The Master of Verona

There was nothing for it, they had to risk the door. Pietro handed his father the cane, pointed at the right door, then kicked open the left. As Dante worked the handle on his side, Pietro stabbed into the smoky darkness opposite with his dagger, hoping to feint the murderers out of position. But if these men had sense they'd be well back from the carriage, waiting for their prey to run into their waiting arms.

Which is what we're about to do.

As Dante bolted out the right-hand door, Katerina lifted the lid of the bench under her. "Cesco!"

There was no answer.

Ducking out the right-hand door after his father, Pietro limped heavily down to the ground. His father was just outside, the cane raised high over his head, ready to fell any attacker. Pietro took position on the other side of the door, every muscle tight, his lungs burning. His watering eyes were blinking furiously and he didn't see the figure approaching in the smoke. He bent to cough and the sword stroke missed his head by a fraction. He gasped and lunged, burying the dagger all the way to the hilt in the man's thigh. Pietro's momentum continued carrying him forward, toppling both him and his assailant to the earth. Dante was over them a second later, using the cane to club the villainous groom senseless.

Inside the burning carriage Katerina's left hand searched the compartment. She reared back with a shriek, her flesh smoking. The compartment was already burning. Choked, faint, she was unable to call for Cesco. Yet she couldn't leave. She reached down again, willing herself to ignore the pain. Her fingers encountered burning straw, and for a moment she believed it was hair. She clutched and pulled at it, scalding her hands on a sizzling chamber pot that she tossed aside. She smelled her own flesh burning, yet didn't stop digging, throwing the burning thatch this way and that, until her hands felt the floor of the compartment.

Empty.

She heard the hoofbeats. A horse approached. Friend or foe, she couldn't be bothered. Where was Cesco? Where where where?

In the smoke outside, Pietro watched his father continue to beat at the groom's head with a fury that was surprising. Then he saw a glint of light from the fire reflecting a few feet away. A sword, an axe, something deadly. The hand that gripped it aiming for the great poet's back. Pietro was too choked to cry out. He was weaponless. He tried to stand, but his body failed him at last. There were no more reserves, nothing he could do to save his father's life. He watched as the weapon's blade began its descent.

There was an ugly clang, metal on metal. The weapon fell away as the attacker turned to his right. A gust of wind showed a surprised expression cross his face. "But my lord!" Then his face split apart as a sword hacked down with an incredible force.

It was a sword Pietro recognized. Cangrande had come. Thank God!

Collapsing to the ground with another fit of coughing, Pietro felt himself get dragged a few feet away from the blaze where it was easier to breathe. Twisting around onto his back, he saw Dante point towards the carriage, gasping out some words in Cangrande's ear. The Scaliger dashed into the blazing conveyance. A moment later Katerina reeled from the carriage, wrapped in her brother's arms. She screamed and fought, kicking and clawing to return to the flames. Her sleeve was on fire, her left hand and arm and shoulder burnt and blistered, her hair singed and black. Cangrande threw her to the earth and rolled her back and forth to extinguish the flames. She coughed and screamed, desperate to return to the carriage that was nothing but a shell of raging fire.

Her brother gripped her right wrist as she struggled. "Kat — your baby! Stop fighting, damn it! The baby!" She moaned once as she fell to the earth, her hands on her belly but her eyes on the fire.

Cangrande paced over to the man Dante had beaten and checked to see if he was breathing. He must not have been, for Cangrande lifted the lifeless body over his shoulders and pitched it headfirst into the blaze. He did the same for the man he had killed. He then joined Dante and Pietro, kneeling by Katerina's side as they watched the fire. After several minutes Katerina spoke.

"He wasn't there." It took her several breaths to speak again, and when she was able, all she could do was repeat this single fact. "He wasn't there! He wasn't there, he wasn't there, he wasn't there!"

Dante shook his head. "He must have been stuck, or curled up in a corner."

Pietro wiped his eyes and face. "How could he be in there and not make a sound?"

"He was a remarkable child." The poet's voice trembled. "My lord, I am so sorry."

Dante was behind the Scaliger, as was Katerina. Only Pietro, prostrate on the ground, had a view of Cangrande's face. Pietro blinked in disbelief. Engraved on Cangrande's every feature was an expression of pure, boundless -