The Master of Verona

Pietro laughed. "Caesar!"

"Oh, him," said Fazio dismissively. From a smallish boy he had grown into a wiry fourteen year-old. He rarely had much squiring to do. To Pietro's dismay, he'd taken to throwing dice in his spare hours.

"What, not impressed?"

"He's got nothing on Cangrande."

Pietro chuckled, shaking his head. But the act of crossing the Rubicon was a legal question that fascinated Pietro. It was almost this exact spot that Caesar left legality behind to claim his due. That act brought about an empire — the rule of one over the rule of many, the way God intended. But how can a man who puts himself above the law then claim to defend it?

On the far side of the river Mercurio darted out of some bushes and made for his master. In a moment both Pietro and Fazio were sprayed with water as the hound shook himself dry. Fazio shouted, "Dammit, Mercurio!"

The hound was already stalking a woodchuck in the bushes. Ravenna had agreed with Mercurio. The dog had grown into a fine-looking hunter, also becoming a father last winter with some neighbourhood bitch. Pietro had adopted the whole litter, though being mixed they wouldn't have the promise of Cangrande's purebreds.

Ravenna had agreed with Pietro, too. A fine coastal town close to both Polenta and Bologna, too near to Venice to be a great sea power, it was a quiet city. Sleepy. Pietro liked it. And he'd become a welcome member of the community. His duties didn't demand much time, consisting mostly of riding from farm to farm, knocking on doors, sharing a glass of wine, and taking the tribute due the Church. He'd been given command of twenty men in case of local strife or trouble collecting dues, but so far he'd never needed to call them up. But, based on Cangrande's hint, he'd kept them training even when he was away. As a result they were in better fighting shape than he was.

His readiness for battle was always near the forefront of his thoughts. He thought that Cangrande might call him up for the war in Cremona. The Scaliger and Passerino Bonaccolsi were currently besieging Brescia on the far side of the Lago di Garda. Verona itself was being guarded by Dante's former patron, Uguccione della Faggiuola. The Pisan lord, now exiled, was one of Pietro's many correspondents.

As was Donna Katerina. She kept Pietro informed on a variety of subjects, but her main topic was the boy. Just past his third birthday now, his volatile nature was keeping the entire palace staff on their toes. Each day she could see the wheels of his mind turning on some new project or plot or quest. Brilliant but dangerous was the general consensus. Katerina's pride shone in every inked word.

Smiling up into the warming sun, Pietro whistled Mercurio back. Remounting, he tapped Canis with a booted toe. It was a lovely day, and Pietro was in no hurry. In three or four hours he would arrive at his house on the outskirts of the city. He could spend the afternoon in the shade of his loggia reading scraps of parchment, looking down on his neighbour's vineyard. The local wine wasn't bad. Pietro could open a bottle when he got home, perhaps even read the new pages his father had sent him. Purgatorio was reaching a conclusion.

Yes, he knew he could do these things, but that he probably wouldn't. Instead he would heft his sword and spend the latter part of the day imitating a real soldier, working the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and hips. Fazio would happily partner him and waste no time in showing how fast he could move.

Pietro's eyes had taken in the mounted figure in the road before his mind had registered it. It took Fazio's saying, "There's someone in the road," to make Pietro straighten in his saddle.

"Stay close, and keep an eye behind us. But don't be obvious about it." Pietro's fear wasn't so much the man in the road as the possibility of a dozen men behind them. A man who took in taxes for the church was a ripe plum for highwaymen, and there were a lot of unemployed soldiers in the world who had to make a living somehow.

The figure was remarkably still, and remarkably odd. Tall, he was dressed in loose robes, and had what looked like a cloth helmet on his head. Then Pietro took in the man's skin colour and the shape of the sword at his side and kicked his horse into a faster trot. "Where the devil have you been!?" he demanded, a grin stretching his face.

"In hiding," said the Moor baldly. "You got my warning?"

"I did," said Pietro, sobering at once. "Ignazzio's dead?"

"He is." The Moor turned his horse around to the direction Pietro had been traveling. "I have news, and orders. Come, we can talk as we ride."

"You'll come home with me," said Pietro, half question, half offer.