars. The man was missing most of his teeth. "Asdente."

Recognition showed on Vanni Scorigiani's face, too. He laughed as he saw Pietro's naked head coming out of San Bonifacio's huge armour. "Alaghieri! Good ploy! Carrara will hate you even more!" The Toothless Master pressed his lips together. "No prisoners!"

Pietro nodded. "Tell my father I died well."

"I will," said Asdente, not without kindness, even as he drew back the spear.

The ground began shaking and thunder rumbled in Pietro's ears. Vanni's eyes flicked up, fixing on something far down the street at Pietro's back. The spearpoint lingered for a moment, hovering in the air.

Instinct roaring at him to roll away and live, Pietro turned instead to see what had frightened the Paduan warrior.

A charge of Verona's knights was coming at them. In the front ranks were familiar faces — Uguccione della Faggiuola, age vanished in the joy of battle; Nico da Lozzo, grinning all over his face; Morsicato, grim and ruddy-faced, his forked beard soaked in blood; a bearded knight Pietro recognized as the man with the mad wife. The knight was currently looking a little mad himself. And something Pietro thought he'd never see again: Mari and Antony, side by side. They rode fiercely, swords poised to scissor the air.

In front was Cangrande, black from top to toe, his mouth set in a rictus of perilous delight. "On! On!"

The power of movement returned. Pietro rolled, pulling himself out of the reach of Scorigiani's spear. He found himself looking down at his neighbour's son, bleeding from his chest. "No!" Wrapping his arms about the boy, Pietro pulled him back from the stampede. For it was a stampede. The Paduan forces broke, turning to fly in full retreat.

With one exception. Vanni Scorigiani, the Toothless Master who had bragged for years that he ate steel for breakfast, held his ground. He positioned himself directly in the Scaliger's path, spear braced on the stones at his horse's feet.

Cangrande did him honour. Even as his horse dodged the spear, Cangrande stood in the stirrups and gave the Paduan knight his most powerful blow. The sword severed Vanni's head from his body, which lingered in the saddle for an instant before being battered to the ground by the galloping horses that followed. What happened to the head, Pietro couldn't see. His eyes were filled with tears of joy and sorrow as horse after horse passed him by.

The change was as indefinable as it was palpable. The Paduan army shook, panicked, and fled.

In their midst, the Count of San Bonifacio was riding among the leading elements of the fleeing exiles. They had owned the best place for a retreat, being stationed on the outer walls. Though everyone around him shouted with terror, he was smiling. His plan had worked. Certainly the Pup's forces were distracted. The battle had lasted far longer, been far more devastating, than the Count could have dared hope. All he had to do now was slip away from the army —

"
Bonifacio
!"

The naked rage made Vinciguerra grab at his sword. Turning, he saw the upraised sword and was helpless to prevent it falling. The blow scraped off his helmet, struck his armoured shoulder. Before he could bring his own weapon to bear, a second blow ripped open the flesh on his left leg. Blood pumped up towards the sky, almost as high as the Count's head.

"
Traitor
!" The contempt in Carrara's voice was unmistakable. The young Paduan drove the tip of his sword into Vinciguerra's armpit, hoping to pierce his heart. The armour prevented a fatal blow, but he did manage to unseat the Count, toppling him into the dirt.

The flow of men swept Marsilio on, but he was satisfied. Honour had been served. The Count was finished.

On the ground, Vinciguerra lifted his head. His helmet was heavy upon him.
He called me a traitor
.
I suppose I am, to Padua. But not to Verona — never to Verona. I am a patriot. And I was so close…

He saw the red-headed soldier called Benedick arrive over him. Sparing the Count a single glance, the man said not a word. He sheathed his sword, jumped into the Count's saddle, and rode for his life. Groaning as the first real wave of pain swept over him, the Count still managed a nod of approval. "Not a fool — after all."

The battle had swept on into other streets, leaving the wounded and dying in its wake. His neighbour's son died in Pietro's arms without a last word for his father. Pietro wept as he stood and tore the boiling armour from his torso, relieving his legs of the awful weight. He looked at the
petta
, and the crest of San Bonifacio on it — the image of the two opposing stars was now bruised and covered in blood. He let the breastplate fall from his fingertips and wandered among the dead and the wounded, looking for friends.

Amazingly, five of his men had survived relatively unscathed, with more possibly still alive in the yard where this bloody business started. He found Tharwat under three Paduan corpses. The Moor was breathing, though shallowly. Pietro ripped some cloth from a dead man and bound the head gash as best he could. Tharwat's left arm hung at a strange angle, but Pietro knew nothing about mending broken limbs. Deciding to wait for Morsicato's advice, he propped the Moor's head against a wall and moved to look for other wounded men.