The Master of Verona

"'Twill serve!" shouted the warrior-child, laughing aloud as he killed one centaur after another. "Si Dieu ne me veut ayder, le Diable ne me peut manquer!"

Pietro noticed that the boy was fighting one-handed. His left hand clutched a white cloth to his chest. The white cloth was turning red…

Pietro jerked awake. He was bathed in sweat, could smell the fear on his body.

"Master?" said Fazio from across the dark room, "Are you hurt? I heard a cry."

"It was n-nothing." Hands fumbling for a blanket, Pietro's teeth were chattering in spite of the heat. "Ah, a b-bad dream, nothing more. Don't — don't worry. Go back to sleep."

Pietro waited until he heard Fazio's breath ease once more. Then Pietro swung his feet to the tiled floor and sat, his head in his hands.

Nerves, that's all. I'm afraid for the battle tomorrow — today, probably. I'm not an oracle or a prophet, my dreams don't come true.

But the truth was he'd had a dream like this one before. Three years before, the very day he was wounded, he'd lain in a room in this very palace and dreamt almost the same dream. It was only now that it came back to him. Was it some kind of portent?

It's a sign, all right. It's a sign I've read father's poem too many times. L'Inferno has eaten into my brain. This has nothing to do with tomorrow.

Still, as he laid his head to rest once more he recalled the dream Cesco's final words: If God won't help me, the devil won't fail me. An apt phrase for the coming dawn.

Thirty-Two

Vicenza

22 May 1317

Feeling unrested, Pietro awoke to a light tapping on the door to his suite. Fazio was up quick as a snake to answer it. Outside were Morsicato and Bailardino, with a few servants behind them. The doctor was wearing armour. Pietro stood and shook his head clear. Pulling on his breeches he said, "What time is it?"

"About two hours before dawn," said Bailardino. "Time to armour up and gather your men."

Fazio made for the chest that contained Pietro's armour, but Pietro stopped him. "Not today." He pointed to the servants bringing in another chest. As they lit the tapers about the room, Bail threw back the lid of the trunk, revealing another set of armour, much more worn than Pietro's. The helmet sat on top, a peaked dome with gilded metal rings providing the protection for ears and neck. Underneath it lay the breastplate. This was both gilded and plated in sliver, the two shimmering colours acid-etched into fantastic flowery swirls. At the center were two stars in opposition. For some reason, Pietro found this troubling.

"Gaudy, isn't it?" Bail was grinning at Pietro's expression. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to swallow your pride and wear the awful thing for at least a few hours."

Pietro slipped a shirt over his head. "It's not that. How am I going to fit it? He must be built like a wall!"

Bail snapped his fingers and the servants began strapping padding to Pietro's midsection. "Oh, this is good," he groaned.

"Don't knock it," said Morsicato from the door. "Many knights would kill for extra protection."

"Most knights would get killed in extra protection," retorted Pietro.

The breastplate was put in place, then the codpiece, followed by the arm and leg greaves. As he helped Pietro fit on the gloves, Fazio asked, "Whose armour is this?"

Bailardino chuckled. "It's the armour abandoned by Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio when he fled Vicenza three years ago. The Scaliger's been saving it for just such an occasion. When the invaders get to the gates they'll see a friendly face beckoning them in. Everything will be as inviting as possible."

Fazio nodded thoughtfully, then asked Pietro, "But why give it to you, ser?"

Pietro patted his leg. "Because the Count and I share a limp. We both list a little in the saddle. It will make the disguise that much more effective."

Fazio looked into the empty trunk. "Is there armour for me?"

"No," said Pietro. "No, don't argue. You're staying at the palace. I don't want to have to explain your death to the Scaliger's wife. Now help me get down the stairs."

Bail wished him good luck, then did the same for the doctor — it had been decided the night before that Morsicato would join Pietro's band of soldiers. Bail wished he could as well, but Katerina had pointed out that the Paduans were sure to have spies in and around the palace. If he were to disappear moments before a 'surprise' attack, the whole thing might fall apart.