Nine

 

 

 The second day of Verona’s tourney was centered around the mêlée, a general armed engagement where knights were divided into two ‘armies’ and charged at each other. The ultimate goal was to unseat all the enemy riders, or else gain the enemy standard.

But before the mêlée came the wrestling matches. Open to all comers, it was not unheard of for a smith or even a baker to win over a full knight. Verona owned an odd egalitarian streak and, as in the old Roman Saturnalia, once or twice a year the city’s rich and poor were deemed equals.

As wrestling was not a danger to the crowd, the sheltering walls were removed for the morning, allowing a clear view for all. After the opening prayers and some light-hearted theatre, the contestants came running out into the already sweltering heat. Three separate squares were marked and the first matches began.

Among the knights and squires were butchers, smiths, tinkers, even one tailor. There was always a great cheer when some ignoble bully pinned a nobleman to the dirt. Some fought in half-dress, some in the nude. The only ladies in the crowd today were the relatives of the nobility, presumably above hooting or recoiling in shock.

“Look look!” cried Detto to Cesco from their shared vantage point on the balcony. “That one’s plucked all his hair! And shaved his head!”

“Anything for advantage,” replied Cesco. “After all, the monetary prize is astronomical.” Despite being dog-tired, he cheered with the rest when they heard the crack of a broken bone. But it was a hollow shout, as his mind was racing. There was a great deal to accomplish today. Which meant he was indulging the sticky-chews again. With the Moor gone, he had to preserve his stores. But if he succeeded today, he might not need them again for some time.

Somehow he had to force the Scaliger to admit him to the mêlée. All his plans hinged on that. There was a way, but only if he acted soon. And there was the additional imperative of discovering the face behind the demon mask.

He noted that neither Mastino nor Fuchs were down among the wrestlers. Too far beneath them, rubbing shoulders with common citizens. They would wait for the mêlée.

Cangrande turned in his seat to call to Cesco. “Boy! Do you see who is taking the center ring?”

Squinting, it took Cesco only a moment to place the man’s massive frame and cheerful face. Last Cesco had seen him, they’d both been begrimed past hope. “The smithy!” he cried, applauding.

It was indeed Rienzi’s smith, who had instructed Cesco in the workings of the water-forge a few months before. Which meant that…

Twisting around, Cesco scanned the banners behind them under the awning. Yes! There it was! The flaming beaver banner stood proudly among the lesser nobles and invited guests. The Rienzi family was sitting off to one side, about halfway up the Arena seats. Rienzi himself was sweating heavily under heavy layers of formal attire. Fur in July? He was surrounded by servants, but there was no evidence of a wife, though it appeared he’d brought his children, a boy and a girl. They were like the sun and moon, the boy a fitter version of the father, probably in his middle teens, whereas the girl must’ve taken after her mother – the hair that showed under her hair-ribbon was a deep brown, and her colouring was fairer than her brother’s.

“You’re missing it!” said Detto, elbowing his friend. Cesco winced and shifted his arm in its sling, shooting his friend a nasty look. But Detto was far too excited to be contrite.

Rienzi’s smith was holding the center ring, refusing to leave it after his first victory and demanding to be tested again. He felled his second opponent, and a third, still looking as hearty as when he’d begun. The crowd suddenly had a favourite and Cesco joined Detto and the rest in cheering him on. When at last he was taken down, he had thrown or pinned eleven men.

“His bed won’t be empty tonight,” observed Nico da Lozzo from nearby.

“It’s a strong bed that can take anyone in addition to him,” replied Petruchio Bonaventura. “Good Lord, what a brute!”

“I’d like to know his diet,” murmured Morsicato, who’d been hovering just behind Cesco all morning.

Cesco called down the row to Cangrande. “Surely he’s won?”

“I think he has,” agreed the Scaliger. “If we give the prize to anyone else, the crowd will swallow us whole.”

Cesco stood. “I’ll tell him.”

Cangrande shrugged. “If you like. Tell Rienzi first – as his patron, he’s entitled to a share of the winnings.”

“And you wouldn’t want to insult the old goat,” said Cesco winningly.

Cangrande waved him off with a very public laugh. “Certainly not.”

Though he could have pushed through the crowd, it was easier to duck into the tunnel behind the balcony and cross underneath to an entrance closer to Rienzi. Detto in his wake, Cesco skipped down the steps into the tunnels that ringed the underside of the Arena.

Wary Scaligeri guards kept the passage behind the balcony clear, so the two boys had no trouble navigating to the next opening. Here and there were the square pock-marks of holes bored into the stone, where once the timber struts had been placed to create housing, in the dark times after the fall of the Caesars. On the path between the invading Germans and their prey, Verona had suffered mightily, and the city’s poor had erected housing within the Arena itself when their houses had burned. The Arena had been an object of awe for the invaders, and they’d kept well away from an edifice surely built by the gods.

For hundreds of years thereafter the Arena had served as shelter for Verona’s poorest, until Charlemagne had come and swept the place clean. He’d loved Verona, as had his son Pepin, each exerting great pressure to restore Verona to her former glory. It was said that they had even resurrected the tradition of the Palio.

