Mid morning there was a ripple of excitement and scattered shouts – a dust cloud over to the south was watched with much interest: the Perugian advance.
In the next two hours it grew until at a five-mile distance it stopped and began to spread out. There was going to be an encounter and conditions were perfect.
Peppin fell back to be with Jared, shading his eyes as he scanned the horde.
‘Ha! They’ve hired Germans. That’s Otto’s lot, there in the middle. A fair set of hackers, in close. I see they’re setting ’em in the centre to take what our gunnes are going to do to them. He won’t like that, not one bit!’ he snorted gleefully.
‘There’s not so many knights,’ Jared observed.
‘True, but they’ve laid out big on grunters, all of ’em with pikes and spikes. We’ll be working hard this day, I’ll wager.’
‘Yes, but do remember what I said about discipline. We’ll be in much trouble if they forget their—’
‘They’re good lads, them. Stand their ground whatever. You leave ’em to me and make sure we’re well supplied with what we want.’
Jared moved to stand by the carts.
Trumpeters sounded clear and compelling. In turns heralds crossed to deliver each side’s demands and titled commanders rode out to arrogantly exchange taunts.
They galloped back to their lines and battle was joined.
A tremendous shout and thunder of drums rose up on both sides but Malatesta held cool, rapping orders to his knights and bringing up more archers while the tumult died away.
The two armies faced each other for long minutes. Then with a roar the Perugian knights hurled themselves forward directly towards Malatesta, who watched them dispassionately, making no move whatsoever.
His crossbowmen advanced from the flanks and shot a hail of bolts into the thundering mass. It told – in an instant several horses cartwheeled, they and their riders trampled by those following, others racing sideways were met with a rain of arrows. They slowed, wheeling, gyrating and baffled, then galloped back.
Jared shook his head at the sheer ineptness. This was useless flamboyance and had achieved nothing – but behind those the main mass was on the move, in disciplined lines with gonfalons aloft and banners streaming in a baleful flood of hatred.
Arezzo chivalry rode out to meet them, splitting in two to drive in on their flank and in a pandemonium of noise foot soldiers moved forward to envelop their front.
Fairly soon the rising dust made it impossible for Jared to see much of what was happening. The mass of soldiers that had passed him on either side were now locked in combat out there and neither their crossbowmen nor their archers could affect the outcome while they were mixed inextricably.
Malatesta on his black but now dust-smeared horse remained still and watchful.
He’d sent in the bulk of his army, together with French and Swiss mercenaries and allies from Siena but had kept back two divisions of his best, which stood impatiently on either side.
The din was indescribable, shrieks and brutish howls sounding above the continuous clash of steel on steel, terror-stricken screams of horses and the unceasing dull roar of war.
The hours wore on with no slackening of the onslaught. The Gunners Band had long since stopped their taunts and fist-waving and now waited apprehensively. When the dust cleared would they see a fleeing enemy – or a mass of bloodied and vengeful warriors making for them?
A lull descended but Malatesta was not easy, peering ahead impatiently into the swirling haze. Then, ominously, their own men were running and stumbling out, more and more until a stream of retreating soldiers were making for the safety of their own lines.
‘Stand to, the gunnes!’ Malatesta threw over his shoulder.
The two reserve divisions drew up in defensive lines at an angle either side of the gunnes, the mouth of the pass ensuring that the enemy must be funnelled towards them.
This was the finality of all he’d done, the moment of truth for Jared and his gunnes and he gulped at the realisation.
The enemy came out of the smother of dust tramping forward in a terrible host, heart-freezing in its intent.
In the increasing clarity Jared focused his gaze on the two forward placements of four gunnes readying, the gunners easily seen in their extravagant colours testing their yoke rest and moving the tiller butt to approximate a better sight line.
Peppin swaggered up to them and stood legs astride watching the oncoming array.
He held up his hand.
The enemy slowed visibly, heads turning in the first rank in rising fear. Among them serjeants and veterans were urging them on but there was now palpable terror. It would not take much to break the advance.
Peppin’s arm slashed down. In an irregular salvo not one but eight gunnes cracked out – livid flashes of lightning in grey-white smoke, invisibly reaching out to take the lives of their victims.
The appalled mass wavered and hesitated and when the smoke with its stench of sulphur and the Devil reached them they broke.
