The Master of Verona

Suddenly they stopped. Pietro thought he saw Cangrande dismount again and dash forward. Danger? This close to Vicenza? Pietro's hand slipped under the cloak and gripped the hilt of his sword. His heart hammered until he saw the Scaliger return, a lighter shadow in the shadowed night. He passed his own mount and stopped beside Pietro, who leaned down to hear what Cangrande was saying. "We're at Quartesolo. Had to make sure the bridges aren't washed out. The river's leaping up. Brace yourself." Pietro thought he saw a flash of a grin.

Remounting, Cangrande started them across the first bridge. The lead tightened and Pietro followed. His horse's shoes had just contacted the stone of the bridge when a huge wave came crashing up over Pietro, drenching him sideways. It was followed by another, and another. Pietro hugged his palfrey, leaning down to keep from being washed from his saddle.

Then they were over the first bridge and onto the second. Pietro wondered how many bridges connected the suburb of Quartesolo across the swelling river. The sagum cloak was well waterproofed, but nevertheless Pietro was soaked to the skin. His left boot was soggy in the stirrup. Only his aching right leg, under two layers of cloak and his father's breeches, was dry.

The thunder cracked mightily overhead as they left Quartesolo behind. They turned off the main road onto some kind of well-used dirt path. The smell of damp earth and raw wind was thick in his nose. Lesser branches flipped end over end through the air, the twigs pelting him. It was as if the mortal world was being scoured raw.

Lightning began to strike, the dry vapor pent up in the clouds above the rain catching fire and exploding down towards the earth, ripping the fabric of night. The accompanying sound made horses uneasy, but less so than Pietro. The flashes of illumination made the riders visible for miles.

Pietro felt his hat pelted by something harder than rain. Holding out a hand, he felt the sting of hail in his palm. A bad omen, a poor night to be traveling.

He lost all sense of time. With its crashing rain, wind, and now hail, the night seemed endless. Sometimes Cangrande stopped to check the road ahead. Pietro was grateful for these breaks, not just for the chance to stretch his muscles but because they managed brief snatches of conversation, the thunderous downpour eliminating any chance of being overheard.

It was at one of these stops, when Cangrande came to tell him the road ahead was particularly sodden and they would be turning off to a side track, that Pietro finally asked the important question. "Lord, where exactly are we going?"

Cangrande leaned close. "Exactly? We're entering the land of La Lupa." Chuckling, he returned to his horse and led the way across to an uphill track.

La Lupa. The She-Wolf. What does that mean?

Riding doggedly behind Cangrande, bits of the ancient prophecy came back to Pietro. The mythic Greyhound was supposed to kill the She-Wolf before Italy's great golden age could begin. But what could any of that have to do with this journey? Was Cangrande chasing his destiny, or-

There was a crack, not thunder but a horrible rending sound. An attack? Pietro checked the reins and reached for his sword. He was looking this way and that, unable to see a thing. Cangrande shouted "Pietro! Move!" At the same moment Cangrande yanked on the lead. Pietro kicked with his left heel and the palfrey darted forward just as a rotten tree collapsed across the road where Pietro had been. It took down another tree across the road, throwing clumps of earth up into the air to rain down on them.

Cangrande tugged urgently on the lead. Pietro was shaking and needed a moment to collect himself. Then he heard what the Scaliger was hearing — voices! Someone calling out to help a poor traveler who had shouted. Who does that? thought Pietro perversely. Who helps strangers these days? There must be an inn or a church not far off the road. Cangrande's shout had saved Pietro and imperiled them both. Pietro kicked his left heel again and followed Cangrande as they rode as fast as the rain would allow. He could swear he heard hoofbeats close behind them, racing as fast as his heart.

At last, after carefully climbing a slope that begged to slip out from under them, Cangrande halted with an air of finality. Pietro couldn't see more than a couple feet in any direction. There was no light at all. He tried to figure out the distance they had covered. In this slow going it couldn't be more then ten or twelve miles. The fact that Cangrande had led them so unerringly in the complete darkness was yet another in a string of feats that made Pietro believe the Capitano was something more than human.