The Master of Verona (63 page)

Soon he was standing behind Nico's place at the table in the command tent, watching as Cangrande and his four generals took their seats. Castelbarco sat across from Nico, and Bailardino Nogarola beside him. Cangrande took the head of the table, and Passerino Bonaccolsi the foot.

Cangrande lifted his goblet. "To the wise Calvatonesi. I am so very pleased I was not forced to emulate Otho. Passerino, if I killed myself in despair, would you do as his captains did and throw yourself on my funeral pyre?"

"I would throw Nico on it," said Passerino.

Cangrande nodded. "That will do."

Nico sneered. "Oh oh! Nice talk, considering it was my silver tongue that opened Calvatone like a woman's flower."

"If Calvatone is a woman, she's a cheap whore to open up to your tongue," said Bailardino.

"An ugly cheap whore," opined Passerino. "Did you see the state of their town hall?"

"Poverty is not a sin," said Castelbarco.

"Lack of civic pride is."

"I blame Cavalcabo," said Cangrande. "A skinflint and zealot. And his heir apparent, Correggio, is ten times worse. Say what you will about the other Guelphs, they aren't stingy. You'd never see Florence's smaller cities in such a state."

"Oh, Correggio's not a bad fellow," protested Bailardino. "His niece is going to marry my brother."

"Well, that makes him the salt of the earth," scoffed Nico.

"Speaking of Florence," interjected Castelbarco before Bailardino could rise to Nico's bait, "Jacopo, what's this I hear about a pardon for your father?"

Cangrande started laughing. "Yes yes! Tell them!"

Grinning, Poco took a step forward. "My father got a letter in July—"

"Addressed to 'Durante Alighieri, of the Guild of Apothecaries,'" interjected Cangrande. "No mention of poetry. Sorry, Jacopo. Go on."

"Well, the letter offered amnesty. Father is free to return to Florence whenever he likes."

"Big of them," said Passerino.

"No, no, wait! It gets better," said Cangrande. "There are conditions."

"Conditions?"

Poco rolled his eyes. "The conditions are, one, he pay a huge fine and, two, he submit himself to an oblation."

"What kind of oblation?" asked Passerino.

Before Poco could answer, Cangrande burst in. "He has to enter a city jail on his knees and from there walk clothed in sackcloth and a fool's cap with a candle in his hand through the city streets to the baptistery of San Giovanni — the saint that shares a name with Dante's dead eldest son, whose burial the city fathers refused, by the way. At the baptistery he has to declare his guilt and his repentance and beg the city fathers for forgiveness."

"I take it he refused."

"Astonishingly, yes." Everyone grinned. Annoyed that the Scaliger had taken away the best part of the story, Poco was about to step back to his place behind Nico when Bailardino asked, "What about your brother? How is he doing?"

"Is that you asking," said Cangrande, "or my sister?"

"I do have the occasional independent thought," said Bail. "Jacopo, how is Pietro doing?"

"He's settled into the University at Bologna," said Poco. "From what I hear he's doing well."

"I've just arranged an income for him, not far away from his studies," added Cangrande placidly. "A little benefice in Ravenna."

"You know, you could just recall him," said Castelbarco.

"Or I could banish you. That would end the conversation even more easily."

An awkward silence ensued. Finally Nico broke it. "I'm glad we're moving on. If we take Cremona, it will eclipse all the talk about Montecatini."

"Be fair, Nico," said Passerino. "Uguccione della Faggiuola is a friend and an ally. We can't begrudge him his victories. Besides, he needed one much more than we do."

Bailardino whistled. "Ten thousand dead and seven thousand prisoners. Not too shabby."

"He couldn't have done it without Castricani's men," said Castelbarco. "Does it ever occur to you, my lord Scaliger, that these floating
condottieri
may lead to trouble? Each season they are free to hire on to whatever war suits their fancy. Some are making a habit of fighting for one side this year, and the opposing side the next, thus keeping the war from ending. We're spending vast sums on these hired swords, but gold does not purchase loyalty."

