David Blixt - The Master of Verona

It was an uphill race they couldn't win. The slope was rocky, and Pietro's tired horse was having trouble keeping its legs. The horses in pursuit were fresh, the men driving them eager.

The Scaliger turned in his saddle, looking back at the Paduan soldiers. Pietro saw a hungry smile inside the open cheek pieces of Cangrande's helmet, and understanding struck him.

Atop the hill, the Illasi garrison stepped out of the treeline to face an entirely unprepared enemy. Fully armed and armoured, Cangrande's men swung their shields into place and raised their weapons. Some had axes, maces, morning stars, or spears. Most had long swords.

The Paduans saw the garrison and checked. They had numbers, but terrain and the element of surprise were all with the Veronese. They pulled at their reins, turned their horses' heads. But they knew, they had to know, they were trapped.

Still riding uphill, Pietro was passed by the score of Cangrande's men angling full-tilt down into the ambushers, themselves ambushed in return. Some Paduans fought, some tried to flee. It made no difference in the end.

Pietro watched as the Capitano's men ruthlessly chased each of the Paduans down and killed them. It was the first time Pietro had seen so much death and he made sure he did not turn away. Eerily, Cangrande's men made no noise. The Paduans screamed and shouted, but the Veronese soldiers did their best to do their work in silence. Only the scrape of metal and the thump of hooves marked their passing.

Then the silence was complete. No Paduan had been spared. That's odd , thought Pietro with a shiver. The Scaliger is famous for his clemency .

Reining in beside the Capitano, he asked about this. Cangrande shrugged. "I couldn't let them live." Pietro thought he heard a touch of regret. "If I had, they would have warned Asdente and the Count. I'm in no position to take prisoners, and without an army at my back I need all the advantage surprise can give me." Cangrande swung his horse back towards the invested city. "Now let's walk these tired horses where they can rest. We have work to do."

At an easy trot Cangrande and his three companions rode up to the gate of Vicenza.

Within minutes Cangrande was standing on the steps to the main palace in conference with Antonio Nogarola, a gruff man of medium height and rotten teeth. They were related by marriage and tragedy, these two families, the Nogarolese having tacked themselves firmly to the tail of the ascendant Scalageri star. Quickly Nogarola apprised the Scaliger of recent events. Eavesdropping shamelessly, Pietro thought he heard a reference to a cat and a mention of fishing rods. Then clearly he heard Cangrande ask, "Is she safe?"

In response Nogarola pointed to the windows of the palace above them. "Within, giving orders to the servants. It was her idea to fire the houses in San Pietro."

"Of course it was." Cangrande's voice was bemused. Pietro lost the next words as they turned to look up into the palace. Whatever Nogarola said, Cangrande merely shook his head in reply. "I brought about thirty men."

"I've got about fifty who have horses and can ride them…"

Apropos of nothing, Pietro realized where else he had heard the name Vicenza before. Back in school in Florence, he'd been examined beside the son of a rich Pisan called Vincentio. Probably meant he hailed from Vicenza originally.

Pietro's ears pricked up as Cangrande and Nogarola turned back towards him.

"…knows I'm here she'll do something foolish."

"Such as?" inquired Nogarola.

"Such as putting on breeches and a helmet and hiding among the knights. No, let her remain ignorant of my presence until after the battle. Is there any sign of our friendly saint?"

"The Count?" Nogarola spat at the ground. "He's out there. Waved his flag and San Pietro fell over itself welcoming him. You'd think the San Bonifacio clan would be tired of opposing you. They keep losing."

Cangrande shrugged. "It's in his blood."

Nogarola's eyes scanned Cangrande's unlikely companions. He knew Mariotto, of course. Cangrande introduced Antony then pointed to Pietro. "Lord Nogarola, Pietro Alaghieri."

"Alighieri — any relation to the poet?"

Before Pietro could reply, Cangrande said, "Pietro appears to be his own man." A fresh set of horses arrived girded for war. "Come. Time to live forever in glory."

Nogarola unclasped the scarlet general's cape from his shoulders and handed it to Cangrande. Just as he fixed it in place, an old woman emerged from a nearby doorway. She was visibly drunk, stumbling into the street. Cangrande scooped her into his arms and plucked the wineskin from her fingers. "Mother, con permisso ." He quaffed it in one pull and with a twinkling eye handed it back, thanking her.

The next moment he was kneeling. Those who saw the gesture likewise knelt to pray, the height of the crowd cut in half as man after man dropped to his knees.

The Scaliger's sword scraped as he drew it from his scabbard. Laying the hilt against his forehead, the Capitano began a quiet prayer: " Ave, Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicat tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc hora mortis nostrae. Amen ."

The omission of the single word et changed the tenor of the last line. The alteration was subtle, but significant. Now, in the hour of our death. Rising, Cangrande and Nogarola stalked off to give orders.

Pietro remained where he was, struck dumb — not by the business with the wine or the prayer, but by what Cangrande had said. It was a wholly new thought, arriving breathless and filling shoulders, diaphragm, knees. Pietro had been taught from birth that his duty in life was to reflect well upon his father. For all his years, he'd endeavored to become the ideal son. That he might have succeeded never occurred to him. He constantly saw himself as a failure to both his father and his name.

Seven words from Cangrande and a tangle in Pietro's liver was torn loose. In that moment Pietro Alaghieri began the process of emerging from his father's shadow.

It was lost upon him that, in so doing, he passed into one even more dreadful.

Vicenza

The evening sky was a glorious red as Count Vinciguerra of San Bonifacio viewed the shambles of the Paduan plan.

The slaughter of the suburbanites had ended. That was the good news. The bad news was that the day was wasted, and with it all momentum and surprise. The citizens within the main gates were now girded for a siege. It was up to the Count to give them one. Ponzoni was useless. He couldn't get past the idea that the sacking should never have happened. Why couldn't the little pimple see that the only way to justify it was to take the city? A goal that the Count despaired of reaching with every hour that passed.

It should have been so easy! They had more than enough men to storm the walls of the inner city and savage the guard. But the Paduan men-at-arms had dispersed, all semblance of discipline vanished. The glorious army of justice was now drinking and sleeping in the gardens surrounding the outer wall, using their armour for shade.

Worse than the attack not moving forward, their army was vulnerable. No guards had been posted anywhere in San Pietro. Few of the nobles even wore their weapons, choosing instead to partake of the lesser knights' pleasures. A sea of excess stretched before the Count. Asdente's brutal methods were required here. God knew nothing else worked. But Asdente was nowhere to be seen, and weak-stomached Ponzino couldn't bring himself to become that sort of man — a man without honour. It was a damned nuisance that the army was saddled with a general who owned a conscience.