The Master of Verona

He saw the hound Jupiter lapping from a puddle. The dog is smarter than I am. Walking to the nearest barrel, Pietro drew himself some water. It was heaven.

Doing a quick head count, Pietro guessed there were about twenty-five men in the garrison here now armouring themselves. Better than four, he thought. Though not much.

Antony returned with swords and helms. "They don't have spare armour. Just gambesons."

Pietro found himself fitted with the Eastern-style armour whose popularity had grown in the West since the Crusades. Composed of layers of cloth, rags, or tow, it was quilted to a foundation of canvas or leather, then covered in linen or silk. Usually a gambeson was an undergarment in battle, a secondary layer of protection.

Pietro's helmet was a simple practice helmet of plain steel, little more than a bucket with a cross cut for eyes. It didn't fit well, leaving four inches between the dome and his scalp. Do I have a wide head?

His sword was a decent three-foot-long bastard, the technical term for a hand-and-a-half grip. Plenty of burrs but servicable. Pietro strapped a leather baldric across his chest and fitted the sword home on his left hip. There. I might fool someone for a moment.

As opposed to Pietro, the Capuan wore on his head a coif of mail. A single band of thick metal encompassed his head. Below and above that band, chain links clinked and clattered together. The links went under his chin and hooked in front of his left ear.

Mariotto arrived with fresh horses. Pietro eyed his, a fine dusty gelding.

"These are beautiful horses," observed Antony as he mounted.

"They should be," preened Mariotto. "They come from my family stables. Half of the Capitano's horses come from Montecchi stock."

"I'll have to come have a look," said Antony. "See what the hell you feed these monsters."

Pietro looked at the armour on their horses. "You both realize our horses are much better prepared for whatever's coming than we are."

Mariotto shrugged. "Horses are more valuable."

Cangrande emerged from a stone archway hopping on one foot, pulling on a spurred boot. What an excellent idea. But Pietro had no idea where in the castle to lay hands on some decent footwear, or whom to ask. And it seemed too late now as the Scaliger took a helmet from a page and fitted it into place. It was old-fashioned in design, a silver-plated dome with closing cheek pieces pocked by fifty holes for breathing, the holes too small for any weapon to catch.

Armourless but for the helm, Cangrande leapt into the stirrups of a fine stallion and waved to his band of men. Leaving the doors to the helmet open, he flashed a fine set of teeth at the three young men. "Keep up!" With characteristic abandon, the Scaliger spurred out through the gate. Jupiter jumped up from where he'd been resting and dashed off after his master. The boys followed, joining the rush of soldiers out the gates after the Greyhound.

The Greyhound. The title was certainly apt. How could anyone see the man and not believe he was the prophesized savior of Italy? Pietro's father, at least, had no doubt. And there shall come in Italy Il Veltro… Dante had taken the ancient prophecy and given it form in the very first canto of his Commedia. Having known him less than a day, Pietro would already follow Cangrande della Scala into the Pit of Cocytus.

The thirty riders found a steady rhythm across the hilly land at the foot of the Alps. There were cherry trees on this side of the Illasi River too. A wrong twist of the reins and both rider and horse would come to an ignominious end. The leading horses brought cherries crashing down from the branches, pelting the riders at the back of the formation.

The ride overland was slowed twice by muddy streams. Cangrande's horse didn't slacken pace until actually in the water. The garrison knights were not as confident. They slowed at each sign of water and walked their heavily armoured mounts across. Cangrande didn't wait for them. Once out of the water, he and Jupiter tore off again at a breakneck pace, followed directly by the trio of youths. Soon the garrison was just a distant rumble behind them.

Cresting a low ridge after the second water crossing, Pietro pulled closer to Cangrande's horse and heard something startling — the Scaliger was singing! He was repeating that morning's tune, matching the rhythm to the stride of his horse:

Here lions are,

Here leopards fare,

And great rams,

I saw, butt one and all!

And for a laugh,

That echoes far,

Ha ha ha ha!

Until you want to die!