The Master of Verona (4 page)

They were delayed while word was sent ahead and the gate was opened. Then the coach resumed its course, passing into the dark archway that led into the city. When Dante recognized a church or a house, he named it.

All at once Dante smacked his hands together and cried, "Look! Look!"

Pietro and Poco twisted around to see where he was pointing. Out of the darkness Pietro could make out an arch. Then another, and another. Arches above arches. Then the torches revealed enough of the structure for Pietro to guess what it was. The only thing it could be.

"The Arena!" laughed Poco. "The Roman Arena!"

"It's still in use," proclaimed Dante as proudly as if he'd built it. "Now that they've evicted the squatters and cleaned it out, they can use it for sport again. And theatre," he added sourly.

Quickly they were past it, but Pietro kept picturing it in his mind's eye until the coach came to a halt. The driver called down, "The full stop!" Dante snorted. Everyone itched to display their wit for the master poet.

A footman opened the coach door and Pietro poked his head out. Word of their arrival must have spread faster than fire. A crowd of men, women, and children, grew larger every second. After two years of traveling on foot, of leaving their hats on posts in each new city they came to until someone lifted them, thus offering lodging and food, Pietro still wasn't used to his father's newfound fame.

Stepping out of the coach, he made sure his hat was at the proper angle. A present from the lord of Lucca, it was Pietro's only expensive garment. But even in his fancy hat with the long feather he heard the crowd's sigh of disappointment. He didn't take it personally. Instead, he turned to hold out his arm to his father.

Dante's long fingers grasped Pietro's outstretched arm, putting more pressure on his son's flesh than he showed. As his feet touched the stones of the square the crowd took a single step back, pressing the rearmost hard against the walls. They were gathered to glimpse Dante, an event Pietro guessed they'd tell their friends of while making the sign to ward off evil. The old man
was
evil, but not in that way.

"Fool carriages," muttered Dante. "Never get cramped like this on a horse."

Jacopo had popped out of the other side and now came around the back of the carriage, an idiot grin on his face. With a word to the porters to stow their baggage, they followed a beckoning steward. The awed crowd parted for them.

Following the steward's lamp, they passed under an archway with a massive curved bone dangling from it. "La Costa," chuckled Dante. "I had forgotten. That bone is the remains of an ancient monster that the city rose up and killed in olden times. It marks the line between the Piazza delle Erbe to the Piazza della Signoria." The marketplace, the civic centre.

The alleyway opened out into a wide piazza enclosed all about by buildings both new and old. The whole square was done up in cloth of gold and silken banners that shimmered in the torchlight. Below this finery were Verona's best and brightest. Dressed in fine gonellas or the more modern (and revealing) doublets, these wealthy nobles and upper crust now stood by as Dante Alaghieri joined their ranks.

The buildings, ornaments, and men were all impressive, but Pietro's eyes were drawn to a central pillar flying a banner. A leap of torchlight caught the flapping flag, revealing an embroidered five-runged ladder. On the topmost rung perched an eagle, its imperial beak bearing a laurel wreath. At the ladder's base was a snarling hound.

Il Veltro
. The Greyhound.

Suddenly the crowd parted to reveal a man standing at the center of the square, looking like a god on earth. Massively tall, yet thin as a corded whip, his clothes were of expensive simplicity — a light-coloured linen shirt with a wide collar that came to two triangular points far below his neck. Over this he wore a burgundy
farsetto
, a leather doublet of the finest tanning, soft yet shimmery. Instead of common leather ties it bore six silver clasps down its front. His hose, too, were dark, a wine-red close to black. Tall boots reached his knee, the soft leather rolled back to create a wide double band about his calf. He wore no hat, but was crowned with a mane of chestnut hair with streaks of blond that, catching echoes of the brands, danced like fire.

Yet it was his eyes that most struck Pietro. Bluer than the midday sky, sharper than a hawk's — unearthly. At their corners laughter lurked like angels at the dawn of the world.

Cangrande della Scala, the master of Verona, walked forward with his arms outstretched to greet the greatest poor man in all the world. a man whose only wealth was language.

