The Master of Verona (58 page)

There was the clatter and scrape of metal on metal as Pietro beat away the halberd's spike with his shield and Carrara's horse sidestepped the lance. A thousand voices seemed to sigh.

On the balcony, Antonia was covering her eyes. "What happened?"

Dante was terse. "They missed. They're circling around again."

Antonia peeked. Yes, Pietro was almost directly beneath her, turning his warhorse about for the next charge. His round shield bore a scar just below its center. With a shout she could feel, he urged his mount on to another charge. This time Antonia kept her eyes open almost to the moment of impact, then saw what Carrara was doing and gasped.

Pietro was riding full tilt for Carrara when the other suddenly veered his horse, trying to get the halberd's axehead sweeping around in an arc. Too late to stop, Pietro swerved and brought his shield across. He missed with the shield but, dumb luck, got his lance across the halberd's path. There was an awkward 'clack' as the axehead was deflected.

The line of both their charges broken, the two horses moved away from each other. Desperate to disengage, Pietro was trying to pull his horse back to a safe distance to begin a new charge. In these close quarters his lance was all but useless, while the halberd bore hook, spike, and axehead. Which Carrara now brought into play.

Above, Antonia watched in horror as she saw her brother's horse step the wrong way, opening up his back to a blow from the axehead — a blow that descended, aiming for the center of Pietro's spine. No matter how strong the steel of his back-plate or how much of the impact the gambeson absorbed, he would be stunned, leaving him open for a killing blow. Antonia screamed.

How Pietro got his shield up and over his head he never knew. He felt the halberd's axehead strike, the impact twisting the muscles in his left arm. He turned his head in time to see the silver hook at the halberd's back catch the edge of the shield and rip it downward. Pietro involuntarily released his grip on the shield, but the strap across his upper arm held it in place.

His eyes were on the axehead. Carrara was swinging it around to literally disarm his foe by taking Pietro's arm clean off. The lance in his right hand was useless, so he raised his left arm, shield dangling, hoping to somehow ward off the strike.

The stars favored Pietro again. His shield's spike caught the halberd between the axe and the shaft and deflected the blow. Pietro was still kicking with his spurs, and finally the
destrier
under him responded, tearing away along Carrara's left side. With a flick of his own spurs Marsilio twisted about in pursuit.

Pietro cursed. In close-quarter fighting he was at a disadvantage. Raising the lance, he pitched it backward. With any luck, Marsilio's horse would trip on it, and so end the fight. That wouldn't happen, of course, but it was pretty to think so.

Pietro's hand scrabbled to draw his sword from the saddle's scabbard. It was a longsword, more than twice the length of Pietro's forearm. He'd tried it out before the duel. It was slightly point-heavy, the better to bring a blow down onto an opponent's head or neck. Brandishing it in his gloved right hand, he shifted in his saddle. Carrara was behind him, spurring hard to close the gap and bring the halberd to bear again. Swinging the weapon from the very end of the shaft, the Paduan had a long reach but poor leverage.

It was an impossible situation. So long as Pietro allowed himself to be chased in circles around the Arena, Carrara had the upper hand. But the moment he stopped, he would be eviscerated by the spike or axehead.

An image suddenly appeared in Pietro's mind. The Scaliger, facing a spear on one side, a sword on the other, and a morning star behind. He recalled the Capitano's leg snaking out to grasp the spear. Pietro couldn't do that with the halberd. But he
could
remove the halberd from play, if he was willing to sacrifice... Yes. But first, he had to build Carrara's confidence.

Pietro recalled Cangrande's lesson as they looked at the walls of Vicenza.
Show the enemy what he expects to see
. Yanking his reins inward, Pietro cut across the Arena floor in a close facsimile of panic.

"What's he doing?" demanded Antonia.

"I'm not sure," her father breathed.

They saw Pietro twist the reins again, cutting south instead of west, and Ludovico Capulletto roared in outrage. "He's running away!" His two sons were silent, for different reasons. Antony was rigidly watching the duel unfold. Luigi, silently rooting against his brother's champion, hoped Carrara's weapon would find its mark. Their feelings horribly conflicted, Mari and Gianozza were unable to turn away.

