The Master of Verona

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.

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."