David Blixt

Chapter 3 - The Prince's Near Allies pt. 1

The Benedictine bells were just finishing the call to Prime when two panting teens raced up the inner stairs of the great Scaliger palace in Verona. Attaining the top, they skidded to a halt at a demure distance from the open double doors. Listening, they heard arguing and laughter echoing down the hall to them. They grinned at each other in relief. They were not too late.

An under-steward came bustling forward. “Master Montecchio, welcome. Your father and brother are already within.” He glanced at the other young man, with an inquiring inclination of his head.

“This is my friend, Pietro Alighieri,” said Montecchio.

“Alaghieri,” said Pietro automatically.

“Right, sorry. Pietro Alaghieri. He’s the son of –”

“Of course,” said the steward, unable to entirely hide the sign against evil he made behind his back. “Your esteemed father is also within. If you will both doff your boots, I have slippers waiting by the door. You are the last to arrive.”

This statement renewed their panic. Hastily they removed their boots in favor of soft-soled, pointy-toed slippers.

Montecchio said,  “I’ve always heard your name as Al-ee-gary. What’s this Al-ah-gary business?”

Pietro shrugged. “It’s my father biting his thumb. Alighieri is the Florentine pronunciation. Since the banishment, he’s insisted on the older pronunciation – Alaghieri, after our ancestor, Alaghiero di Cacciaguida.”

Mariotto nodded as if he were truly interested. “And your brother came with you?”

Pietro grunted as he struggled with his right boot. “Jacopo.”

“What’s he like?”

Familial pride battled honesty. He settled on saying, “He’s fourteen.”

“Ah. No brothers here, just a sister. She’s all right, if a little quiet. Aurelia.”

“Mariotto and Aurelia?”

“Actually, Romeo and Aurelia. My mother named us – or so my father tells me. I never knew her. She chose Romeo as my baptismal name, but he wanted to honor his father, so I am Romeo Mariotto Montecchio. Call me Romeo and I’ll murder you.” He finished fitting his own slippers on and stood up tall. “Ready to face the lion’s den?”

If it were a lion I wouldn’t be so terrified. “How do we explain being late?”

Mariotto clapped Pietro on the shoulder and together they made for the grand hall. “Some things you just have to take a deep breath and live through.”

Just before they reached the door, Pietro halted. There was a fresco on the wall by the door, one of a set of five. Each depicted a man on horseback, behind whom flew the banner of the five-runged ladder. The five men showed a great deal of resemblance, but it was to the last, closest to the door, that Pietro gazed at.

“Our lord,” said Mariotto.

Pietro peered at the glazed paintwork. If you didn’t know the man the fresco might have been deemed flattery. Mounted on a great destrier, mace in one hand, sword in the other, head free of his hound-shaped helmet, Cangrande was fiercely beautiful. The face was full of dark joy. Above his head, alongside the banner of the ladder, flew a personal banner with a greyhound racing across an azure field. The artist had added some dark spots to the banner, signifying the blood spilt in battle by this magnificent cavaliere.

But it was the actual paint that had Pietro’s interest. “This is excellent work.”

“It surely is,” nodded Montecchio, looking close. “The neck of the stallion is just right, and also the length of the mane… Oh – sorry. My family breeds horses. These were painted by Giotto di Bondone.” Pietro startled Mariotto with an abrupt laugh. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Better,” said Pietro. “I know him. He’s a friend of my father's. Sort of. We visited him often in Lucca.” Pietro opened his mouth, then shut it, visibly resisting temptation. Knowing he was missing something, Mariotto made an open gesture with his hands. “What?”

Pietro shook his head, then said, “Have you ever seen Giotto’s children? They're as sweet as can be, really nice. But they’re repulsive. Girls as well as the boys. Ugly as sin. Well, we’re eating supper in their house one night when father asks how a man who paints such beautiful frescoes could make such ugly children.”

“Oh dear God! What did Giotto say?”

Pietro did his best imitation of the cheery painter. “‘My dear fellow, I do all my painting by daylight.’”

Smothering their laughter, they entered the salon.

*                                *                            *                              *         

Somewhere near Torre di Confine a lone rider reined in before an inn. He was young and frantic-looking, leaping from his sweat-streaked horse and calling for a fresh one. A stable boy emerged from beside the inn, a hunk of cheese in his hand. At the same moment the inn’s proprietor, a burly man with one arm, sauntered out the door. The stable boy looked on, bored, as his master gave first the youth then his horse an appraising look.

“No,” he said over his shoulder. “No horse for him. To judge by this one, he’ll kill it.”

The breathless boy was by his side clutching his arm before he had fully turned. Gasping, he gave his news. At the same moment he spilled his purse at the inn-keeper’s feet.

Whether it was the news or the gold, the inn-keeper changed his tune at once. The boy was brought some stout ale while the best horse was saddled. The boy shivered the whole time, looking as though he were about to weep. He was certain he’d barely escaped with his life, and was equally sure that each moment of delay brought a whole army in his wake.

In ten minutes he was on the road again, a fresh wineskin hanging from his belt, digging his heels harder and harder into the new horse, leaving the inn-keeper to call his neighbors together to decide if they should flee.

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Letters to Juliet

I know there are desperate people in the world, seeking advice on how to live their lives. Dear Abby, Oprah, and Mr. Blue (oh, how I do miss Mr. Blue) are only a few examples of how authoriy figures have hundreds, even thousands of people seeking their counsel. I have absolutely no issue with this, nor really a comment to voice. Fine, whatever.