Releasing Pietro's arm and drawing himself upright, Dante walked with dignity to the center of the square. He took off his hat with the lappets and, just as he had done a hundred times during his exile, placed it at the base of the plinth at the center of the square. The silent gesture was eloquence itself. From Dante the crowd might have expected speeches. But Pietro's father had a keen sense of drama.

Pietro watched with the rest as Cangrande stooped for the limp old-fashioned cap. As he rose, Pietro caught his first glimpse of Cangrande's famous smile, his
allegria
, as the lord of Verona twirled the hat between his fingers. "Well met, poet."

"Well come, at least," said Dante. "If not well met."

Cangrande threw back his head and roared with laughter. He waved a hand and music erupted from some corner of the square. Under its cover Dante spoke. Pietro was close enough to hear. "It is good to see you, my lord." The poet bobbed his chin at the ornate decorations all around the square. "You shouldn't have."

"Sheer luck, I must confess! Our garlands are for tomorrow's happy wedlock. But I feel the hand of Fortune, as they are far better suited to grace your coming."

"Silver-tongued still," replied Dante. "Who is to marry?"

"My nephew, Cecchino." Cangrande gestured to a not-so-sober blond fellow, raising his voice as he did. "Tonight he takes his last hunt as a bachelor!"

Dante also pitched his voice to carry. "Hunt for what, lord?"

"For the hart, of course!" The crowd broke with laughter. Pietro wondered if they were indeed hunting deer, or girls — he'd heard of such things. But he spied a handsome young man, dark of hair, well dressed, who carried a small hawk. So, deer. Pietro was both relieved and disappointed. He was seventeen.

Dante turned to face his sons. "Pietro. Jacopo." Jacopo tried to flatten down his hair. Pietro stepped eagerly forward to be introduced, ready to make his best bow.

But his father forestalled him with a gesture. "See to the bags."

With that, the poet turned in step with Cangrande and departed.

Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, sat on horseback atop a hill overlooking the walls of suburb of Vicenza called San Pietro. Beneath the metal protecting his arms the muscles were thick from years of slinging a sword. The beefy hands inside the gauntlets were callused from fire and leather. The stout legs were well used to the combined weight of plate and chain armour. A large man, he sweat freely and now mopped his forehead with a cloth. His aged visage was round and cheerful, a face belonging to a merry friar or a troubadour with a fondness for German beer. It seemed sorely out of place atop the body of a knight and soldier.

Beside him was the
Podestà
of Padua, Ponzino de' Ponzoni. Not only an unfortunate victim of alliteration, but a poor man's general. At the moment the
Podestà
was visibly sickened by the destruction of his honour. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Daubing his face with a handkerchief, the Count shook his head. "Nothing until they've spent themselves. If we try to stop them now, we'll get a spear in the back and be robbed of our armour."

The day had not gone well for the
Podestà
of Padua. So auspiciously begun, it had turned into a waking nightmare.
Too intellectual
, judged the Count.
Too devoted to the damn Chivalric Code
.

But then Ponzino was a disappointment in every regard. He'd wasted the summer campaigning months, insisting upon avoiding confrontation, concentrating instead on razing Verona's lands. Against a different foe it might have worked, but Ponzoni hadn't comprehended the vast resources at his opponent's fingertips. In the last four years the enemy had taken prime acreage to the north, south, and west. All that remained was the east — and Padua was the key to the east. The city elders had forced Ponzino to attack, raid, do something! So the
Podestà
turned to the Count. Vinciguerra's answer was this stealth invasion of Vicenza, meant to be Padua's salvation.

Not that the fate of Padua concerned the Count of San Bonifacio. He couldn't have cared less about Paduans or their thrice-damned
patavinitas
, the exclusively Paduan code of honour that seemed to rule every waking moment in their benighted city. The Count was a foreigner, a guest, an advisor, an observer. Unwelcome, but necessary.

The attack had started well. The army had arrived unobserved, silencing the guards at Quartesolo and skulking the four miles from there to the target. The strategy was to infiltrate the outer suburb called San Pietro. Like most city-states, Vicenza was a series of walled rings, with more walls between, like the spokes on a wheel. The outermost circles were the suburbs. Here dwelt the poorer classes, and here the less essential commodities were stored. The next set of walls enclosed the city itself.