"True," said Cangrande. "Nico, what does buy loyalty?"

"Land," replied Nico at once. "Land, land, and land. Some men will fight a battle or even a war for a prince or for God. But if you want a man to fight for you the rest of his life, you have to give him land. Look at Capulletto. You could have filled his purse to overflowing, heaped him with titles, but nothing could have bound him to you more than the land you gave him near Bardolino. He's now bound to you more than if you were his father."

Cangrande appeared dubious. "Hmm. We'll see. Certainly he was generous enough in return. The feast he threw in honour of San Bonaventura was magnificent. I haven't danced like that in years."

Castelbarco passed across a tray of food. "The whole affair was definitely a triumph. Ludovico confided to me that he's planning on making it an annual event."

"The only shame was that Gargano wasn't there," said Bail.

"He was invited," said Cangrande. "I made sure of that. But he chose not to come. Said it might mar the occasion. As you say, a shame."

Swallowing, Nico pointed his knife aimlessly. "You know who I liked that night? Bonaventura and his wife. I'd heard she was mad, but I don't think I've ever heard sparring the like of theirs."

"Well, they were on display, weren't they?" said Bailardino, reaching over to fill Nico's bowl of wine. "As a Bonaventura, young Petruchio shares the name of the feast's saint. That mad wife's a Paduan, no?"

Cangrande said, "Yes, we seem to be stealing all the Paduan brides."

"I hear she's pregnant," said Poco, earning him a sour glance from Nico. None of the other pages would have spoken without invitation. But his news was enough of a pleasant surprise that the others overlooked the poor protocol.

Bailardino clapped his hands. "Excellent! A year of children! Where did you hear that?"

"Yes, where?" asked Cangrande in a droll tone. "Your spies must be better than mine."

Trying to disguise his pride, Poco said, "There's a girl in Ser Bonaventura's house, I've gotten to know her…"

He was answered by mockery and sly looks. Bailardino in particular was gleeful. "Well done, lad! Are there any other pregnancies we should — what the devil?!"

The tent flap was thrown wide by one of Cangrande's soldiers, who burst in. "My lord — trouble!"

Throwing aside the benches the five generals followed the soldier outside, Poco and the other pages at their heels. "There, my lord," said the veteran, pointing. Tracing the line he indicated, all heads turned towards the town walls. They were glowing red.

"Treachery?" asked Passerino.

"I'm afraid so," said Cangrande in a grim tone. "But I don't think the kind you mean."

"What is it, then?" demanded Castelbarco. "Is Cremona attacking?"

"No. Someone has taken it upon themselves to break my word. Horses! Arms! Let's see if there's any way to salvage this!"

Nico rounded on Poco, who stared with horror at the growing flames. "Move it, boy! Don't bother with the fancy stuff, just gambeson, helmet, and sword. Move!" With a shove Nico sent him running.

Fifteen minutes later Cangrande led his personal guard as they galloped into chaos. Men on fire, women screaming under the weight of armoured men mercilessly having their way. Not all the women screamed — some had had their throats cut before they were violated. A lone child wandered into the road to be trampled by a mad horse running wild. Blood pooled in the streets, sprayed the pitted stone walls, bubbled in the mouths of blackened corpses.

Poco felt a shiver run from his forehead to his fingertips as he stared wide-eyed at the carnage. But it was the sudden smell of burning human flesh that made him turn his head and vomit down his horse's side. His stomach heaved, then heaved again. He looked around, embarrassed, his eyes watering in the smoke. He saw Nico kill a rapist as Cangrande used his sword to bring final peace to a burning man. Drawing his sword, Poco followed the leaders up and down the street, helping those they could, killing those they could not. It was a kind of mercy.