Those dark years had left scars, and an earthquake a hundred odd years before had removed most of the outer wall encircling the great stadium. But still it stood, second in size only to the Colosseum in Rome, the largest one still in use, the site of great barbarity and even greater glory.

Turning left at another passage, Cesco and Detto ascended the stairs back into the light, dimmed only by the canopy overhead. But the sun-screen did nothing to deaden the noise, which swelled for another set of wrestlers.

Rienzi was seated up a few steps and in the middle of a row, resting upon many large cushions. His son and daughter flanked him, with four others – two minor nobles and two Rienzi servants. Recognizing Cesco, the ignoble-nobles stood and bowed, as did several people from nearby rows. Cesco waved in acknowledgement, then gestured to Rienzi. The old man huffed but rose from his comfortable cushions and edged past the people in his way. His son and daughter followed.

“I’ve just come to tell you informally that your man’s won,” said Cesco. “Certainly no one is going to outshine him.”

“My thanks, Master Francesco,” said Rienzi formally. “May I present my son Adamo and his sister, Rosalia.”

“Charmed, my lady Rienzi,” said Cesco, nodding absently at the girl. His eyes were on Adamo. “Signore, I’m not sure – have we met? I seem to feel a tickle on my throat…”

Adamo frowned, as if trying to discern the insult he was sure the comment contained. “I don’t believe we have, my lord.” It was clearly galling for him to call a bastard ‘lord’.

“My mistake. I’m surprised you are not in the lists yourself. You look fit, trim. Even acrobatic. How do you keep such a fine figure – do you swim?”

Both father and son gazed at Cesco as if he were mad. Unsure if he was being baited, Adamo shrugged. Old Rienzi said, “My son is a great hunter, and of course living so close to the Adige, he swims well enough.”

“Ah!” said Cesco, as if this were the answer he was seeking. He raised his chin to study the flapping Rienzi banner. “Monsignore, I’ve been meaning to ask, why a beaver? It’s not a dam you run. Or is there a jest about a burning beaver being damned? Are there beavers in Hell, do you think?”

“You shouldn’t blaspheme,” said Rienzi’s daughter. “The Lord hears all.”

“I do it so he’ll pay attention.”

“A pity, as He is more impressed with deeds than words,” she answered tartly.

A wide smile blossomed across Cesco’s face. “But I tire of performing blasphemous deeds, so my words must suffice.”

“Your words are not worth the air you spend to utter them.”

“On the contrary, they cost me nothing.”

“And are therefore worth nothing,” she replied.

Nonplussed, Cesco studied her for the first time. A year or two older than he was, Rosalia was taller, though about as thin. Emerging from her awkward years, there were a few scattered blemishes under the rouge, but no marring scars. She was one of those girls who could go either way – unremarkably plain, or breath-takingly gorgeous. Only time would tell.

But most interesting was the directness of her gaze. There was nothing coy, nothing shy. She held his eyes with hers, daring him to look away first. But he couldn’t. Behind her eyes there was something coiled, something bright, something alive. Was it anguish? Or amusement? Cesco couldn’t tell, but he felt a twisting, gnawing desire in his belly, and a huge weight landed on his chest. Her eyes were arresting, a pure green, lush as a grassy sward.

It was as if a lever had been thrown in his liver. O grandfather Dante, is this what you spoke of? It cannot be. I refuse to be so foolish…

Clearly something in his face had changed, for Adamo Rienzi stepped between Cesco and his sister. “Don’t speak to her!”

“Adamo…” said old Rienzi warningly, focused on the rows of nobility and merchants intently watching this scene, closer and more entertaining than the wrestling.

“That’s right, Adamo.” Their gaze broken, Cesco smiled charmingly as he looked Rienzi’s son up and down. “It’s not wise to antagonize your patron’s heir – at least, not publicly. Wait for moonrise.”

Adamo reached out to grasp Cesco’s uninjured arm, but Rienzi seized his son and whispered very softly, “It’s death to molest the Scaliger’s heir. You understand? Death.”

Cesco was unperturbed. “If you would like, Adamo, I would be happy to join you down in the Arena for a quick throw or two. But perhaps you should ask your smith for a few lessons before you try. Myself, I was trained at the Capitano’s own merciful hands.”

Before her brother could accept, Rosalia said, “Then why not go challenge him.”

Cesco cocked his head to stare at her, his grin widening with delight and wickedness. “O, excellent suggestion! My darling Rosalia, I am ever in your debt.” Bowing deeply to her, he skipped down the stairs so quickly that Detto had only followed three steps before Cesco was vaulting the low barrier to the Arena floor.

The nearest wrestling square was unoccupied at the moment. Cesco strode into the middle of it and turned to face the balcony. “Maestro! Is it time for my next lesson?”

“No,” said Cangrande in a bored tone that nonetheless carried all around the Arena. “I tire of teaching one so rude. Let them continue! I’ll thrash you tomorrow.”

Ostentatiously, Cesco removed his sling. “But now I match you, wound for wound. Won’t you come and give me another lesson?”