The Count himself led the first foray, scaling the walls, cutting down the guards in the tower, and opening the gates. Revealing himself to the peasants, he had been cheered. He wondered if they genuinely adored him or if they were simply in fear for their lives. Not that it mattered. He had taken San Pietro, the key to Vicenza.

Up to that point, everything had gone according to plan. The presence of the Count of San Bonifacio precluded the need to slaughter the innocents, something the squeamish
Podestà
quailed at. Ponzino had led his army through the suburb towards the next ring of walls — only to discover himself surrounded by flame.

That had been the first crack in Ponzino's armour. Though in fairness even the Count found the deliberate burning of part of the city surprising. Fire was one of the threats most feared in any metropolis, especially one more than half made of wood. Who would have thought Nogarola would be willing to risk the loss of the whole city rather than cede to Padua?

Undeniably a setback, the fire was not fatal to their plans. If handled properly. But it took Ponzino too long to gather his wits. He'd wandered fecklessly, failing to call the Paduan leaders together and form a new strategy. It was the Count who convinced him to order the army back just outside the city wall, leaving a breach in it to renew the attack when the fires died.

The army disobeyed. After four years of meaningless battles and a shortage of food, they were loath to relinquish a foothold in Vicenza. When the order to withdraw was given, the men revolted. They began to torch the parts of the suburb not yet ablaze. They plundered, robbing the inhabitants. The Count had been with Ponzino when they'd come across a dozen Paduans — not even foreign auxiliaries! — sacking a convent and violating the nuns there. Together they had put the rapists to the sword, but what could be done about the rest? The
Podestà
rode glumly out through the city gates and waited for his men's rage and bloodlust to die down, his hopes for glory crumbling around his ears.

The Count of San Bonifacio could not have cared less for the plight of the citizenry — after all, they had supported the Pup. What he deplored was the wasted time. They could not let Verona marshall its forces.

The family of San Bonifacio had been fighting the Scaligeri since before Mastino the First came to power. As a young man the Count himself had seen that first Scaliger leader of Verona. He remembered the dark brown hair and sharp features, and the massive Houndshelm, a war helmet with a snarling hound atop the head. He also remembered the Mastiff's eyes — light green with the dark ring about them. Otherworldly, as if the man had trekked through all the fields of Hell and seen all the unthinkable horrors there. Vinciguerra blessed the day his father, working through Paduan tools, had had the bastard killed.

Recalling the fierce joy Mastino showed on the battlefield, the Count shivered. Almost four decades later he could hear the bastard's laugh. It was a trait Mastino's nephew shared. Laughing in the face of the impossible. Of all the Pup's danger on the battlefield, worst was his unpredictability.

That had always frightened the Count. Until he realized all one had to do to win was offer the fool an impossible chance.

Vanni Scorigiani appeared. Known as Asdente, the Toothless Master, he'd earned his nickname the previous year at Illasi by taking a sword in the mouth and living to boast about it. A mere look from the scowling, twisted face could make a hardened knight blench.

Now his horrible countenance was grinning. "Well, that's a mess, isn't it?" Completely unfazed by the carnage around them, Vanni's disfigured grin looked like the rictus of a corpse. Blood soaked his left arm up to the elbow. "I do so love Dutch soldiers!" he chuckled.

"And they love you," replied the Count ironically, passing Asdente a wineskin.

"Can't you stop them?" asked the
Podestà
desperately.

Asdente drank, then patted Ponzino familiarly on the arm. "Don't worry. They're good boys. In another hour they'll be tired and ashamed and back here for orders. Then we'll take that damn gate." He gave a snort of disgusted respect. "Have to admit, firing the houses — didn't think Nogarola had it in him."

"He learned from the Pup," said the Count.

"
He
never plunders," said Ponzino.

San Bonifacio was silently scornful. Ponzoni didn't seem to realize that plunder was the reason most men-at-arms went to war. There was little talk of the 'just cause' among the common foot soldiers, or even among the knights. A soldier signed on with a troop for wealth and to vent his spleen on the world.