David Blixt - The Master of Verona

Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio approached the one Paduan commander who had the authority to wrench them free of this mess. Giacomo da Carrara was standing with Albertino Mussato, historian and poet. For all the reported antipathy between those two families, they seemed amicable enough. A good move on Carrara's part. It was never wise to get on the wrong side of a writer.

But Carrara was one to watch. This unflappable, unreadable man was on the rise. Three years before, there had been five noble families who stood united against the Pup. Murder and death removed two the next year, da Camino departed to assume the lordship of nearby Treviso, and Nico da Lozzo had defected. This left Carrara, or 'Il Grande' as he was known, standing alone in the field. It was he who had calmed Padua after the great internal upheavals of the past year. The Count could discern nothing in him beyond a profound patience and a great deal of steel.

Not bothering to bow, the Count simply burst into their conversation. "It's time to intervene, before the whole day is lost."

Carrara nodded. "Albertino was just saying something similar — though he used more words." Mussato snorted.

The Count continued. "We've got to get Ponzino out of sight and tell everyone the orders he's issued."

"He's issued orders?" asked Mussato.

Carrara smiled. "I think Count Vinciguerra means that with him out of sight, no one can say he didn't issue them."

Mussato cocked his head. "Are we sure the Dog isn't here already?"

"Our spies say that not only is he home for his nephew's wedding, but that his puppet, Bailardino Nogarola, has gone to beg some help from Germany. The only one left to command is Nogarola's brother."

"And the Dog's blaspheming bitch of a sister," spat the poet.

The Count gazed steadily at Carrara. "You're the one he'll listen to."

Another voice entered the fray. "And if we get him to hide in his tent, who will be issuing these orders?" Coming to stand beside his uncle, Marsilio da Carrara was darkly handsome. He stared at San Bonifacio, sour suspicion etched into his young face.

"Marsilio." The elder Carrara's tone carried a warning note. "He's right."

"He's Veronese! He's one of the Greyhound's men!"

Giacomo barked out his nephew's name again, harshly, but the Count didn't require anyone to fight his battles for him. Not his personal ones, at any rate. "I am Veronese," said the Count equably. "There is no title I bear more proudly. My ancestors were grinding yours into dust in the days of the first Roman Republic. What I am not, boy , is the servant of some jumped-up usurper. The Count of San Bonifacio is no one's minion. I am the scion of a great line. Call me a Scaligeri sympathizer again, and you'll be the last of yours."

The boy's uncle edged closer, face grim. "We are all gathered here to put down Cangrande, nephew. We are allies in that cause. Now stop wasting time. We have work to do."

Bonifacio lifted his helmet and placed it firmly on his head. It had been his father's helmet, and his grandfather's. Peaked and plumeless, its face guard didn't lower into place but closed like a gate on both sides. Wearing it, Vinciguerra looked like a cathedral, a wide form capped by a scarred silver steeple. Mounting his horse, he deliberately closed the cheek pieces, cutting off Marsilio's suspicious stare. "Let's go."

With the connivance of the elder Carrara, they finally convinced Ponzino to return to his command tent, there to weep for his lost honour. Emerging, the Count and Il Grande gave orders they claimed originated with the Podestà . In minutes the necessary work was finally begun — the gates in the outer wall were undergoing a belated destruction, and guards were set around the perimeter of the camp, if not in the suburb itself.

The Count collected what few men he could to continue the demolition of the gate south of San Pietro. He'd decided it would be easier to destroy the gate itself rather than carve a hole in the stone walls. It would take fewer men. Lord knew, there were few enough willing to work.

Having found no time to sleep, he felt sluggish, dim-witted — twice he found himself listing right in the saddle while watching the dismantling of the great wooden and metal gates. Years ago a sword stroke had broken Bonifacio's leg. It had mended crooked, and on foot he was not sufficiently mobile. In the saddle, though, he was as capable as a twenty-year-old, which was all that mattered.

Except now it was beginning to show. He never used to get so tired. Despairing of staying upright, Vinciguerra dismounted to lift an axe himself. It was not the gesture of unity and cooperation it appeared. It was to give him something to do , in the hope that action would keep him awake.

He swung the giant axe into the wood near the lower hinge of the inner gate. More men were hacking at the outer set of gates on the other side of the stone archway. As he finished his next swing he paused to wipe sweat from his brow. It was hot. The clouds he'd spotted four hours before were still far to the east and provided no relief. He'd retrieved his plate armour from his tent, but had no desire to wear it. The solid breastplate and gorget lay within reach, as did his helmet, no doubt hot enough to burn naked flesh. He still wore the trousers with the wide metal bands to protect his legs, for they were harder to get on and off. It made his legs clatter slightly with each stroke of the axe, and his bad leg ached under all the weight.

After a few minutes Young Carrara arrived. He took up an axe and began alternating strokes with the Count. Vinciguerra chose to find the teenager's distrust amusing.

"We should post guards in the city," declared Marsilio angrily.

"Truth!" replied the Count, swinging with added vigour.

"We're too exposed here." Marsilio timed his stroke a little too close, nearly grazing the Count's axehead.

"Mmm!" The Count swung so hard he had difficulty freeing the blade.

Marsilio smugly checked his blow. "There's no one between us and the gate on the inner wall."

"If you're worried about the lack of guards, why don't you go and keep a watch on the inner gates?"

"Why don't you?" the youth shot back.

The Count lifted his axe and swung. "I'm busy — trying to win this town for you."

Fuming, Marsilio dropped his axe and walked over to speak to his uncle. Evidently Il Grande agreed, as together they mounted and rode north into the smoldering suburb, vanishing in a cloud of black soot and smoke. Good riddance , thought the Count, resting the axehead on the cobblestones and closing his eyes.

His thoughts turned, as they invariably did, to the Pup. Cane Grande . The big dog. A name given when he was still a child. It wasn't until later that the people translated his nickname into the title he now employed: the Greyhound, mythic savior of Italy.

What kind of man was this Greyhound, really? The Count thought he knew. An arrogant, impulsive, sport-loving, bloodthirsty son of a murderer, for all his shows of clemency and frugality. He claimed he cared nothing for money, yet he kept three hundred hawks for his pleasure, dressed in the finest clothes, ate and drank superbly well. Rumour had it he was none too faithful to his wife, either. His bastards littered Lombardy, though a delightful rumour said they were all girls.

How did that sort of man lead his troops against all adversity? More important, why did they follow? What quality did he own? Was it bravery? Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio owned as much as the next man. What was it?

The sound of voices lifted in song made him turn his head. Around a corner of the smoking suburb appeared Vanni Scorigiani leading a group of about sixty men, all carrying plunder — candelabra, sacks of silver, even an overstuffed seat with carvings of curled claws at the feet. No doubt these men, most of them from a condottiere of Flemings, had been hand-picked to do Asdente's plundering for him.