Cesco’s mention of their perfectly matching wounds harped on a subject that many had debated all the previous evening. Rumour blamed the boy for the Capitano’s injury. Could Cangrande have switched out the lances to balance the scales? Was the boy even now accusing him of just that?

None of this was part of Cesco’s plan – it was extempore. But this opportunity might not come again. And he could achieve two kills with a single stroke. If he pulled this off and then survived the mêlée, he would be free. And would know for an absolute certainty that Cangrande was not last night’s masked demon.

That’s right, he told himself. It has nothing at all to do with impressing the girl.

A larger fellow would have already stripped his doublet and shirt off. But Cesco knew that his cord-thin frame would only create pity in the crowd, an emotion that the Scaliger could exploit by refusing to take on so pitiful a creature. So instead Cesco did a backwards flip from a standing position, then reached down to rub dirt on his palms. “Come, if not for my training, then for a wager! If I win, I may ride in the mêlée as full member of the nobility, armed with lances and swords. If I lose, I must carry the flag of Verona and preserve it in the rear ranks. Thus if Verona loses, the shame will be entirely mine!”

This was known in the streets of Ravenna as the Trickster’s Force. It set the stakes in such a way that, regardless of victory, the real goal was achieved. Cesco’s goal was to ride in the mêlée.

Nobody’s fool, Cangrande knew it for what it was. But the wager having been offered, he could only accept or reject it – not alter it. Now it became a matter of shaming the Scaliger into accepting.

Cangrande did not seem so inclined. “I do not fight children! Not even ones of my own blood.”

“Then let me lie about my age. I’m just half your height, so I must be half your age! How old are you again, Lord Capitano?”

Young enough to be baited, it seemed. “Too old to think there’s honour wrestling children.” Though Cangrande’s response was typically glib and mild, Cesco saw the glint in the Capitano’s eye, a look he knew all too well. Good. All he needs now is an excuse.

“If I am half the man you are, then reason says that two of me should equal one of you. I have a brother-in-years, also blood of your blood. Perhaps together we woodpeckers can topple the mighty oak!”

Without further prompting Detto came running out to stand side by side with Cesco. Two against one. It was irresistible. No matter the outcome, Cangrande would walk away with honour. Not that there was much chance of his losing.

The Scaliger provoked a great cheer by removing his sling. “Very well. On your own head be it!”

Cesco was busy whispering instructions. “You, high or right, as opportunity permits. I’ll be low and left.”

“Sinister suits you,” replied Detto, earning a surprised laugh from Cesco. “What? I know things.”

“You must teach me sometime. Ah, here he comes.”

Cangrande dropped gracefully from the balcony and stripped himself to the waist. As he turned to show off his body to the applauding masses, Cesco could see his back. He sighed – it bore no scars. The Scaliger was definitively acquitted of last night’s dark crime. That in itself was a kind of victory.

An evil voice, one that never left Cesco for very long, whispered to him: It means it was not he in the mask. It does not mean he is innocent.

Cesco shook off the thought as he stripped down and focused on the trial at hand. That he’d already won his aim was some comfort through the following ten minutes of ceaseless, remorseless effort. Twisting, gripping, choking, rolling, evading, swiping, gasping effort.

That Cangrande emerged victorious was more a testimony to his guile than his strength. He employed every underhanded trick that would escape the crowd’s notice, and Cesco’s flesh was red with pinches and tweaks. Detto escaped that kind of treatment, though he took some hard falls. Cesco ended pinned between Cangrande’s legs while Detto lay immobile in a hug that pressed his arms against his sides.

The crowd went wild. Doubtless there were some foreigners who would have delighted in the Scaliger’s overthrow by two children. But the vast majority of those present, even his enemies, considered Cangrande the ideal man. In war, in art, in conquests (both territorial and feminine), in wealth, in manner, in speech – in every way, Cangrande was the prime specimen of perfection in this, the 14th century since Christ.

Under cover of the cheering, Cangrande remarked, “You lost your wager.”

“And I’ll pay the price.”

“You know, I once made Alaghieri a banneret. As I recall it didn’t meet his expectations.” The Scaliger laughed, and Cesco made a face at his receding back.

Having taken his public share of pity and ridicule (he’d seen both Mastino and Fuchs laughing uproariously), Cesco retired with Detto to the bowels of the Arena where they were washed and scraped clean by the medicos. At one point Detto’s newly-pinked face swiveled towards Cesco. “Tell me it was to get into the mêlée.”

“And for the fun of it.”

“Good,” grunted Detto, well satisfied. “I was afraid it was for the girl.”

Plunging his head into the tub of water before him, Cesco pretended he hadn’t heard.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Though clearly recovered from his wound, Cangrande declared that he would not take part in the mêlée, as it might be prejudicial. So the main event went ahead as planned, except that some luckless banneret was replaced by Cesco.

The event officially began with a parade around the edges of the Arena floor, each rider calling out his war cry, the chivalric ‘cry of the heart.’ Though the barricades were back up, most riders could see over these to address the crowd. Some made gallant shows to the ladies while others made rude gestures to their detractors.