"He's a coward," sneered young Mastino della Scala, inviting a clout from Guglielmo del Castelbarco.

"Kill him, Carrara!" cried someone. Antonia twisted around to see a short fellow seated beside Ser Bonaventura. They looked related. She gave him a frosty glare, then returned to covering her eyes.

Down in the Arena something drifted across the slit in Pietro's helmet. A snowflake. Calm and gentle, snow had begun to fall. If it got any heavier, it could be an aid, obscuring his actions from view. But he couldn't wait for the weather. Pietro touched his mount's left flank, turning it north. He'd lost all sense of where Marsilio was. Hopefully he'd gained a few steps. If not, his next move would see him killed.

Turning his horse left once more, he yanked back on the reins. His horse was now almost broadside to the approaching Paduan, with Pietro's round shield protecting his body. Behind it, Pietro raised his blade and hacked down. To the crowd, it looked as if he were cutting off his own arm.

"What is he
doing
?" shrieked Antonia again.

Eyes fixed on the battle, Dante just shook his head.

Pietro peered over the top of his shield. His opponent was approaching fast, and Pietro could almost hear the options register in Mariotto's brain. Pierce the shield with the spike, drag the axehead across it, or hook it again in the hope of stripping away Pietro's best defense. Carrara veered his horse to the right. He'd chosen the hook. It made sense. If Carrara dragged the shield away as he rode past, the strap on Pietro's shield would yank him out of the saddle, cutting him at the same time with the spike. A
mollinello
over Marsilio's head would then bring the axehead around into Pietro's chest, finishing him.

Carrara choked up on the halberd's shaft, gaining a finer measure of control. A thousand voices shouted warnings at the boy cowering behind his shield, awaiting to the blow that would eviscerate him.

Flexing his grip on his sword, Pietro prayed he was dexterous enough to pull off the move he'd conjured from his own pure brain. He heard the hooves and saw the snow rise in a gust of air created by the legs of Carrara's horse. There was a flash of steel as the hook swept in.
Here it comes. Oh, God, please don't let me fail
.

The halberd's hook caught the edge of the shield. Riding from right to left Carrara used his mount's momentum to heave, expecting Pietro to be dragged uncontrollably forward with his shield, opening him up for the spike and axe.

But Pietro didn't jerk forward. The shield came away from his arm easily. Severed by Pietro's own sword, the loose ends of the strap fluttered in the chill air.

Pietro's blade was already in motion, beating away the halberd's spike with a clanging parry. Carrara felt his trailing halberd head leap up of its own volition, his right arm dragged up with it, exposing his side....

"Look! Look!" cried Antonia.

The stroke started on Pietro's left side and rounded his head in an arc that ended in a smashing blow to the Paduan's ribs.

Marsilio was almost past his adversary when the sword impacted. The armour prevented Alaghieri's blow from severing flesh but it almost didn't matter. The force of it cracked several of Carrara's ribs. Marsilio retched and the crowd cheered as he spat blood.

"Clever," breathed Guglielmo da Castelbarco in admiration.

Nico da Lozzo slapped Dante on the shoulder. "Quite a son you've got there!" At the center of the balcony Bailardino and Morsicato were cheering loudly. The doctor roared, "Never seen anything like it!" The short fellow next to Bonaventura was booing loudly.

But if Pietro had hoped to end the fight with that surprise move, he'd failed. His second stroke, a
roversi
at Marsilio's helmeted head, sliced only air. In the front row, Cangrande watched with a carefully imposed air of impartiality.

Down on the pitch, Marsilio's left hand involuntarily went to clutch his dented armour as his horse pulled him away from Pietro's next stroke. In his right hand Carrara kept hold of the halberd, dragging it along behind him.

Pietro cursed. He'd thought only so far and no further. Now he faced a halberd with only a sword to defend him. His shield lay uselessly on the ground, far out of reach. No clever moves left, he would have to rely on straightforward fighting.

But Carrara hadn't turned his horse yet, was just now gripping his weapon with his second hand to brandish it anew. Spurring forward, Pietro took up position behind Marsilio, hoping to give chase as he himself had been chased just moments before.