A storm of cheers erupted in the Arezzo lines. Peppin arrogantly strutted his acknowledgement.
But it was premature: the crush of men moving forward did not allow these to retreat – the main body still came on, relentlessly, filling the pass from side to side in a disorderly flood that was growing nearer every moment.
Peppin saw the danger and got the second eight opening fire but with the same result: terror, alarm and men dropping but all unable to flee.
With a stab of fear Jared realised what was happening. The gunnes were doing their work but the conditions of a battlefield did not allow their potent magic of Devil-sent thunder and death randomly meted out to create the easy rout that had been expected.
And then the worst happened.
In a panic, the rest of the gunners opened up until there was a frenzy of firing that grew quickly to a storm but then slackened to nothing.
Instead of disciplined volleys timed to allow reloading of the weapons while others continued, they were now caught with empty gunnes. The terrified enemy, driven helplessly from behind soon sensed the situation and surged forward in a howling fury.
The gunners turned and fled – but the Perugian commander who had without much doubt cynically set up the whole thing had foreseen this, and around both wings of the horde came a torrent of caparisoned horsemen thundering past to head them off.
There was no sign of Malatesta. His best divisions in reserve had seen the trap and threw down their weapons while those who could were making for the hills.
The oncoming mass divided and continued past to complete the encirclement.
It was a catastrophic defeat for Arezzo.
The Perugians surrounding them roared and shouted, flourishing their weapons – but something was holding them back from a final massacre.
Then Jared saw a tall, white-haired figure in gold and scarlet over his armour, his helmet removed, directing his men. They were going into the prisoners and separating out the gunners, easily recognisable in their colours and assembling them next to the carts together with their gunnes and equipment.
‘By every saint in the book and I thought we were done!’ Peppin breathed. ‘Now comes the hard bit, as you’ll leave to me.’
‘Hard part? What do you mean?’
‘Why, negotiating our price to go over to him, o’ course! Not so easy, as we hadn’t a chance to show good in this fight and Braccio is a wily old wolf.’
‘Who?’
‘Il Visconte Braccio da Baglioni, Signore of Perugia. Him with the white hair.’
There was no more time to talk for they were in turn separated and brought across.
Only when it was reported that there were no more gunners did Braccio deign to notice them, riding forward and regarding them with supercilious disdain. The Perugian army was kept back in a wide circle around them, watching resentfully and fingering their weapons.
‘Who is your captain?’
‘I’m Peppin, Master o’ Gunnes, Excellency.’ Peppin grovelled.
‘And your serjeants?’
‘These, Highness. This is—’
‘I don’t need to know their names.’ The Black Company men were brought up for his inspection. Smoothly, a soldier slipped into place behind each one.
‘And that one?’ he said, pointing to Jared. ‘Why is he unarmed?’
‘Oh, that’s Messer Jared as—’
‘Ah! I’ve heard of him,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
Then his face turned to stone.
‘Kneel!’
Obediently they prostrated before him.
There was a moment’s pause and a breathless hush spread.
Braccio didn’t waste words. With a vicious gesture across his throat he gave his order and watched its execution with a cruel smile.
One by one the kneeling men’s hair was seized, jerked back and a knife stabbed into their throats and sawn across, and in a violent gush of blood and mortal gurgling they were let fall.
A spreading howl of triumph that went on and on seized the Perugians. Jared’s bowels froze as his fate approached.
His hair was yanked back and—
‘Hold! Spare me that one.’
The soldier released him and sheathed his knife, leaving Jared weak and trembling.
The rest was quickly completed. A dozen corpses lay untidily on the ground.
‘The block!’ growled Braccio.
A well-used butcher’s chopping table was produced.
Eyes dull with horror, Jared watched as each of the remaining gunners, not much more than ignorant villeins, was brought to the block and with a single crunching blow from a cleaver their right hands were severed to join the obscene pile beneath.
The bleeding victims were pointed in the direction of Arezzo and kicked stumbling away to cackles of pitiless laughter.
A crackling of fire sounded behind him – Braccio’s men were setting light to the carts and dancing ecstatically around them. When the flames reached gunne-powder there was a powerful whooomf and they scattered in terror.
Braccio gestured at the mound of gunnes. ‘Throw those cursed things in the river!’
Jared fought down his emotions. Now there was nothing left of his great dream but smoking wreckage and stiffening bodies.