Cesco himself cantered atop a great destrier. Wearing his full armour for the first time, he was absurdly pleased with himself despite the extra padding he’d had to secret here and there to make the thing fit – it had been forged with his age in mind and had gaps for sudden growth that sadly hadn’t happened yet. In his gloved hands he held a pole from which fluttered the Scaligeri colours – a ladder with the two-headed imperial eagle perched at the top, a snarling greyhound just below the bottom rung.

That same device was repeated on the gold and red caparison draped over his horse’s back under the saddle, fully visible across the hindquarters. The rest of the horse was hidden by armour. Along its face was the metal and leather testiera, with a pair of goring spikes that made the beast resemble the Devil’s own steed. Below this was the collo, buckled to the underside of the neck, which in turn connected to the pettiera, chest armour that neatly made way for the legs to run. A curved plate called the fiancali was strapped across the beast’s belly.

In front and back of Cesco’s leather saddle were the two arciones, hard wooden barriers protecting his groin and lover back. Behind the saddle, across the horse’s rump, hung the many scaled layers of the groppa. And extending out of the groppa was the guardacorda, the small, ornamental device meant to protect the horse’s tail. In the case of Cesco’s horse, the guardacorda was in the shape of a snarling greyhound from whose mouth the horse’s tail flowed. The caparison lay under the saddle but over the groppa so the device was clear to view. Cesco was the target for the opposing army, and had to be marked as such.

The parade finished its circuit of the Arena, and Cesco tried not to look directly at the place where the Rienzi family had sat this morning. He failed, and saw that all three were there now. Adamo was glaring daggers at him, but the girl was ignoring him, looking instead at the balcony where Cangrande was making speeches to the jubilant throng. Needing both hands, Cesco had his helmet in place and so couldn’t distinguish the words. Just as well. He’d heard quite enough of the Scaliger’s voice this last year.

If I can pull this off, I can be free of it – and him. So forget the girl and the fact that she’s not watching you. Focus!

Cesco joined the other Veronese as they massed beneath the Scaliger’s balcony. The most famous faces of Verona were behind these helmets – Bonaventura, Nico da Lozzo, young Castelbarco. Montecchio and Capulletto were competing for a spot in the front ranks. Bailardino Nogarola was present, representing Vicenza. So too were the Mantuans represented in the person of their podestá, Passerino Bonaccolsi, now recovered from his mishap the day before. Cesco wondered if Cangrande had any other surprises in store for that false-friend, but doubted it. When Bonaccolsi’s time came, Cangrande would want to drop the hammer himself.

Because the tunnels only were wide enough for three or four horses abreast, Cangrande had forbidden a proposed charge from beneath the Arena. Instead the two ‘armies’ would line up as on a formal field of battle. When the signal was given, they would charge at each other, lances leveled. Whoever kept their seats would wheel about, unsheathe swords, and engage in combat.

The main draw for these events – indeed, the reason they were so very popular – was not honour but ransom. If a man yielded in single combat, his captor was allowed to demand payment for his freedom, just as on a real battlefield. And the captor of the enemy colours could demand a sum from every knight who had gathered beneath it. A great motivator for both sides.

Where this mêlée would differ from all others held in the world was the scope. Most often a mêlée was held in a vast open field, providing many avenues of escape. Mêlées were sometimes known to last over a day, so desperate were the vanquished not to be caught.

But there was no escaping the Arena. In this relatively tight space, it would be a fight to the finish for everyone involved. Despite the blunted weapons, some were sure to die. More importantly, some were sure to become quite rich.

One of the most likely beneficiaries was Fuchs, who had already amassed several fortunes in the lists. He sat calmly bestride his saddle, fully-barded, with the signal honour of a scarlet general’s cloak hanging from his shoulders. As the victor of the giusti, he was to lead the charge from the front ranks of Verona’s knights and squires.

In even finer armour, Mastino sat nearby him. Cesco noticed that the Mastiff was moving a trifle gingerly. But that could be from the hard knocks from yesterday’s jousts. There was not a single member of the nobility who was moving with ease today. No, that was not enough to accuse him.

Pay attention! Cesco stopped studying his usual foes, who were today to be his allies. Instead he scanned the foreigners.

Though there was no room for individual banners, the caparisons on the other horses declared their nationality and family titles. The more recognizable devices were Paduan, Venetian, Cremonese, Trevisian, Bolognese. But scattered here and there were French lilies, English lions, Spanish crosses, Polish and German eagles, each worked into some other design denoting regional or familial ties. Perhaps fifty foreigners in all, against just under forty Veronese, Vicenzans, and Mantuans.

Being a kinsman to Mariotto Montecchio, the Englishman William Montagu was given the signal honour of bearing the opposing side’s banner, the target of all Veronese eyes.

Cesco’s wondered how, out of all the knights present, were these men chosen? Were they limited by the size of the Arena floor? Did the Scaliger make them draw lots? Or are these the only men willing to risk their necks and their fortunes?

Both sides took their places. There were too many bodies for a single line, so instead three walls of horses would crash together. Those in the front ranks ran the greater danger, as they had to pass more fresh lances. Thus they were accorded the most glory.

Cesco was in the middle ranks. He’d expected to be placed at the rear, but Fuchs had instead done the sensible thing and given Cesco a more defensible position. At the rear, he would have been protected from the initial charge, only to be horribly exposed when both sides wheeled for swordplay. Centered, he was surrounded by shields.

