The Master of Verona

She pulled back from him. "Giulia?" It was a name she had never heard herself called.

"You're my Giulia. The perfect woman." He leaned in to kiss her again. This second kiss was more passionate, and Gianozza felt herself kissing him back. Oh, what bliss! What joy! She was -

Francesca. Francesca and Paolo, the illicit lovers. The damned lovers.

Wrenching herself away she stared at him in horror. "This isn't the — no! No, Antony! Listen to me! We can — we're supposed to be friends now, that's all — "

"How now?" said Antony, frowning sharply. "What is this to you, a game? I'm serious, girl! You are all that I want in this life! You are my everything! You are my Giulia!" She pulled away from him, and for a long moment he stared at her. Then he cried, "Damn it! Does he get everything? Then give him this!" Drawing out a silver knife he gripped it tightly, tears running down his face.

What he was about to do, she never afterward could guess. She was certain he would never have harmed her, or told herself she was certain. Would he have given her the knife? Hurt himself with it?

Whatever Antony intended, she was saved from it by the sound of horses approaching. Antonia had found a group of five men, led by Benvenito. "Gianozza, are you all right?"

Gianozza gazed at Antony, who stood still in the rain looking back at her. Then he turned away. She called out, "I'm fine!"

Antony stayed long enough to ensure she was safe. Then he clambered up into the saddle and rode away. Gianozza watched him go. Just before he passed out of sight she saw his gloved fingers open, releasing the silver dagger. It fell, landing point first in the muddy earth.

Antonia was kneeling beside Gianozza. "What happened?"

"I made it worse! I made it worse! I told him not to — he's supposed to listen, to love me enough to listen-"

Antonia sighed. "What did you think would happen, Gianozza? That if you played the scene right, all would be forgiven? This isn't a play, or a poem."

Gianozza wept. Eventually they persuaded her to mount a horse. All the long ride back towards Castello Montecchio, she repeated one thought over and over. "This isn't how it was supposed to happen."

They did not see the man who'd been watching, who now came forward to take up the silver dagger.

In the cave they heard distant hoofbeats. At first Pathino grinned. "I'm sorry, Ser Alaghieri, but I'm afraid the Count won't let you walk alive from this place. Perhaps if you beg."

The sound multiplied. Four or more horses trampled the earth not far away.

"Was he bringing friends?" asked Pietro.

"He could have brought some Paduans with him," protested Pathino feebly.

"And have them kill him when they learned this whole enterprise was a feint for him to kidnap a Veronese child? I doubt it." Pietro stood up. "It's time."

Immediately Pathino leapt to his feet, dragging the child up with him. "Don't!"

"You know what I think? I think the Count has been captured, and in exchange for his life he's given them you." Pietro reached out an open hand. "Give up now and I won't let them hang you." Subtly he edged his left foot closer to the protruding half-burnt stick. Mercurio's eyes were open now, though his whimpers were too soft for Pathino to hear.

Pathino glanced wildly about, then smiled again as the hoofbeats rode back the way they had come. Pathino's relief brought back his awful version of Cangrande's smile. "You won't let them hang me? How generous. But I think it's time I do something about you, Count or no." He brandished the knife.

Pietro made a show of sagging. His next move would have to be bootless, and he'd pay for it later — if he survived.

Now.

Pietro stepped into the fire. With the flat of his foot he kicked the half-burnt stick through the air towards the spaventapasseri. Pathino's hands flew up to ward off the flaming embers, and Cesco dropped to the ground and rolled away. Cursing, Pathino grabbed, his fingers clutching only air. Dagger in hand he turned on Pietro, still across the fire pit.

Pietro shouted, "Mercurio! Avanti!"

The great greyhound rose from the pool of its own blood and threw itself through the flames. The long mouth clamped down hard on Pathino's left hand in a spray of blood. The bastard Scaliger screamed as the weight of the dog yanked his arm down. The hound pulled, driving his teeth in with a savage growl.

Pathino plunged his long thin dagger into the hound, piercing its eye. Mercurio's jaw went slack and the greyhound fell to the earth without a rattling whisper.

From somewhere in the darkness a young voice screamed, "M'cur-o!"

Pietro had already scooped up his sword and was running around the fire pit. Pathino freed his blade from the dead dog and lashed out at Pietro's face. Taking the slash across the back of his hand, Pietro heard the next cut whistle past his ear. He rolled, putting distance between himself and Pathino. Leaping to his feet, he twisted around to lunge at his enemy.