David Blixt - The Master of Verona

"What does that matter?" asked Antony. "You're their Vicar."

"The only authority I have," said Cangrande tranquilly, "was given me by Emperor Heinrich, and what good is the favour of a dead man? So Ponzino de' Ponzoni, from all evidence a decent though uninspired soldier, knows I am worried about the safety of the Vicentine garrison. In the throes of that fear, I might do something foolish, like riding out alone and unarmed to the defense of an invested city."

"My lord," observed Antonio, "that's what you did."

"Ridiculous. I had you three. So I arrive, and what do I see?"

Again Pietro looked towards the city gates. There was a stone bridge, pre-Roman by its decrepit appearance. It crossed a deep dip in the land that had probably once been used as a moat but had since dried up. Around the bridge there was nothing but grassy slopes slowly changing colour as the season dictated. Not even a bird stirred. "Nothing."

"Exactly! Not a thing! An open field for me to ride across and devour the chicken. How wonderful!" Cangrande pulled a comic frown. "Only I am a little disturbed. As a child I was forced to recite my Gallic Wars, my Vegetius, even my Homer. I know the importance of surrounding an invested city. It prevents reinforcements from strengthening the will of those unfortunates besieged. It's the basic principle that Caesar used so brilliantly at Alesia. Now, if I have read these works, I know that my worthy opponent the Podestà of Padua has read them as well. I wonder how he could have forgotten so basic a lesson? But he must have! For I see no troops! The hen house is open and ripe for pillaging." He gestured to the open expanse of land between them and the gates.

Pietro nodded. "Where are they?"

"Under the bridge," answered Cangrande with a bored sigh, "and possibly in the ravine further north. If he had any brains, he'd have put a thin line of men in the open. Then I might have raced for the far gates in the hope of outrunning the guards. At that moment the hidden soldiers could have leapt out and slaughtered me." He sighed in evident disappointment. "Upon reflection, I would wager it was Vanni who set it up. One thing is for certain, though: Bonifacio is not handling the details. That's excellent news. It means they're poorly organized and not making use of the wiser heads among them." He grinned at the trio as they drank in his every word. "Someday I'll meet an equal, and then you'll see some fireworks, boys." Then, mock-mournfully, he added, "But so far, it hasn't happened."

"So what do we do?" asked Antony. "Just sit here?"

"I think we can make it," opined Mariotto. "We know where they are. With luck, we can be past them and to the gates before they ride out from their bridge."

Cangrande shook his head, "Though I always like to have it, I never expect luck to side with me. Too often she's a fickle bitch. And though you're right, we might make it past them, they could still raise an alarum, and I don't want Asdente and the Count to know I'm here. Yet."

Antony practically spat. "So we do nothing?"

"We remind Asdente of a fact he seems to have forgotten."

"And that is?"

The Capitano's blue eyes twinkled. "I am not the fox in this drama. I am the hound."

"The Great Hound," supplied Mariotto.

"The Greyhound," said Pietro.

The Scaliger's blue eyes fixed on Pietro coldly. Flustered, young Alaghieri braced himself for a rebuke. Before it was delivered, however, Cangrande cocked an ear. "How now? What noise is this?" Behind them, the Illasi garrison was arriving. "Not bad time for horses so heavily laden. Now, I'm going to have a word with my commander and then, because you've been so patient, I'll take you with me on a little constitutional."

He cantered away, leaving Pietro wondering what he'd said. For the first time in their brief acquiantance, the Greyhound had seemed genuinely angry. The chill from those blue eyes still clung to Pietro's skin. I called him the Greyhound. But isn't that his title? The beast was on all his banners. Pietro's own father had referred to him as such over and over again. Why, then, had his eyes blazed at the mention of it?

Whatever it was, Mariotto had missed it. "Constitutional?"

Antony rubbed his huge hands together. "I'll say this — he isn't boring!"

Pietro squinted out at where Cangrande had said the enemy would be waiting in ambush. At first he saw only the vague multicoloured shapes that danced inside his eyes. He blinked them away and tried again. For several seconds he saw nothing at all. Then a shadow under the bridge shifted. Pietro didn't think it was a trick of the light. The Capitano had been prescient. There were mounted knights under the bridge, waiting.

So focused on the spot under the bridge, Pietro didn't notice Cangrande's return, and jumped when he heard the Scaliger say, "Shall we take their bait, signores?" Without waiting for a reply the Scaliger spurred ahead out of the treeline and down the hill. Antony and Mariotto followed on either side, and Pietro quickly followed.

"Slow and easy," murmured Cangrande. They obeyed, cantering down the slope four abreast, their horses grateful for the relaxed pace. They rode at an easy gait, Cangrande feigning an interest in their surroundings-the hills above, the fields around. Their leader was a consummate actor, and their meandering progress belied the thudding of the young men's blood.

If I die today , thought Pietro , will my father write the tale? Will he make us brave or foolish? He tried to put words together as his father would, but the only words that came to him were from L'Inferno . He found himself speaking them aloud:

Just so do I recall the troops

afraid to leave Caprona with safe-conduct,

Finding themselves among so many enemies.

Twisting in the saddle to face him, Cangrande spoke Virgil's lines from another canto:

And he, as one who understood:

'Here you must banish all distrust,

here all cowardice must be slain.

We have come to where I said

You would see the miserable sinners

Who have lost the good of the intellect.'

Pietro flushed. He hadn't thought he'd spoken loud enough to be heard. "I think my father meant to scorn those who forgo intellect, not praise them."

Cangrande shrugged. "This afternoon he insisted that everything is open to interpretation. Sometimes intellect must succumb to valour."

"I doubt he'd agree."

"He's a poet. He's forgotten what it feels like to live through deeds!"

Antony snorted. "Poets!"

"Give them their due," said Cangrande. "Without them no one would know of brave deeds. And why else do we fight and die but to live on in eternal fame?"

"What else is there to do?" asked Mariotto. "Farm? Raise sheep?"

"Well, there's always women," laughed Cangrande.

"Forgive me, lord," said Mariotto, "but no one was ever famous for loving. At least, no one I'd want to be."

"Hear hear," said Antony.

"Ah, but the best wars are always over a woman!" said Cangrande fondly. "Think of Troy! Helen, she must have been a prize worth winning!"

Antony said, "Think of Abelard! For his love he lost his balls!"

The ensuing laughter carried them down the crest. The enemy had been waiting all day in hope of this moment. The Scaliger, anticipating their impatience, was rewarded. When the four riders were only halfway across the open field, the Paduans crashed from their hiding places under the bridge, emitting shouts of victory.

Expecting some wonderful counter-attack from the Scaliger, the trio of youths were shocked when Cangrande wheeled his horse about and gave it his spurs. "Run!"

For a moment Pietro sat stunned in his saddle. Run? But with Paduan knights bearing down on him, fear crept into his throat and turned his bowels to liquid. He yanked the reins in his left hand and kicked. For one terrifying moment it balked, shaking the muscles on its neck with anger. Spurless, Pietro kicked his heels and yanked at the reins again, hard. Finally the horse obeyed, turning to run after the Scaliger, now a good twenty yards away.