In a wider space, each combatant would normally be allowed three lances. In the Arena they could use just the one they carried, which altered the general strategy somewhat – breaking an enemy lance was now of paramount importance.

Cesco had no lance at all. As banneret, he was more target than combatant. But if he could manage to carry the banner one-handed, he could draw his sword. He was determined to at least try. For this was it – the first chance to show that he was worth all the trouble, that the Scaliger hadn’t broken him, that he was the future of Verona.

Men spoke, but he had trouble distinguishing words with the roar of the spectators reverberating around his helmet. Uncle Pietro had once described armed battle as being like ‘fighting in a bucket.’ Cesco now found it wasn’t an exaggeration. And when the trumpets blared he understood why they were used to command armies – he heard every note. Here we go.

Spurring with the rest, Cesco pulled the banner in tight, right hand high, left at his hip, knowing that lances would be aimed primarily at him. He could draw his sword after the turn.

With breathtaking speed the first crash came, lances cracking upon armour and men tumbling half or wholly from their saddles. Those whose lances broke were themselves targeted, fending wildly with their shields. Many of these were felled in Cesco’s path.

Then the first lances were upon him, a forest of boar teeth aimed for his unshielded breast. Bonaventura and young Castelbarco, assigned to guard the defenseless banneret, folded him in their protection, riding just ahead, tight to his horse’s neck. Castelbarco received a punishing blow to his shield, due entirely to his refusal to deflect it in Cesco’s direction. Bonaventura managed to trap two lances angling for Cesco between his front arcione and his shield, allowing the motion of his horse to snap them both.

The next row was more dangerous still, for these were men who had not suffered in the front lines. But their rush was not quite as frantic, having been checked in their charge. They too aimed their lances for the little heir. Cesco dodged one lance entirely and allowed another to scrape his armour. He used the shaft of the banner to tap the hands holding a lance, forcing the enemy to drop it to the dirt. Grasping fingers plucked at the banner. Why didn’t I think to tie it to my wrist? A falcon’s jess would be the perfect tool. Too late now!

Then he was through, the staff still safely in his grip. He followed his protectors as they turned about. Turn, turny, tourney! The mêlée was now truly begun, a free-for-all of skill and honour.

The next ten minutes were among the most exciting of Cesco’s young life. Against his initial intentions, his sword remained scabbarded. He had no time to draw it, requiring each second to evade anew. But his war-horse, bred from the famous Montecchi stock, was marvelously responsive. Riding it was like being astride a battering-ram, and he barreled through knots of dueling men, upsetting friend and foe alike, the Scaligeri banner streaming behind his head.

As more and more men were unhorsed, pages and lackeys ran out to claim riderless mounts and guide them out the tunnels beneath the Arena. Few knights were so fortunate, but the removal of horses gave the contesting forces welcome room to maneuver.

Cesco owed Mastino and Fuchs a debt – their training had been ruthless but effective. He used the slowly-widening space to good advantage, always in motion, twisting this way then that in an unpredictable circuit.

Nevertheless he encountered real danger. The flag he carried meant wealth and glory for whoever attained it. Yet whenever he was threatened, some Veronese knight would come to his aid, abandoning personal fortune for communal victory. Surprisingly, Mastino was one of these – he left off chasing a rich Pole to lance away two Spaniards descending upon Cesco.

“Grazie, cos!” cried Cesco.

“Have to keep the pretty infant safe!” The Mastiff pointed at the banner. “Try not to drop that!”

Cesco had a biting reply ready, but Mastino was already off chasing Montagu for the opposing flag. The Englishman was skilled, guiding his horse without the reins as he clutched his banner close. Time and again he would simply ride clear of trouble, plunging himself into a knot of his fellow foreigners for protection. Because few of the foreigners had the same tongue, they all spoke French as best they could.

As the object of every foreign eye, Cesco hadn’t much time to watch. But it struck him that Montagu was playing an excellent defensive game – which was all well and good, but lacked spice. The Englishman was not making as much use of his banner as he might. Methinks he requires a demonstration.

Though it was a little lack-honour, Cesco swung the staff in his hands so that the banner wrapped itself around, leaving nothing trailing. Then he stood in the stirrups (not nearly as impressive as when Cangrande did it) and rode directly for a cluster of enemy knights facing the wrong way. He gave his mount its head, and as the beast bashed into a gap half its size, Cesco used the banner’s pole as a quarterstaff, aiming for heads and shoulders. Crack crack crack! Three knights were struck, two with the butt end, one with the wrapped banner itself. As his horse muscled through, Cesco let the banner unfurl and the crowd cheered his daring assault.

There was a penalty, of course. More enraged than injured, the three knights were in prime position for pursuit. He could almost feel their spurs as they launched after him, and he willed his mount onwards.

Instantly Capulletto was beside him. A moment later Montecchio was on his other flank. Together the pair dropped a step, forming a barrier between Cesco and his pursuers. Cesco found it amusing. The stories are true! As much as they hate each other, they never fail to find one another in battle.

