The Master of Verona

Daubing his face with a handkerchief, the Count shook his head. "Nothing until they've spent themselves. If we try to stop them now, we'll get a spear in the back and be robbed of our armour."

The day had not gone well for the Podestà of Padua. So auspiciously begun, it had turned into a waking nightmare. Too intellectual, judged the Count. Too devoted to the damn Chivalric Code.

But then Ponzino was a disappointment in every regard. He'd wasted the summer campaigning months, insisting upon avoiding confrontation, concentrating instead on razing Verona's lands. Against a different foe it might have worked, but Ponzoni hadn't comprehended the vast resources at his opponent's fingertips. In the last four years the enemy had taken prime acreage to the north, south, and west. All that remained was the east — and Padua was the key to the east. The city elders had forced Ponzino to attack, raid, do something! So the Podestà turned to the Count. Vinciguerra's answer was this stealth invasion of Vicenza, meant to be Padua's salvation.

Not that the fate of Padua concerned the Count of San Bonifacio. He couldn't have cared less about Paduans or their thrice-damned patavinitas, the exclusively Paduan code of honour that seemed to rule every waking moment in their benighted city. The Count was a foreigner, a guest, an advisor, an observer. Unwelcome, but necessary.

The attack had started well. The army had arrived unobserved, silencing the guards at Quartesolo and skulking the four miles from there to the target. The strategy was to infiltrate the outer suburb called San Pietro. Like most city-states, Vicenza was a series of walled rings, with more walls between, like the spokes on a wheel. The outermost circles were the suburbs. Here dwelt the poorer classes, and here the less essential commodities were stored. The next set of walls enclosed the city itself.

The Count himself led the first foray, scaling the walls, cutting down the guards in the tower, and opening the gates. Revealing himself to the peasants, he had been cheered. He wondered if they genuinely adored him or if they were simply in fear for their lives. Not that it mattered. He had taken San Pietro, the key to Vicenza.

Up to that point, everything had gone according to plan. The presence of the Count of San Bonifacio precluded the need to slaughter the innocents, something the squeamish Podestà quailed at. Ponzino had led his army through the suburb towards the next ring of walls — only to discover himself surrounded by flame.

That had been the first crack in Ponzino's armour. Though in fairness even the Count found the deliberate burning of part of the city surprising. Fire was one of the threats most feared in any metropolis, especially one more than half made of wood. Who would have thought Nogarola would be willing to risk the loss of the whole city rather than cede to Padua?

Undeniably a setback, the fire was not fatal to their plans. If handled properly. But it took Ponzino too long to gather his wits. He'd wandered fecklessly, failing to call the Paduan leaders together and form a new strategy. It was the Count who convinced him to order the army back just outside the city wall, leaving a breach in it to renew the attack when the fires died.

The army disobeyed. After four years of meaningless battles and a shortage of food, they were loath to relinquish a foothold in Vicenza. When the order to withdraw was given, the men revolted. They began to torch the parts of the suburb not yet ablaze. They plundered, robbing the inhabitants. The Count had been with Ponzino when they'd come across a dozen Paduans — not even foreign auxiliaries! — sacking a convent and violating the nuns there. Together they had put the rapists to the sword, but what could be done about the rest? The Podestà rode glumly out through the city gates and waited for his men's rage and bloodlust to die down, his hopes for glory crumbling around his ears.

The Count of San Bonifacio could not have cared less for the plight of the citizenry — after all, they had supported the Pup. What he deplored was the wasted time. They could not let Verona marshall its forces.

The family of San Bonifacio had been fighting the Scaligeri since before Mastino the First came to power. As a young man the Count himself had seen that first Scaliger leader of Verona. He remembered the dark brown hair and sharp features, and the massive Houndshelm, a war helmet with a snarling hound atop the head. He also remembered the Mastiff's eyes — light green with the dark ring about them. Otherworldly, as if the man had trekked through all the fields of Hell and seen all the unthinkable horrors there. Vinciguerra blessed the day his father, working through Paduan tools, had had the bastard killed.