The Master of Verona

Benedick looked at the Count with distaste, then ran off to join the battle. "Poor fool," muttered the Count. Despite the danger he was in, he began to laugh. Everything was going according to plan. The Scaliger had indeed gotten word and set a trap for the Paduans. Vinciguerra was actually glad. If Cangrande came through this battle alive, he would find it a most bitter victory.

Katerina released the bell rope and stepped back, nodding to her servants to do the same. "That's enough." She was dressed in men's riding breeches and a shirt and doublet, her long hair hidden under a cap. She was no stranger to male garb, having adopted it often enough in her youth. Today it assured she would not be singled out while running through the streets. A woman in such a crush could easily become a hostage, or worse.

Knowing the plan as well as any of the commanders, she'd recognized when things went awry. The fighting sounded too desperate, her husband too busy fighting to spare even the ten men it took to ring the alarum bell. So, leaving Cesco and little Bailardetto in the care of their nurse and Pietro's groom, she'd run to give the signal to the waiting army herself. It took all her servants' strength to pull the bells, with her own weight added to it. Now she looked at the cuts the rope had burned into her hands and cursed her brother.

Francesco, where are you? Why are you not here, protecting your city, your heir.

Like a wraith, she imagined his reply. If I wanted him safe, why leave him with you? You, who have left him alone.

Hands beginning to shake, Katerina was filled with an indescribable premonition. "Quickly," she commanded, "back to the palace."

Thirty-Four

Pietro's men barely finished overturning a wagon across the mouth of the alley when the Paduans launched an assault. As Cangrande had predicted, they were focusing not on driving Bailardino's forces back but on circumventing them entirely. Just as the Persians had found the goat trails above the cliffs of Thermopylae, so too did the Paduans discover the alleys, all blocked by small forces like Pietro's, all under heavy attack.

Filled with straw and nightsoil, the upturned wagon wasn't enough to hold back the soldiers who pressed forward, hoping to capture the glory of victory by beating down these paltry few defenders. Pietro ignored the growing ache in his bad leg as he stood in the gap between the wagon and the wall beating aside blade after blade. His horse was at the far end of the alley for a hasty retreat, but he hoped he wouldn't need it.

Behind him the Moor swung a captured halberd like a demon's axe. On the wagon's far end, Morsicato was swearing like the devil. The rest of Pietro's men were singing again, much feebler now that their numbers were reduced. The attacking Paduans trampled their wounded and their dead in their desire to break free from the yard and wreak havoc on the city at large.

Half-blind from the smoke, Pietro swung and blocked and beat weapons aside. Someone pitched a torch into their midst. It bounced off Pietro's borrowed armour, sending a flutter of sparks up to singe his face. He winced, then saw an opportunity. As he pulled back from a stab he kicked the stick of burning pitch into the overturned wagon. At once he tasted the gratifying stench of burning straw. In another minute the wagon in the alley's mouth was ablaze and Pietro's men could step back and recover their breath. A few mounted Paduans tried to jump the flaming hurdle only to be skewered on spears or the Moor's halberd, their bodies becoming additional barriers in the blaze.

A skin of wine appeared from somewhere. Pietro sloshed the liquid around in his mouth, spitting away the distasteful remains, then swallowed a few gulps before handing the bag off to the next man. One of Pietro's men was wiping some blood from the Moor's eye. Pietro turned to Morsicato. "How are we?"

"We're holding, but they're going break through somewhere. They have to."

"I heard the bells," said Pietro hopefully. The exhausted doctor just nodded.

The Moor was staring at the sky. "It's going to rain. Good."

The doctor stared at him in horror. "That's good?"

"Of course." The Moor grinned. "It will help the drought."

Morsicato goggled. Pietro's men started hooting. Apparently the heathen Moor had earned their trust. Pietro murmured, "Tharwat. Not Theodoro. Yes?"

The Moor nodded. "You will become used to it."

"Tharwat al-Dhaamin, secret astrologer to princes and kings. I just thought I'd like to call you by your right name…" Pietro's voice trailed away and he looked in the direction of the battle. Before I die.

Again, the Moor seemed able to read his thoughts. "You won't die today, Ser Alaghieri."

Pietro laughed. "I take that as a binding promise. So tell me, what does Arūs mean?"