Free again, Cesco repeated the tactic on another group. If only the armour didn’t impede his movements so! He knew he owed it his life several times over, but he resented not being able to slide in and out of his saddle to flip and trick as he was wont. This was clearly not the place for such flamboyance, but he hated being reduced to common riding. If it was common, Cesco wanted no part of it.

Verona’s forces were gaining the advantage. The numbers were even now, meaning the natives had removed more foreigners than they had themselves lost.

With less of a crush, Cesco finally had time to cinch his banner under his left arm and reach down to draw his sword from the saddle’s scabbard. His first time drawing a man’s blade in contest. Even if the blade was bated so as not to cut, it was worth savouring.

His momentary relish cost him, for seconds later there was a surge after him. He now held the banner one-handed, and enemy knights anxiously chased. Cesco’s first cut had him matching blades with a Frenchman whose colours held the royal lily in prominence, denoting a royal relative.

“Give me the staff and I’ll take you back to meet le Roi!” promised the Frenchman.

“Let me crown you instead, monsieur!” Cesco cracked the Frenchman’s helmet with the staff, then spurred away hard. Clear for a moment, he allowed his sword to sag as he stretched his arm. His injured shoulder was ablaze with pain, action and weight combining to aggravate it to white hot intensity. Which meant the hashish was burning away in his blood. Soon, or never.

Cesco spied a crush of men in which Fuchs was matching swords with Montagu. Like Cesco, the Englishmen had cinched his banner tightly under his left arm, wrapping his forearm around it to lock it in place. Fuchs had long ago abandoned or lost both lance and shield, and was now wielding a bastard-length blade. Montagu’s sword was shorter, but he’d taken Cesco’s example and was using the haft of the banner’s pole to strike Fuchs’ unprotected sides.

Earlier, when entering the Arena, Cesco had had an idea. An awful idea. A terrible, wonderful, awful idea. Reason told him he had to stick to his plan, yet the idea refused to leave him.

Seeing Fuchs face Montagu, he saw a way to make both plan and idea coincide. O Fuchs, you lovely villain – thank you! This is just what I need!

Cesco brought his horse hard into the fray, swinging his steel, parrying with wild abandon. Never a careful fighter, he let his instincts lead him on. As long as he held the banner, everything was well. Any moment now!

Fighting around the two bannerets grew fierce as both armies smelled a finish fast approaching. Fingers grasped and Cesco was forced to abandon his sword to keep the banner. Instead he again used the pole as a quarterstaff.

There were two styles to using a staff. Short-form was for closer, more defensive fighting. Eschewing short form, Cesco gripped the staff at one end – a longer reach meant a better attack. In long-form, he laid about him, swinging wildly and jabbing for chinks in armour, each swing and thrust bringing him closer to where Montagu and Fuchs battled.

Suddenly the two opposing bannerets were side by side, fending off very different attackers. Mid-parry, Cesco said in French, “Is it this warm in England?”

He heard Montagu laugh through his helmet. “Not often!” Unable to resist, Montagu swung his own banner at Cesco’s head. Cesco blocked it with his own, knocking it aside and feinting for Montagu’s midriff. Reversing the pole, he scooped his flapping banner around to strike the Englishman a wicked blow across the shoulders.

Fuchs wedged his mount between Cesco and Montagu. “Get out of it, trottel!”

“He means me!” explained Cesco to Montagu, who laughed again.

“Verpiss dich!” demanded Fuchs, his sword meeting Montagu’s staff. “You risk losing all!”

Ignoring Fuchs, Cesco swung again for Montagu. Fuchs blocked the blow, knocking the tip of Cesco’s banner down into the ground. He was instantly reviled by the crowd, watching breathlessly and hoping for their young banneret to strike down Montagu and win the day. Fuchs no doubt wanted the victory – and the prize – to be his alone.

The repulsed banner’s pole came to rest beneath Fuchs’ horse. Cesco glanced at Montagu. Now now now!

Still gripping the staff in long-form, Cesco struck upwards, hitting Fuchs’ horse underneath the hindquarters. Thoroughly gelded, the great beast was trained for all kind of blows. That one elicited an especial, and quite natural, response – it reared.

Cesco kicked hard with a single spur and sawed on his reins. In answer, his horse turned sideways to Fuchs, placing its rump against Montagu’s saddle. As the rearing horse came down, the flailing spiked hooves struck to either side of Cesco’s saddle, one leg before Cesco’s eyes, the other behind his back. He leaned desperately away from the muzzled teeth that snapped and bit. This might have been a bad idea—

As the forelegs raked the metal fiancali and groppa, Cesco’s horse tried to flee. Fuchs’ mount slipped free and descended to the earth, bringing the massive weight of the beast squarely down. The solid front of Cesco’s saddle, the arcione, met the metal chest protection of Fuchs’ pettiera, trapping Cesco’s leg.

“Scheisse!” Fuchs pulled back on the reins and his horse obediently tried to turn. There was a great cracking sound and Cesco shouted in dreadful pain just as Fuchs got himself free. The banner in Cesco’s hand drooped again.

Seeing an opportunity, Montagu lunged, reaching for the butt-end of Cesco’s staff.

