The Master of Verona

Then the silence was complete. No Paduan had been spared. That's odd, thought Pietro with a shiver. The Scaliger is famous for his clemency.

Reining in beside the Capitano, he asked about this. Cangrande shrugged. "I couldn't let them live." Pietro thought he heard a touch of regret. "If I had, they would have warned Asdente and the Count. I'm in no position to take prisoners, and without an army at my back I need all the advantage surprise can give me." Cangrande swung his horse back towards the invested city. "Now let's walk these tired horses where they can rest. We have work to do."

At an easy trot Cangrande and his three companions rode up to the gate of Vicenza.

Within minutes Cangrande was standing on the steps to the main palace in conference with Antonio Nogarola, a gruff man of medium height and rotten teeth. They were related by marriage and tragedy, these two families, the Nogarolese having tacked themselves firmly to the tail of the ascendant Scalageri star. Quickly Nogarola apprised the Scaliger of recent events. Eavesdropping shamelessly, Pietro thought he heard a reference to a cat and a mention of fishing rods. Then clearly he heard Cangrande ask, "Is she safe?"

In response Nogarola pointed to the windows of the palace above them. "Within, giving orders to the servants. It was her idea to fire the houses in San Pietro."

"Of course it was." Cangrande's voice was bemused. Pietro lost the next words as they turned to look up into the palace. Whatever Nogarola said, Cangrande merely shook his head in reply. "I brought about thirty men."

"I've got about fifty who have horses and can ride them…"

Apropos of nothing, Pietro realized where else he had heard the name Vicenza before. Back in school in Florence, he'd been examined beside the son of a rich Pisan called Vincentio. Probably meant he hailed from Vicenza originally.

Pietro's ears pricked up as Cangrande and Nogarola turned back towards him.

"…knows I'm here she'll do something foolish."

"Such as?" inquired Nogarola.

"Such as putting on breeches and a helmet and hiding among the knights. No, let her remain ignorant of my presence until after the battle. Is there any sign of our friendly saint?"

"The Count?" Nogarola spat at the ground. "He's out there. Waved his flag and San Pietro fell over itself welcoming him. You'd think the San Bonifacio clan would be tired of opposing you. They keep losing."

Cangrande shrugged. "It's in his blood."

Nogarola's eyes scanned Cangrande's unlikely companions. He knew Mariotto, of course. Cangrande introduced Antony then pointed to Pietro. "Lord Nogarola, Pietro Alaghieri."

"Alighieri — any relation to the poet?"

Before Pietro could reply, Cangrande said, "Pietro appears to be his own man." A fresh set of horses arrived girded for war. "Come. Time to live forever in glory."

Nogarola unclasped the scarlet general's cape from his shoulders and handed it to Cangrande. Just as he fixed it in place, an old woman emerged from a nearby doorway. She was visibly drunk, stumbling into the street. Cangrande scooped her into his arms and plucked the wineskin from her fingers. "Mother, con permisso." He quaffed it in one pull and with a twinkling eye handed it back, thanking her.

The next moment he was kneeling. Those who saw the gesture likewise knelt to pray, the height of the crowd cut in half as man after man dropped to his knees.

The Scaliger's sword scraped as he drew it from his scabbard. Laying the hilt against his forehead, the Capitano began a quiet prayer: "Ave, Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicat tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc hora mortis nostrae. Amen

."

The omission of the single word et changed the tenor of the last line. The alteration was subtle, but significant. Now, in the hour of our death. Rising, Cangrande and Nogarola stalked off to give orders.

Pietro remained where he was, struck dumb — not by the business with the wine or the prayer, but by what Cangrande had said. It was a wholly new thought, arriving breathless and filling shoulders, diaphragm, knees. Pietro had been taught from birth that his duty in life was to reflect well upon his father. For all his years, he'd endeavored to become the ideal son. That he might have succeeded never occurred to him. He constantly saw himself as a failure to both his father and his name.

Seven words from Cangrande and a tangle in Pietro's liver was torn loose. In that moment Pietro Alaghieri began the process of emerging from his father's shadow.

It was lost upon him that, in so doing, he passed into one even more dreadful.

Six

Vicenza