David Blixt - The Master of Verona

There was no more fighting. It had never been a battle, it had been a rout. Now the rout was over.

Under a tree on a hill to the south of Quartesolo, Cangrande dismounted his blood-spattered stolen horse. Walking around to the front of the animal, he unbuckled the testiera that covered its head, let the piece fall to the earth, and began to stroke the long nose absently. Jupiter dropped and lay at his feet, exhausted.

Kneeling down to pet his hound, the Scaliger did not glance back at the city that was now indisputably his. His gaze was directed south, beyond the men who ran to safety. The south and east, where lands were lush and green, with rivers and vineyards, mills, ranches, farms. Harvest was three weeks away. This was some of the richest land in the world, fought over and died for throughout history. This was the Trevisian Mark. This was the Feltro.

Cangrande della Scala, titular Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, looked down on the half of the Mark that he did not rule. If anyone could have seen his face in that moment, they would not have been able to decide if his eyes bore responsibility — or delight.

He was twenty-three years old.

Though the battle had seemed to last hours, it was over in less than twenty minutes. Of actual bloodshed there had been little, as armed engagements went. The dead numbered only seven Paduan nobles and fifty-seven foot soldiers. With the exception of the Carrarese, all the mounted knights had fled the field. Of the remaining foot soldiers, many were wounded. But the real surprise came from the number captured. Over a thousand men-at-arms had surrendered themselves to a band of just eighty men.

A modern Caesar, Cangrande was famous for his clemency towards captured foes, and today he was true to form. Returning to the northern edge of Quartesolo, he welcomed captured Paduan nobles as old friends. The poet Albertino Mussato had been discovered in the moat bearing no fewer than eleven wounds, the worst being a cracked skull and a broken leg. His wrist, too, hung at an ugly angle. It was a miracle he'd survived. Trampled by his own side, he'd flung himself headlong into the foul water of the moat. Addressing him, Cangrande commended his valour. In great pain, lying on a makeshift stretcher, the poet-historian was as gracious as the situation allowed.

Sitting awkwardly and wrapping his leg using strips torn from a dead man's shirt, Pietro observed this exchange. He had already presented his prisoners to the Scaliger. Cangrande had used his own belt to cinch Pietro's leg just above his wound. Fortunately the broken wooden shaft protruding through both sides of his thigh prevented too much bleeding, but it hurt like the devil. Sure that the Paduans were in good hands, Pietro hauled himself onto a stray horse and went to find his friends, carrying his skewered helmet with him.

Behind him Cangrande was particularly flamboyant in his praise of the two Carraras. "That was a feat without equal, attempting to stop an army in full retreat."

Il Grande inclined his head. "It was quite a feat to put fear into the hearts of over ten thousand men."

"Still, you two deserved to win, purely for heart!"

Marsilio snarled. "That won't stop that little shit from collecting my ransom, will it?"

Cangrande gazed back at him, amused. "You'd rather Pietro had killed you?"

"Is that his name?"

"Pietro Alaghieri of Florence, recently arrived from Paris, via Pisa and Lucca."

"To our detriment," observed Il Grande. "Dante's son?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Genius must run in the family. As I told my nephew, a brave lad."

Marsilio opened his mouth, but his uncle stepped on his foot. Instead of the intended insult, the youth found himself saying, "Your army isn't here, is it?"

"Sadly, no. By this time, my army is probably just exiting the gates of Verona."

"So you won by luck."

"I suppose so!" replied the Scaliger brightly.

"Not by brilliant generalship," pressed the Paduan.

"Never underestimate the power of luck," said Il Grande.

Cangrande smiled at the young Carrara. "Of course, when you know the extent of my trickery, you will be furious."

"What's that?" But he was already talking to the Capitano's back. Someone had run up to Cangrande carrying a large breastplate decorated with azure. Etched in acid were two stars in opposition, one high and left, one low and right. He whispered softly in the Capitano's ear. Cangrande examined the armour, chuckled once, then looked at Il Grande. "You know to whom this belongs."

"I do."

"A shame he's fled my hospitality."

"His loss, I'm sure."

"You're too kind." Cangrande handed the armour back to the soldier and issued instructions. "Take three men and return to where you found this, then trace the most direct path to Padua from there. If you haven't found him in an hour, turn back. Don't go past Camisano. Go." The man bowed and went, leaving Cangrande wearing an expression of delight on his lips. The Count of San Bonifacio's life was going to be more difficult for his flight, not less.

Leaving the Carrarese in the hands of some knights with explicit instructions to take them into the city and see to their comfort, the Scaliger made his way to where Antonio Nogarola had fallen. Nogarola was awake, screaming bloody murder at the men who insisted he return to the city.

"I'm fine, damn you!" he cried, staunching the flow of blood from his shoulder with a dead man's tabard. He kicked at one of his servants who had come to the battlefield to tend the wounded. "Go help someone else, I don't need you! I'll be in when I'm good and ready!"

"You always were a baby when you were sick." Cangrande stooped over Nogarola's shoulder and lifted the bloody cloth away from the wound. "It's not good. Can you move the arm?"

Nogarola grunted. "Some."

Cangrande replaced the cloth around the crossbow bolt. "I'll handle the mopping up. You go back and have that looked at." After a friendly pat on the older man's good arm, he was off.

With anyone else, Nogarola would have protested vehemently. Instead he meekly stood upright and followed his servants into the city.

Not far off Pietro discovered his friends. Antony was sitting upright with his head in his hands, while Mariotto was semiprone on his back, using his elbows to prop himself up.

"Christ," cried Mariotto when he saw Pietro's leg.

"It's not so bad," said Pietro.

"He wins," said Antony with an envious look.

Pietro's leg collapsed beneath him when he dismounted, but he managed not to cry out. He knelt awkwardly beside Antony and Mariotto. He held up the helmet with the crossbow bolt sticking out both ends. "Look at this!"

Antony had to laugh. "What are you, a target?"

They let him tell his story. He tried not to embellish it, but still they found it hard to believe he'd lived through the charge. When he was done they related their own adventures, each interupting the other frequently.

"So the same one who took a shot at your head let one fly at Mari here — "

"There was no crossbow aimed at me," interrupted Mariotto. "You're just a clumsy oaf in the saddle and can't own up to it!"

"Oh, there was a crossbow, all right!" shot back Antony. "What there wasn't was some mysterious spear-wielding horseman!"

"How did I get this?" asked Mariotto, sitting up and pointing to his wound. He winced at once and settled back on his elbows.

"How should I know? Maybe you got caught on a thistle, oh delicate flower!" They made rude gestures at each other, then Antony continued. "You're right about one thing, though. I fell. I didn't leap to save you. If I'd had my way, that bolt would have split your head like a melon!" He raised his voice on the last word, then rolled his eyes backward and groaned, head ringing. Pietro and Mariotto were overcome by a fit of giggling. Antony shot them a sour look that made them laugh all the harder.