The Master of Verona

Pompey took a step, pulling Pietro with him. His right leg was still in its stirrup, dragging it behind his steed. He sliced the strap with his sword, freeing himself just as a spearpoint angled in for his head. He rolled and the spear struck the road, sending up sparks and chips of stone. He tried to stand but his poor leg sent him back down to his knees. He looked the spearman in the face and was surprised recognize the mounted knight. They'd had dinner once, talked about plays and stars. The man was missing most of his teeth. "Asdente."

Recognition showed on Vanni Scorigiani's face, too. He laughed as he saw Pietro's naked head coming out of San Bonifacio's huge armour. "Alaghieri! Good ploy! Carrara will hate you even more!" The Toothless Master pressed his lips together. "No prisoners!"

Pietro nodded. "Tell my father I died well."

"I will," said Asdente, not without kindness, even as he drew back the spear.

The ground began shaking and thunder rumbled in Pietro's ears. Vanni's eyes flicked up, fixing on something far down the street at Pietro's back. The spearpoint lingered for a moment, hovering in the air.

Instinct roaring at him to roll away and live, Pietro turned instead to see what had frightened the Paduan warrior.

A charge of Verona's knights was coming at them. In the front ranks were familiar faces — Uguccione della Faggiuola, age vanished in the joy of battle; Nico da Lozzo, grinning all over his face; Morsicato, grim and ruddy-faced, his forked beard soaked in blood; a bearded knight Pietro recognized as the man with the mad wife. The knight was currently looking a little mad himself. And something Pietro thought he'd never see again: Mari and Antony, side by side. They rode fiercely, swords poised to scissor the air.

In front was Cangrande, black from top to toe, his mouth set in a rictus of perilous delight. "On! On!"

The power of movement returned. Pietro rolled, pulling himself out of the reach of Scorigiani's spear. He found himself looking down at his neighbour's son, bleeding from his chest. "No!" Wrapping his arms about the boy, Pietro pulled him back from the stampede. For it was a stampede. The Paduan forces broke, turning to fly in full retreat.

With one exception. Vanni Scorigiani, the Toothless Master who had bragged for years that he ate steel for breakfast, held his ground. He positioned himself directly in the Scaliger's path, spear braced on the stones at his horse's feet.

Cangrande did him honour. Even as his horse dodged the spear, Cangrande stood in the stirrups and gave the Paduan knight his most powerful blow. The sword severed Vanni's head from his body, which lingered in the saddle for an instant before being battered to the ground by the galloping horses that followed. What happened to the head, Pietro couldn't see. His eyes were filled with tears of joy and sorrow as horse after horse passed him by.

The change was as indefinable as it was palpable. The Paduan army shook, panicked, and fled.

In their midst, the Count of San Bonifacio was riding among the leading elements of the fleeing exiles. They had owned the best place for a retreat, being stationed on the outer walls. Though everyone around him shouted with terror, he was smiling. His plan had worked. Certainly the Pup's forces were distracted. The battle had lasted far longer, been far more devastating, than the Count could have dared hope. All he had to do now was slip away from the army -

"Bonifacio!"

The naked rage made Vinciguerra grab at his sword. Turning, he saw the upraised sword and was helpless to prevent it falling. The blow scraped off his helmet, struck his armoured shoulder. Before he could bring his own weapon to bear, a second blow ripped open the flesh on his left leg. Blood pumped up towards the sky, almost as high as the Count's head.

"Traitor!" The contempt in Carrara's voice was unmistakable. The young Paduan drove the tip of his sword into Vinciguerra's armpit, hoping to pierce his heart. The armour prevented a fatal blow, but he did manage to unseat the Count, toppling him into the dirt.

The flow of men swept Marsilio on, but he was satisfied. Honour had been served. The Count was finished.

On the ground, Vinciguerra lifted his head. His helmet was heavy upon him. He called me a traitor. I suppose I am, to Padua. But not to Verona — never to Verona. I am a patriot. And I was so close…

He saw the red-headed soldier called Benedick arrive over him. Sparing the Count a single glance, the man said not a word. He sheathed his sword, jumped into the Count's saddle, and rode for his life. Groaning as the first real wave of pain swept over him, the Count still managed a nod of approval. "Not a fool — after all."