The Master of Verona

Recalling the fierce joy Mastino showed on the battlefield, the Count shivered. Almost four decades later he could hear the bastard's laugh. It was a trait Mastino's nephew shared. Laughing in the face of the impossible. Of all the Pup's danger on the battlefield, worst was his unpredictability.

That had always frightened the Count. Until he realized all one had to do to win was offer the fool an impossible chance.

Vanni Scorigiani appeared. Known as Asdente, the Toothless Master, he'd earned his nickname the previous year at Illasi by taking a sword in the mouth and living to boast about it. A mere look from the scowling, twisted face could make a hardened knight blench.

Now his horrible countenance was grinning. "Well, that's a mess, isn't it?" Completely unfazed by the carnage around them, Vanni's disfigured grin looked like the rictus of a corpse. Blood soaked his left arm up to the elbow. "I do so love Dutch soldiers!" he chuckled.

"And they love you," replied the Count ironically, passing Asdente a wineskin.

"Can't you stop them?" asked the Podestà desperately.

Asdente drank, then patted Ponzino familiarly on the arm. "Don't worry. They're good boys. In another hour they'll be tired and ashamed and back here for orders. Then we'll take that damn gate." He gave a snort of disgusted respect. "Have to admit, firing the houses — didn't think Nogarola had it in him."

"He learned from the Pup," said the Count.

"He never plunders," said Ponzino.

San Bonifacio was silently scornful. Ponzoni didn't seem to realize that plunder was the reason most men-at-arms went to war. There was little talk of the 'just cause' among the common foot soldiers, or even among the knights. A soldier signed on with a troop for wealth and to vent his spleen on the world.

Asdente shrugged. "It's just pragmatism. Nogarola has to fight. He's fixed himself too firmly to Cangrande's star to do anything but!"

Pretending to cuff at a bead of sweat, Ponzino surreptitiously blinked back the dampness in his eyes. "Do you think the citizens will ever forgive us? After they welcomed us in the way they did, to be so betrayed?"

Asdente looked at the Podestà in shock. "Who cares?"

The Count changed the subject. "Do you think a rider got off?"

Asdente nodded happily. "We saw one heading west just as the fires were starting." He washed out his mouth from the wineskin and spat, a difficult exercise without front teeth. Sometimes, as now, he forgot, and grinned abashedly as crimson spittle ran down his chin. "A child. Some of my boys tried to catch him, but I called them off."

"Why?" demanded the Podestà, aghast. "The longer Cangrande is unaware, the better our chances!"

Vanni Scorigiani looked at the ground, feigning embarassment. "Aw, well, my lord — you don't know the Greyhound as I do. No doubt he's brave, but he's reckless. Foolhardy. Thinks he's indestructible. He'll likely set out rapidly and poorly prepared." Asdente's twisted smile reached his eyes. "We'll make mincemeat out of him."

Ponzino goggled at Vanni, whose tone was unmistakable. If Cangrande arrived, they wouldn't take him prisoner, as the rules of chivalry dictated. They would kill him outright. Murder? How much honour was he going to lose this day?

The Count saw the struggle in the young general. "It's the sensible course."

The Podestà wiped his brow again. "Vanni, get down there and calm this mob. I want the women protected and the men-at-arms rounded up and ready for the siege."

"I'll try," said Asdente. The Count of San Bonifacio had no doubt he would. It was an excellent excuse to crack a few skulls. "But this kind of rage has to burn itself out."

"Do it now or I'll feed you to the Greyhound myself."

Vanni smirked. "Now, that's downright unchivalrous." He spurred off.

Together the Count and the Podestà turned their mounts back to watch the rape and slaughter of San Pietro. The first hint of clouds began moving in from the east. Vinciguerra sniffed the air. Tomorrow it would rain, perhaps the next day.

Ponzino is doubtless wishing for rain this very second, thought the Count in disgust. It would hide his tears.

Verona

"Alighieri! Holla! Alighieri!!"

Weaving in and out of the midday crowd, Pietro turned at the hail and was at once knocked to the ground. He felt the trod of feet and a buffet of absentminded blows before a hand caught him by the shoulder. "Alighieri!"

"Alaghieri." Dazed, Pietro staggered to his feet, brushing dirt and filth from his best doublet. He turned about to behold a face no older than his own, with hair black as jet and eyes as blue as sparrow's eggs. The doublet bordered on frippery, but the hose, boots, and hat were of the finest quality. He was closely shaved, as if to show off a mouth a trifle too pretty.

"Are you all right?" asked the handsome young man.