The Master of Verona

Pietro's main concern was the signal to Uguccione's troops. Bailardino told him, "Cangrande said we should ring the bells of the Duomo. It's close to where the fighting will be, and the Paduans will think it's an alarum, not a signal."

"But if it's that close to the fighting, won't we be in danger of being cut off from it? If that happens, how do we give the signal?"

"Won't happen," insisted Bail. "I'll station ten men inside and a dozen more to move in once the fighting starts. That bell tower will be the best-guarded building in the city."

"How will they know when to give the signal?"

"I'll ride over and tell them myself."

Pietro glanced at Katerina. "Are you sure the people at the palace will be safe? Wouldn't you rather get Donna Nogarola and the children out of the city for the day?"

"Of course he would," said Katerina before her husband could respond. "But I would not leave without shackles, a gag, and a blindfold." She ignored Bail's ribald response. "This is my home. No one will force me to leave it. Besides, the Paduans doubtless have spies in the city. Any one would give us away. No, our preparations seem adequate."

Katerina departed soon thereafter. Pietro, Morsicato, and Bail stayed up for a while playing at dice. Morsicato lost badly, and promised to pay up if he survived the next day.

Sometime before midnight Pietro returned to his room. Fazio was asleep on his pallet by the door, though he woke hazily to ask if Pietro needed anything. "No, go back to sleep."

Pietro stripped and climbed beneath the covers of his own fine bed. The combination of wine and fatigue washed away the fears of what tomorrow might bring. It was a hot night, and he decided to sleep without coverlet. After a quick but devout prayer, he fell almost instantly asleep.

Pietro was scrambling down a rocky slope towards a river. It was like the shores of the Adige, but past landslides had left giant stones lining the water's edge. There was a ferocious black hound by Pietro's legs. Together they ran from something terrible that bellowed behind them, hurling stones at their heads. Only if they crossed the river would they be safe.

A battle was being fought by the river's far edge. Centaurs lined up two at a time. They did not fight with bow and arrow, as centaurs should. They were using strange curved swords that flashed and danced through the air in unceasing arcs. Blood showered the air. As soon as one centaur was slain, another would step forward to take his place in an unending procession. Beyond the centaurs naked men writhed and danced in the river, some up to their ankles, others only visible by the tops of their heads.

This was not the Adige. It was blood red and on fire. A burning river of blood.

The scene altered, the way dreams shift of a sudden. They were still above the fray, the battle raging on below them, the river flowing on. But Pietro no longer stood on the detritus of the earthslides. He was on the Scaliger's balcony in the Arena.

The dog beside him had turned into a young man. Without turning to his companion Pietro said, "We're safe now."

Speaking had been a mistake. The centaurs all paused midstroke, their heads turning to look up. One cried out, "A qual martiro venite voi che scendete la costa? Ditel costinci!" Another pointed to Pietro and shouted, "Siete voi accorti che quel di retro move ciò ch'el tocca? Così non soglion far li piè d'i morti!" There was an ugly growl from the centaurs. Even the bloody corpses on the Arena floor turned their heads.

Pietro's companion held up his hands to forestall the impending violence. "It is true. He is not dead! I am his guide here, at the request of la Donna Katerina."

Pietro suddenly knew he was dreaming, because he knew this scene. It was from his father's poem. He relaxed, knowing how this scene was supposed to play out. He would climb onto the back of one of the centaurs and ride across the river.

But his companion was not Virgil. Turning, he saw Cesco gazing disdainfully back at him. The boy's hair was no longer blond but brown, worn so long it hung well past his neck. He was also taller, thinner, more muscled. But the eyes were the same unearthly green. "Who were you expecting?"

Pietro gazed at the face that was level with his own. "A god. Or a poet."

"Granted in both!" Cesco grinned, showing long canine teeth that were very unlike those of Cangrande. A ring dangled on a chain from his neck.

Suddenly Cesco faced the centaurs and, with a shrill cry, leapt off the balcony. Snatching up a fallen sword, he laid about him right and left. All the idle centaurs leapt forward, determined to kill the youth who ran like lightning through their ranks. Fighting with spinning strokes Pietro had never seen, Cesco cut a swath to the river. At its edge he turned. "Are you coming?"

"Mercurio!" called Pietro, looking for his hound. "Mercurio!"