David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Grinning, Pietro ordered his men to hurry up and find something to barricade the alley. The battle was far from over, and they had work to do.

At the other end of the yard Marsilio was greeting Asdente, at the center of the formation just spilling through the gate. "What in all-fired hell is going on?" cried the Toothless Master, looking at the smoking carnage.

"They were waiting! Bonifacio betrayed us!" Carrara slammed his mailed fist into his palm. "I knew it!"

"The Count?" Vanni found it hard to believe the old fox would set them up this way.

"I saw him," confirmed Marsilio. "He was here — even saved Cangrande's life, from what my sergeant said."

Asdente brushed that aside. "What's to do?"

Marsilio looked around. The bolts from the crossbows had ceased as all the fires took hold and archers leapt from windows to try and escape. Some managed to get away. Most were rounded up and pressed back into the burning structures to face their deaths.

"Bring your men in here — all of them. If we take the Nogarola palace, we can press outward and take the whole city."

"What about prisoners?" Last time they had come this way, Asdente had ruined his reputation by slaughtering innocents without orders. This time he wanted explicit instructions.

Marsilio paused. What would his uncle do? Take prisoners, ransom them, show them all the mercy and generosity that Cangrande had shown three years before. "No prisoners. Havoc. Kill them all."

Asdente loosed his twisted grin. "As you command." He returned to his men, crying, "Havoc! Havoc!"

We were betrayed , thought Carrara for the hundredth time. Of one thing he was sure. The Count of San Bonifacio would not leave this field alive.

Cangrande slashed right and left, trying to get through the soldiers barring his path to the church. His deadly smile was unchanged, but his thoughts were grim. If Uguccione didn't get the signal soon, the city would fall.

He heard, as he often did, his sister's voice in his head, scolding him. You always leave it too late, Francesco. You never think things through. You play your little games, have your theatrics, and forget what needs to be done!

Well, dear sister , his mind retorted in a parody of conversation, if you think I am too tardy, why don't you take care of it yourself ?

His head came up as he heard bells. For an instant Cangrande della Scala was utterly, completely, totally stunned. Then he began to laugh, for he knew — knew — who was ringing the bells, giving the signal to the reserve army.

He turned his horse about and spurred back to the line being held by the Nogarolese. There was nothing more for him to do now but fight.

"It's got to be time," said Benvenito. "It's got to be! They've been in there for half an hour!"

"Fifteen minutes, more like," replied Mariotto, looking at the rising sun.

"I'm getting fed up with waiting," announced Bonaventura, not renowned for his patience.

"He'll give us a signal," said Uguccione softly. "He said he'd give us a signal."

As if in answer came the pealing of bells. Uguccione clapped his helm on his head and shouted, "On! On! Kill the bastards!!"

Bonaventura was already off. Mari kicked his heels as, down the line, Antony did the same, his brother Luigi right behind him. Nico whooped as he dug his heels into his horse's flanks. They led their forces towards Vicenza, towards the unguarded rear of the Paduan army.

The Count saw them come. Just moments before, he'd been waiting impatiently, his horse moving from foot to foot in reflection of his rider's mood. The young soldier he'd sent had come running back with the news that Carrara's men had entered the inner walls. Now they stood together on the wall of San Pietro, watching the army of Verona ride to the rescue.

"Dear God," breathed the red-headed soldier. "What do we do?"

"We can either warn Carrara or save our skins," replied the Count calmly. "Make your choice, son, and stick to it."

Benedick looked down at the Paduans still outside the walls. "I have to fight."

"Eager for victory?"

The red-headed young man looked the Count in the eye. "I don't have a title, or land, or prospects. If I'm going to make a name for myself, I have to fight, and be seen fighting."

"I admire your honesty, Signore Benedick. But let me point out that we are about to be routed. Fight a little, be seen by a commander or two, then melt away into the city. In a week return to Padua with a dramatic wound or two. You'll be a hero."

Benedick looked at the Count with distaste, then ran off to join the battle. "Poor fool," muttered the Count. Despite the danger he was in, he began to laugh. Everything was going according to plan. The Scaliger had indeed gotten word and set a trap for the Paduans. Vinciguerra was actually glad. If Cangrande came through this battle alive, he would find it a most bitter victory.

Katerina released the bell rope and stepped back, nodding to her servants to do the same. "That's enough." She was dressed in men's riding breeches and a shirt and doublet, her long hair hidden under a cap. She was no stranger to male garb, having adopted it often enough in her youth. Today it assured she would not be singled out while running through the streets. A woman in such a crush could easily become a hostage, or worse.

Knowing the plan as well as any of the commanders, she'd recognized when things went awry. The fighting sounded too desperate, her husband too busy fighting to spare even the ten men it took to ring the alarum bell. So, leaving Cesco and little Bailardetto in the care of their nurse and Pietro's groom, she'd run to give the signal to the waiting army herself. It took all her servants' strength to pull the bells, with her own weight added to it. Now she looked at the cuts the rope had burned into her hands and cursed her brother.

Francesco, where are you? Why are you not here, protecting your city, your heir.

Like a wraith, she imagined his reply. If I wanted him safe, why leave him with you? You, who have left him alone.

Hands beginning to shake, Katerina was filled with an indescribable premonition. "Quickly," she commanded, "back to the palace."

Pietro's men barely finished overturning a wagon across the mouth of the alley when the Paduans launched an assault. As Cangrande had predicted, they were focusing not on driving Bailardino's forces back but on circumventing them entirely. Just as the Persians had found the goat trails above the cliffs of Thermopylae, so too did the Paduans discover the alleys, all blocked by small forces like Pietro's, all under heavy attack.

Filled with straw and nightsoil, the upturned wagon wasn't enough to hold back the soldiers who pressed forward, hoping to capture the glory of victory by beating down these paltry few defenders. Pietro ignored the growing ache in his bad leg as he stood in the gap between the wagon and the wall beating aside blade after blade. His horse was at the far end of the alley for a hasty retreat, but he hoped he wouldn't need it.

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.