The Master of Verona

"I have twenty-three men in the militia. Is that enough?"

"Make it thirty."

"Well, my neighbour has a son who's been itching to carry a sword. But what am I supposed to do when the attack starts?"

"For Cangrande to have his legal pretext for war, the gates of Vicenza must be breached. The Paduans must get inside the walls. That's when Uguccione will attack."

"If I'm letting them in," asked Pietro, "what's to stop them from slaughtering me where I stand?"

"Ah, that's the clever part." The Moor related his reason for smiling.

Pietro couldn't resist returning the grin even as sweat started to run down his back. "Where will Cangrande be?"

"He needs to be seen far away, otherwise the Paduans won't attack. He's leaving this to Uguccione."

Though it worried him, Pietro saw the wisdom of this. "When should I leave?"

The rest of the planning followed. Pietro's band would depart two days hence, giving their destination as France. Long before they passed Padua, Pietro would loudly declare his intention to visit his friends, Lord and Signora Nogarola. The party would shift its track and head for Vicenza. As long as they were within the walls by sunset on the twenty-first, all would be well.

"You may see a familiar face in Vicenza," added the Moor. "Another of Verona's exiles is returning. The Capitano has recalled Montecchio."

"Really? Well, it makes sense. Mari's sister is getting married, and I know Mari was asking permission to attend."

"He's done well in Avignon. He kept the Scaliger from being excommunicated through charm alone. But even charm runs out. Cangrande needs a man with more influence, probably with a title. He means to ask Bailardino."

"I don't think Bailardino would want to go," said Pietro. "Rumour is he's enjoying fatherhood too much." Besides, he didn't add, Donna Katerina is pregnant again.

The Moor kept Pietro's thoughts on topic by asking, "Are you and Mariotto friends?"

Pietro sighed. "Yes, I think we are. We write, at least. His first letters pleaded for my forgiveness. I don't know… I gave it, but without my blessing. And pretty soon everything was back to normal."

"And his feelings towards Capulletto?"

"Hmm! Two years, and every letter he writes still laments that Antony refuses to answer his letters. I can recite you the form his letter will take. A greeting, a vow of friendship, a curse on Antony's stubbornness, then a page or two praising Gianozza to the stars. Then there will be a little court news that he thinks will interest me. Like some young Italian fellow he's met in Avignon who shows promise as a poet. The boy's father is a tyrant, but the boy writes in secret. Petrarca, the family is called. His family knows mine — Mari would be better off writing to my sister. She knows far more about poetry than I ever will." Pietro gave the Moor an amused glance. "Have you heard? Antonia has made the unlikeliest of friends — Mari's wife, Gianozza. Both share a love of poetry, and it's brought them together. So I get yet another letter talking about the bitch — excuse me, about Gianozza. My sister, Mari, and Antony."

"Capulletto writes of her?"

"Of her and little else! His letters follow the same form as Mari's — praise, oath of loyalty, a rant against Mariotto, and page after page about Gianozza. He saw her in the street, he heard about her from someone, do I think she regrets her action. I hope Mari's return will end this one way or another." A sparrow crossed the road in front of them, and the dog ran ahead to bark at it. Pietro said, "What about the Scaligeri seal? Have you discovered who…?"

"No. I have been focused on the Count."

"Oh." Pietro watched the bird torment the hound by swooping low, then up out of reach. "I haven't either. Cangrande wrote and said there were only two men who had access to the seal, as far as he knew. He was one. His butler was the other. He sent the butler away, gave him to Uguccione to serve. But I don't think he really believes it was him."

"No. If he did, the butler would be dead." The Moor frowned a little. "I have traced the medallion, though."

"What?"

"The scarecrow's medallion, the one that was stolen back from Ignazzio the night he was murdered. That trinket, or one very like it, was sent nearly twenty years ago by a Scotsman called Wallace to an Italian as a token of thanks. The Italian had sent this Wallace arms and a few knights to help train his men."

"And the Italian was..?"

"Alberto della Scala. Cangrande's father."

Pietro's head reared back as if he'd been struck in the face. "What? But…what the hell does that…?"

"I don't know what it means. Cangrande claims he has never seen the medallion in his lifetime. But the object obviously has a great deal of meaning for its owner. While we were tracing him, he was hunting for us, waiting for a chance to steal it back."

"So it's more important than we thought."

"Evidently so."