Though in agony, Cesco’s staff came around to catch Montagu hard in the neck. Trying not to move below the waist, Cesco struck again with the banner-end. This time his target was the Englishman’s forearm. He connected, and involuntarily Montagu’s fingers relaxed. It was only a moment, but long enough. Cesco lunged.

But it was another of Verona’s knights who seized the enemy banner and pulled it free. As the bugles called an end to the fighting, Cesco looked at the man riding victoriously around the Arena, displaying the silver and blue banner for all to see.

Passerino Bonaccolsi. The lord of Mantua, opportunist to the core, was the hero.

Sitting in his saddle with the tattered Scaligeri banner still in his grip, Cesco panted like a bellows that had lost its wind. His left leg was hanging limply in the stirrup. He glanced up to the crowded balcony. Cangrande was watching him closely. So too Katerina. Morsicato was on his feet, pushing bodies aside to gain a better view.

But strangely it was not these faces Cesco sought. He scanned until he saw the Rienzi girl. She too was staring at him, and he wondered if she’d cheered him even once. I bet you didn’t, you little harpy. Which is fine, because I don’t like you either.

Suddenly she vanished, and Cesco wondered what had caused the sun to go dark…

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Custom dictated that the day following a tournament there be held a banquet, during which the patron offered prizes to the victors. As it was thrown by Cangrande, it had to be a more lavish affair than anyone had ever seen. From food to entertainment, he spared no expense. No man would go to bed sober, or alone.

This was also the farewell feast for Jacopo Alaghieri, who found himself the butt of a drinking game, wherein any time someone mentioned a foreign place, he had to drink.

It was a cruel game, as the whole feast was rife with the latest rumours from France – the English Queen and her lover had quarreled in public, and she’d threatened to return to her husband. Roger Mortimer, once the English king’s stoutest supporter, had reportedly replied, “I’ll cut you with my own knife if you try.” Being French-born, it was said Queen Isabella had soothed him to tranquility between the sheets.

This report made it likely that the looming storm of civil war would pass England by, having done no more than ruffle court feathers and sent the bankers scurrying. Being English and acquainted with the foolish, over-fond king, William Montagu was plied with both questions and alcohol, in the hopes that the latter would aid in answers to the former. He passed out beside Poco, and both had to be taken back to their rooms in a cart.

Of course, the other talk that day was of Verona’s heir. When asked, Cangrande maintained that the boy was recovering well at the hands of the best physicians in the land. He gave no hint of the conference that had occurred the night before in the old palace across the square, outfitted with a warm room in the basement for relaxing. Built upon a Roman foundation, they had resurrected the ancient baths here. Meant for the Scaliger’s own use, the warm healing waters were now turned over entirely for Cesco’s care.

The conference had begun baldly enough. Morsicato and Fracastoro, Cangrande’s personal doctor, were binding Cesco’s leg. Detto was making idle chatter to Cesco, whose replies were a trifle dizzy but not incoherent.

Suddenly Cangrande entered. “Ser Dottore, Lord Physician – will he walk?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Fracastoro. “It is a clean break.”

“Good. I want him up on horseback in a fortnight.”

“Not less than two months,” replied Morsicato.

Cangrande scowled as Fracastoro backed up his colleague’s opinion. “At the very least. If it heals crooked, he’ll be lame for life. No, my colleague is correct, two months. Better three.”

When the splinting was completed, Cangrande dismissed the doctors, then politely asked Detto to fetch some wine.

Alone, the two stared at each other for a time. Becoming bored, Cesco paddled a hand in the bath-waters beside him. “A wonderful feat, recreating the baths.”

“It never fails to astonish me, the knowledge we’ve lost over the last thousand years. Why can we no longer make the devices the Romans saw as commonplace?”

“Like so much else, it is trial and error,” said Cesco. “In time everything old will be new again.”

“Just like your leg. Do not look upon this as a reprieve.”

“Au contraire,” said Cesco. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

“You’re quite correct.” Arms folded, Cangrande leaned against the stone wall, gazing at Cesco in the light of the glowing brazier. It cast a red glow over the room. “Many are saying someone is trying to murder you. Again.”

“We have another commonality.” Shifting, Cesco knew better than to wince. Pity would not be forthcoming.

“Indeed. But it does make me wonder – who switched your lances yesterday? I thought I put you in charge of the practice lances.” When Cesco said nothing, the Scaliger continued. “I might forgive one doctored lance slipping by you, but two? Shoddy, very shoddy.”

“If I could bend, I would grovel for forgiveness.”

“Still,” continued Cangrande, “it was quite a feat, your not being skewered.”

“A compliment? I’m gratified. Astonished, but —”

“Quite a feat,” repeated the Scaliger. “Almost as if you knew it was coming.”

“It’s due to your training,” said Cesco lightly. “I’m always expecting the sharp end of the stick.”

The Capitano barked out a single laugh. “Ha! Yes, well. Taken as a whole, it certainly appears that someone is attempting to murder you. After today those suspicions are alighting on one set of shoulders. Poor Fuchs is bearing all kinds of dark glances, and Mastino by association.”

“That is a grave injustice,” said Cesco.

