The Master of Verona

The hardest part of leaving the palace was convincing Mercurio to stay behind. The hound sensed something was afoot, but he was a hunter, not a war dog. Eventually they were forced to lock him in a side chamber without windows.

When Pietro, Morsicato, and Fazio emerged from a side entrance to the palace, the sky was still dark. So when a shadow beside the door moved every man drew his sword. "Who's there?" demanded Pietro in a whisper.

He was answered by a rasping voice scraped from a friendly throat. "The Arūs."

Pietro lowered his blade as the Moor stepped close. He was dressed in some kind of eastern battle gear, lighter and quieter than theirs. Pietro sheathed his sword and took the hand the Moor offered him. "I hope you brought that falchion of yours."

"Don't be nervous, Ser Alaghieri. You will not die today."

Pietro let out a short laugh, half hope and half disbelief. "My stars said that?"

"They did."

"What about me?" demanded Morsicato.

The Moor looked at the face under the nondescript armour. "Is that the doctor's beard I see? My apologies, ser dottore, but I did not consult the heavens for you."

"Marvelous," muttered the medical man.

As they resumed walking, Pietro apologized for drawing his sword. "I'm a little jumpy today. I had this dream last night…"

Theodoro's brow furrowed. "Tell me."

"Oh, it was nonsense." Yet Pietro took time describing it.

The Moor was quiet for a moment, then said, "That's from your father's poem. The descent among the violent."

Pietro noted the Moor's grasp of Dante's work. But he was feeling foolish for even mentioning it. "It was nothing."

"You recall the proverb regarding early morning dreams?"

Pietro did. They were the ones that most often came true.

The Moor was pensive. "Perhaps I should not go with you."

Morsicato said, "Afraid? Do your stars say you won't die today?"

The Moor looked at the doctor with a level gaze. "The dream indicates danger to the boy."

Fazio piped up. "You should stay with Ser Alaghieri. What if he needs you?"

"I'll be fine." Pietro wondered if his voice carried any conviction. The truth was that he liked the idea of that wicked falchion covering his back.

The Moor said, "Someone needs to look after Cesco. Just to be certain he's safe."

Fazio puffed out his chest. "Why not me? You won't let me fight, but I'm fourteen. I'll be a man next year. I can watch over him."

"That might answer," allowed the Moor.

Pietro considered. "Very well. Take Mercurio, Cesco likes him."

Fazio saluted. "I won't let the boy out of my sight!" He rapped on the door and was readmitted by a Nogarola servant.

"A good solution," said Morsicato. "Keeps him busy."

"I hope so." Pietro led the way to the stables that housed his soldiers, all soundly asleep. Someone groaned, "What time is it?"

"What's the matter?" asked a veteran, snapping awake at the sight of Pietro in full armour.

Pietro cleared his throat. "Today, we have — that is to say — ah…"

Morsicato stepped forward into the light of the single taper. "There's a plot to take the city. Word has reached the Podestà this morning that the Paduans are planning an attack." He glanced at Pietro, who added, "I've offered our services to defend the city. So, ah, arm yourselves. Quickly."

They were already moving, throwing open their packs. Even the least experienced ones worked with a minimum of fuss, helping each other with chain mail and gauntlets, swords and pikes.

Pietro spent a few moments stroking his palfrey's long head. "Sorry, but today's work is for Pompey." He used a small stool to clamber onto his destrier

's back. "Is everyone ready?"

"Yes!" The son of Pietro's neighbour was anxious for his first battle.

The Moor stepped into the light. "Don't be too eager."

"Who the devil is that?"

"A heathen!" All the men wheeled about to draw weapons.

Pietro put his horse between them and the Moor. "He's with us!"

One veteran looked horrified. "You want us to fight side by side with a back-stabbing Moor?"

"As long as he's beside you he can't stab you in the back, can he?" countered Pietro. "Look, there's no time. You trusted me with your lives. I trust him with mine. That should be enough. Now let's get moving."

At that moment the enemy was scaling Vicenza's walls. Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, led his small army of mercenaries and exiles up the battlements of San Pietro, repeating the action he'd taken three years earlier. Reaching the top, the Count's men quickly secured the turrets and made their way to the guardhouse. The guards put up no resistance, moving aside to allow the invaders access to the gates. The Count looked about him in delight. Whatever today brings, within a month the Scaliger will be no more.