Now it was Pietro who was lured into position. Marsilio was a practiced rider, well used to tricks of the saddle. As his horse trotted away from the point of last impact, seemingly without direction, Carrara glanced back and cried, "Poor fool! One lucky blow and you think you actually stand a chance?"

Head encased in his padded helmet, Pietro couldn't make out the words. Doubtless another taunt. He spurred harder, drawing closer, though not yet within his sword's reach.

Ahead, Carrara slipped his right foot out of its stirrup. With a skill that bespoke of years of riding, he stood upright in his single stirrup. At the same time he dragged the spur of his right boot across his horse's flank. The horse turned into the cut, angling right. Instead of being pursued, Carrara's horse suddenly was at right angles with Pietro's.

Hitching his right ankle on the wooden
arcione
at the back of his saddle, Carrara brought the halberd around, the axehead driving in for Pietro's breastplate.

Pietro's sword was high, ready to release a vicious downward stroke. In desperation he drove the point down to catch the axehead whistling towards him, but nothing could parry the blow's force. The curved point of the axehead cracked against Pietro's shoulder, trapping his sword between the halberd and his chest. Pietro's forward momentum was stopped. His stirrups snapped. His horse rode on while he toppled through the air, heels towards the sky. He landed on the dirt with a crash that drove the air from his lungs.

Dante was on his feet, screaming. Antonia was too breathless to echo him. Blessedly the nature of Marsilio's move made it impossible for him to turn his horse quickly, preventing him from delivering the killing stroke. He was halfway across the Arena floor before he was settled in his saddle once more. Antonia watched him heft his halberd and start back to where Pietro lay, unmoving.

Though Dante did not, several people turned to the Capitano to plead him to halt the combat now. Marsilio had unseated Pietro. He could be declared the victor.

Cangrande said nothing. All eyes returned to the fray.

On the Arena floor, Pietro gasped for air, his head ringing inside his helmet. His left shoulder ached, but he was able to lift his arm above his head and wrench himself free from the metal bucket. He swallowed at the cold air that burned his bruised lungs. Blinking the dancing lights out of his eyes, he focused on breathing. A calm, resigned voice said,
Lie still. The end will be quick
.

He agreed with the voice. There was nothing he wanted to do less than move. Yet he found himself turning his head. He saw the horse pounding across the dirt floor. Its path would trample him, even if Carrara's halberd didn't spear him to the ground.

Don't move. Just relax. It will be quick
.

Pietro rolled onto his right shoulder and tried to stand, but his weak knee buckled under the weight of his armour. He fell forward, his left hand barely stopping him from crashing face-first into the dirt.

See? You're just prolonging the inevitable. Don't move. It will only hurt for a moment, then you can rest
.

Over last night's bandage Pietro's hair was damp with sweat and new snow, making it cling to his eyes, obscuring his sight.
I should have shaved my head.
Through the haze Pietro could just discern Carrara's horse tossing up chunks of snowy earth a dozen yards away.

His fingers found the helmet and suddenly the voice in his head changed.
Do it! Don't think! Do it now
!

Discarding pain, Pietro pitched the helmet. Carrara easily ducked the missile, but he took his eyes off of Pietro for a split second. Pietro rolled across his good shoulder, propelled by his good leg. His blade rose in the
montante sotto mano
, a rising backhanded slash. He'd never done it, only seen pictures. He had no hope of damaging the armoured horse. Instead he wanted to invoke the horse's training to leap upward and drive its hooves into an attacker.

This the horse did. But Pietro had already checked his blow and was rolling again, clearing himself to the right of the deadly nailed hooves. Carrara's horse landed on empty ground.

Pietro staggered to his feet. He'd succeeded in slowing Carrara's horse and confusing the Paduan, who now saw Pietro standing with brandished sword at the ready. Carrara brought his horse around again for another pass. The crowd booed him for remaining mounted against an unseated foe.

At the far end of the Arena, Jacopo called frantically to his brother. He held a second shield in his hands, unscarred and ready. As tall as a man, with a spearhead at either end and a long pole running north to south, this shield was meant to be used on the ground, two-handed for defense and offense both. Jacopo was furiously debating whether or not to rush out into the center of the Arena and pass it to Pietro. He saw Pietro glance over at him. That was all the encouragement he needed. He dashed forward, into the fray.