David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Jupiter began to whimper as the three hidden watchers cautiously emerged. Save for the greyhound and the falcons, they were quite alone.

Glancing around, Antony said, "Where the hell…?"

"Was he talking to us?" wondered Mariotto.

"He didn't know we were here," said Antony with certainty.

Pietro dashed to the arch Cangrande had disappeared behind. The lord of Verona was gone. The only thing here was the greyhound, straining against the railing to the balcony. Looking at the cobbled street one level below, Pietro said, "He jumped."

"What?" Mariotto and Antonio joined him, arriving just in time to see a golden-headed blur race out from the stables below them, heading east down a private street. Not bothering with stairs, Cangrande had found a horse and started out for Vicenza.

Pietro shared blank looks with Mariotto and Antony. Then in inspired unison Mariotto and Antony imitated Cangrande, leaping off the balcony to the stables below, Mariotto still bearing the bird on his arm.

Pietro thought they were both crazy. But already he had swung his own legs over the rail and was dropping down to the cobbled street. In seconds he was joining them in their search for horses.

Above them the greyhound raced for the door, down the stairs to the stable, determined not to be left behind.

On a borrowed — stolen! — horse, Pietro tried to keep up with Mariotto and Antony as they tore after Verona's Capitano. Already he was out of sight. Blessedly they'd taken the time to saddle their horses, something Cangrande hadn't bothered with.

It was not hard to trace the path he had taken. He'd barreled through streets, dodging or jumping all obstructions, shouting out curt warnings. Shaken citizens were just recovering as three more horses dashed past, two of their riders whooping and hollering. All assumed it was another of the Capitano's games — a hunt through the streets, with a live rider as the prey. Stranger things happened every day.

Reaching the Roman bridge on the bank of the Adige, they were stymied by a caravan of millet-bearing mules. There was no trace of the Scaliger. But before they had passed a dozen words with the onlookers, the dog Jupiter dashed past them, heading north towards a smaller bridge atop the Adige's oxbow embrace of the city.

Mariotto watched the greyhound go and cried, "He's making for the Ponte di Pietro!" Wheeling their horses around, they followed in the dog's wake.

The stone and wood bridge was not as sturdy as the Roman one, and thus was less crowded. Passing under the open gate, they left the city, hoping against hope to catch up to the wonderful madman leading them on.

Pietro could already feel the stiff leather saddle biting into him. The stirrups hurt his slippered feet. It had been almost a year since he had ridden this hard, and in sport, not war. Not that Capecelatro acknowledged the difference. He shouted as though this were nothing but a great adventure. Mariotto was infected with the Capuan's joy, and Pietro wished he could feel it, too. Yet his misgivings held him in check. What is the Scaliger thinking? He can't take on the whole Paduan army single-handed!

He won't be single-handed if we can catch him, insisted the devil's advocate in his head.

And what can we do? he retorted. We don't even have knives! Stupid wedding etiquette !

Still, he didn't turn back. Seventeen years old, he'd been raised on stories of the battle of Campaldino, where a certain young cavalryman named Durante from the undistinguished house of Alighieri had fought with distinction. Poet, lawyer, politician, and soldier. So much to live up to. Pietro spurred on.

Tongue dangling, the hound Jupiter again dashed ahead and barked. Seconds later Cangrande came into view. He glanced back but didn't slow down, counting on the boys to catch him up. Indeed, he didn't stop until they reached a bridge just south of San Martino. A man was bathing on the near bank of the Fibbio. He leapt from the water and, throwing a grubby cloak over his nakedness, ran to collect his toll.

Reining in, Cangrande looked back with an abashed grin. "Anyone have any money?"

Pietro reached into his meager purse and paid the hermit for their passage.

"Thank heaven for the infernal son," said Cangrande, grinning. "Well — come on!"

They soon left the road, angling north through patches of wood and hills. Antony called out, "Where are we going?"

Cangrande was already pulling ahead, leaving it to Mariotto to answer. "If he keeps going he'll pass the castle at Illasi. He took it last year, rebuilt it, and filled it with loyal men. We'll probably change horses there and gather troops. To get there we have to ford the Illasi River."

"Lead the way!" roared Antony.

Taking his place in the rear, Pietro winced as the saddle jumped under him.

They heard the river before ever they saw it. Two hours had passed since the mad leap from the balcony, and sweat poured down the animals' bodies. Pietro sympathized — he couldn't feel anything other than the chill sweat on his face. He was sure he'd never walk again. Or unclench his hands. Or relax his jaw. He was having a devilish time just keeping himself in line behind Mariotto and Antonio. Both were excellent riders, the one well taught and used to the saddle, the other a born sportsman. And the unsaddled Cangrande was outstripping them all. Pietro felt stupid and sluggish.

They had to stop outside the gate of the castle at Illasi while Cangrande proved who he was, then they were in a courtyard scarred and blackened by old siege fires. Servants were sent running to and fro, horses were being saddled, knights donned armour.

"What about us?" asked Antony loud enough for Cangrande to hear him, but the great man was busy in conference with the garrison commander.

"I'll get fresh horses," said Mariotto and ran off.

"I'll steal some swords," said Antony.

"I'll…" Pietro couldn't think of anything to do, so he examined the hurrying soldiers. Thirty or so. Versus the full armed might of Padua. The madness hadn't ended. It was still impossible.

His father's voice said, You could stay here. No one would think less of you.

Except you , thought Pietro.

He saw the hound Jupiter lapping from a puddle. The dog is smarter than I am . Walking to the nearest barrel, Pietro drew himself some water. It was heaven.

Doing a quick head count, Pietro guessed there were about twenty-five men in the garrison here now armouring themselves. Better than four , he thought. Though not much .

Antony returned with swords and helms. "They don't have spare armour. Just gambesons."

Pietro found himself fitted with the Eastern-style armour whose popularity had grown in the West since the Crusades. Composed of layers of cloth, rags, or tow, it was quilted to a foundation of canvas or leather, then covered in linen or silk. Usually a gambeson was an undergarment in battle, a secondary layer of protection.

Pietro's helmet was a simple practice helmet of plain steel, little more than a bucket with a cross cut for eyes. It didn't fit well, leaving four inches between the dome and his scalp. Do I have a wide head?

His sword was a decent three-foot-long bastard, the technical term for a hand-and-a-half grip. Plenty of burrs but servicable. Pietro strapped a leather baldric across his chest and fitted the sword home on his left hip. There. I might fool someone for a moment.

As opposed to Pietro, the Capuan wore on his head a coif of mail. A single band of thick metal encompassed his head. Below and above that band, chain links clinked and clattered together. The links went under his chin and hooked in front of his left ear.