Entering one bloody and smoking piazza they heard a voice cry out, "Havoc!" The shout was echoed from mouth to mouth among the garrison of German mercenaries Cangrande had left within the town walls. The havoc cry was famous, a foreign idea that had quickly translated into a simple rule — there were no rules. For the duration of one day, theft, rape, even murder would go unanswered at law. It was the free pass that allowed soldiers to vent their basest desires, enriching themselves or taking out their revenge against the world. Generals sometimes allowed their men to wreak havoc on a town as a reward for their efforts. Sometimes soldiers raised the call themselves.

"Round them up!" shouted Cangrande to his men. "Kill anyone who doesn't instantly fall in!"

His men responded with vigour, turning their blades on their allies with a feral fury that matched their commanders eyes. They worked to secure one piazza at a time, leaving soldiers behind to guard the few survivors. It took almost an hour to gain control of the situation, that being achieved mostly because by then there was no one left to save. Cangrande never seemed to rest, racing from place to place, a whirlwind of tightly controlled violence. Terrified, Poco trailed along, barely swinging his sword as he watched each grisly scene open up before him. The worst was when they came across a square where the mercenaries were playing some sort of game, using burning poles to hit balls into overturned baskets. A closer look revealed the balls to be human heads. Some were very small. Poco wept and, in that square, he killed his first man. None of the mercenaries in that square survived.

Recognizing that the town couldn't be saved, Cangrande abandoned the idea of fire brigades in favor of rescue parties. Only when the smoke threatened his men as much as the fire did he call for the withdrawal of his troops.

As the sun set its burning eye, the town of Calvatone was a smoldering ruin. Lined up before the collapsing gates were the last remaining mercenaries, forcibly dismounted and down on their knees. None had escaped some kind of injury. They looked up at Cangrande, sitting atop his magnificent horse and watching the last timbers fall inward, sending up a spray of sparks and ash. He remained there a good deal longer, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned and murmured an order to Castelbarco, who whipped his horse back towards the camp.

From his knees, the German leader called out to the Scaliger. "
Der Hund
! Why do you persecute us? We were only following your orders!"

Cangrande leapt from the saddle and ran over to the man, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. "My orders? To murder, to despoil, to ruin my own honour? I vowed that I wouldn't have them harmed! Who gave you these orders?" The leader of the condottiere swayed and shook his head, mumbling something. Cangrande struck him again. "Who!"

"There were written orders," protested the man around his cracked and bleeding mouth.

"Show me these orders!"

"I cannot,
Der Hund
! The last command on the paper was to burn it!"

"Convenient! Who brought these mythical orders?"

"A man I never before had met! But in your colours! And the orders bore your seal!"

Cangrande struck the man again, a mailed fist full in the German's face that broke teeth. The Scaliger wheeled about and remounted. There were tears in his eyes not caused by smoke. "Now I know how Ponzino felt. Passerino, Bail, bring these curs back to camp. Do not molest them further until I decide their punishment. Nico, take charge of the Calvatonesi, see to their needs. Protect your men, though, in case they try to take vengeance for this. As well they should!"

Cangrande rode off in the direction of the camp. Nico had his men open a path for the disgraced mercenaries, then issued orders for the housing and tending of the few survivors of the massacre.

Poco disobeyed those orders, though. Rather than tend to the blackened, the bleeding, the weeping, or the dazed, he found himself a fat tree to hide behind. He wasn't seen again until after the moon had passed halfway across the sky, and when at last he stumbled into his tent he was utterly, irredeemably drunk.

At dawn the construction was finished. The remaining Calvatonesi were invited to watch. Nico, furious with his disappointing page, ordered him to be present also.

In groups of twenty, the members of the condottiere were led up the wooden steps, hands bound behind them. The nooses in place, they were shoved off the low platform without even the benefit of a priest. The first to go was the German commander.

A knot of horsemen watched the suspended bodies rocking in the air, ropes creaking with each kick and twitch. In the middle of the generals and their men, Passerino watched the mercenary leader choke. "Well, he did us a favor."

The look Cangrande turned on him was dangerous. "How do you mean?"