“It is, since they are guiltless.”

“Innocent of this,” answered Cesco sharply. “Not guiltless.”

Cangrande looked amused. “Have they been abusing you so much in the practice yard? It can’t have been so terrible, they taught you well enough.” He paused theatrically. “It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it? You are wounded – not once, but twice! – before the eyes of the whole city. Neither fatal, but combined they are quite enough to win you the sympathy of every feeble-minded fool on the Anziani. It is a unifier, gathering you quite a bit of political clout. If someone wants you dead, you must be a force to be reckoned with.”

“The same could be said for you,” replied Cesco. “You are impervious to attack, so your foes will destroy you through your heir.”

Cangrande nodded absently. “If they were not suspicious of me for causing it all.”

Cesco threw up his hands in mock horror. “You? Ma, no!”

Again Cangrande nodded, this time in satisfaction. “Just as I suspected. Well done. I was wondering when you would fight back. It’s past time.”

Cesco’s face betrayed nothing. “I have no idea what you—”

“You planted the lances. You caused the accident.” Cangrande gazed at Cesco with a menacing grin. “I’m impressed, actually. I was wondering how you would escape. Short of self-slaughter, this is perhaps the best way. A broken leg, an injured shoulder. Public, heroic, with a whiff of suspicion alighting upon your foes. Just what I’ve been waiting to see you do.”

Suddenly pleased to be seated, Cesco felt his blood drain as a hundred contradictory thoughts ricocheted around his skull. Cesco wasn’t changing the rules after all. He was dancing exactly to the tune the Scaliger played. Fut.

Unless— “You’re making that up. You didn’t think I would break free, just break. Now I’m free you can make it sound as if you plotted this all along.”

“I have no objection to your nonce of freedom. Because at the end of the tunnel you’ll see me waiting for you. You know what is coming this time. And I promise you, boy – short of death, you will not escape me again. When our contest resumes, I will break you. Not your leg. You.” Cangrande appeared suddenly thoughtful. “Meanwhile, if you cannot train, you can at least be put to work. When I ‘died’ last year, Mastino made free use of my personal effects. Most of them were easily recovered, but one treasure trove was lost to me. My library. Hundreds of books and scrolls, innumerable scraps of parchment from Roman times and earlier. All given to the brothers at the Chapter Library.”

“You want me to make copies,” said Cesco hopelessly, imagining cramped fingers and squinting eyes.

“I think not. I’ve seen your handwriting. No, the works are available to me if I desire them. The trouble is, neither the brothers nor myself ever had the opportunity to properly organize and catalogue the contents.”

Cesco’s voice was wooden. “You want a list of everything in the library.”

“Oh, nothing so basic! I want a proper codex, with cross-references to each work. You must read every one of them, noting the names of each person referenced, the page, the volume, et cetera. Obviously you will be living with the holy brothers while you perform this feat. You will not leave their walls for any reason.”

Cesco sat upright. “The feast of San Bonaventura is in a week! Capulletto’s ball—”

“—is much too risky for a body in your condition. No, no more feasts for you, boy. We must get you well! Besides, you’d be hard pressed to surpass last year’s escapade even if you were in peak form. No, you’ll spend that and every other night within the monastery walls, reading Latin and Greek – so fortunate that you are skilled in languages.” Cangrande stepped away from the wall, looming over his heir with palpable delight. “What say you?”

What else was there but to agree? It was the cleverest of all punishments. Cesco had anticipated being an invalid in the palace, with access to other people. Whereas inside the monastery he would be effectively imprisoned. He would hear the general news, but no more.

It also cut Cesco off from the continuing intrigues of Detto’s mother and her veiled hints at some weapon to be used against the Scaliger. For the first time he was tempted to accept her offer. But no. This battle was his to win or lose. Cesco refused to be a pawn in their ongoing duel, whatever that was about.

Besides, for a child raised in the household of the poet Dante, being locked up with a few hundred books was hardly a cruel fate. Cesco was certain he would emerge out the other side whole and ready for the next step in his plan. Once he figured out what that step would be.

“I agree,” he said, bowing to the Scaliger’s will.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Thus it was that the revelers at the celebratory feast were ignorant of all but that Cesco was convalescing. Passerino Bonaccolsi was awarded the victor’s prize, and the Veronese ‘army’ shared in the spoils. Montagu’s ransom was paid by the Scaliger himself in homage to the English knight’s bravery. Crowns were awarded, and torques, and swords, and horses. No one would leave Verona without experiencing the extravagance of the Scaliger’s court.

In the midst of the revels there was a resounding knock on the doors to the great hall. Repeated four more times, each blow reverberated tremendously around the chamber. Mid-quaff, Cangrande gestured for the doors to be opened.

In strode nine men in immaculate dress, richly jeweled and exuding authority. Nine men – a heavenly number. It was a deliberate calculation, one not lost on Cangrande as he set down his wine and stood. Instantly he understood the meaning of this invasion.

Though he had not yet achieved an audience with his Holiness, Ser Pietro Alaghieri had succeeded thus far at least: the Pope had sent his own emissaries to learn the condition of the Greyhound’s soul.