But there are those who don't quite know where to turn. When she was younger, Jan worked as a receptionist at a television station. Her job was to cull the real calls from the crazies. She was confused by that job description until she fielded a call from a woman who had burned her hand and wanted to talk to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman for help.

I suppose I have less of a problem with asking for a fictional character than with the choice of fictional character - wouldn't she rather talk to Dr. Ross or Dr. Carter? Or even the guys from MASH? Someone with a knowledge of modern medicine at least?

Which, in a roundabout way, brings us to the topic of people writing letters to Juliet. It's been happening for several hundred years, I imagine. The lovelorn, for the most part, writing to her for help. Now two authors, Lise and Ceil Friedman, have complied a book of letters written to Juliet in Verona, and the answers sent by the club set up just for that purpose. The book is called, "Letters to Juliet."

What I cannot for the life of me fathom is, why are these people writing to Juliet? Why go to her of all people for help? There are three distinct problems with their choice of advisor, which I will list in ascending order:

1 - She is a fictional character.

2 - She's a dead fictional character.

3 - Seeing how she's dead because of her lovelife, why would anyone want her advice in the first place? Her love affair didn't go so well. Contrary to popular opinion (and the tagline for my novel), Romeo & Juliet is not the greatest love-story ever told. To me, in a great love story, they would live. I guess I'm not a hopeless romantic. Like the lady said in Romancing the Stone, I'm a hopeful romantic.

So there it is, my frustration with people not thinking through their need for a guide in life. I have much less trouble with Linus writing to the Great Pumpkin than I do with people writing to a fictional dead fourteen year-old.

I mean, really - who asks love advice from a fourteen year-old?

-DB

The Count - pt. 1

In the novel, the title 'Count' is reserved for my villain, the Count of San Bonifacio. But if I were to mention the Count to my wife, she would respond with a smile and a joke about pouring coffee.

Jan and I were married in 2002. Our honeymoon also served as a research trip. Of the three months we spent touring Europe, starting in Greece and ending in London, fully a month of it was spent in Italy. Of that month, a week was spent in Verona. Thanks to the advice of photo-journalist David Turnley, a family friend, I had been in contact with city officials. Antonella Leonardo, an assistant minister of culture I had corresponded with, had arranged for us to stay at the Hotel Milano, that backs up onto the Arena. Very nice. 

As I've said elsewhere, Antonella arranged every meeting I had in Verona. It was June, and Italy was experiencing a major heat wave, so there were a lot of dinner-time meetings. Rita Severi and her husband and daughter were going to take us out one night. That afternoon I placed a call to a number Antonella had given me. A teenage girl answered, "Pronto."

I said something like, "I'm looking for the Count."

"My father isn't here. Leave your name and he'll ring you back."

I did and minutes before we were to leave to meet Rita the phone rang again. "Hello?"

"Hello. This is Piere-Alvins, the Count of Serego-Alighieri."

"Hi! Um, my name is David Blixt. I'm writing a book about Shakespeare and Dante, and one of the main characters is Dante's son, Pietro. I was, ah, wondering if I could come out and - speak to you."

"How long are you in Verona?"

"Until Saturday."

"Come up tomorrow morning. 10 o'clock. Yes?"

"Yes! We'll be there!"

He gave me a few directions for the cab driver, then we rang off. I was as nervous as I was excited. Jan and I headed out the door to meet Rita at the city library. That night at dinner we mentioned our coming visit with the Count. Rita was disgusted. "There are no titles in Italy any more!" she said, bemoaning the continuation of 'honorary' titles.

But it didn't stop me from being trepidacious about meeting the Count the next day.

Living Sources

Outside of books, there are the living Veronese.

Antonella Leonardo at the Ministry of Culture was unbelievably kind and helpful, answering questions and arranging for my wife and I to meet a half dozen fascinating people while we stayed. Besides arranging my introduction to the Count, she also connected us with Professor Rita Severi.

Rita teaches at the University of Verona. She, with her husband Paulo and their lovely daughter Giulia, took us out for the single most enjoyable evening in a three month tour of Europe. I learned more about Verona in that night than in two years of reading. Rita led me to the city library, where I was inundated with books as a gift from the head librarian. She also translated some of Manoello Guido’s verses for me, which I use early and often. I am very much in her debt.

Two days later we were taken on another tour by Daniela Zumiani, who showed us the Roman ruins under the city, available through shop basements and restaurant wine cellars. She was as enthused as could be by our little project. In her honor, let me plug her book, SHAKESPEARE AND VERONA – PALACES AND COURTYARDS OF MEDIEVAL VERONA, available in both English and Italian.

Between the books, surfing the web, and several trips to Verona and the region, I have had the wonderful experience of immersing myself in my tale. Yet, in spite of all this research, there will be errors. They are entirely my own.

- DB

More Sources

At the eleventh hour I discovered a tome that is to be treasured – the DANTE ENCYCLOPEDIA. In spite of the occasional error (the Lucius Junius Brutus that killed the Tarquin was decidedly not the son of the Marcus Junius Brutus who murdered Caesar!), the vast effort of compiling so much knowledge regarding the Infernal Poet and his scribblings is to be commended and savored.

Harriet Rubin’s DANTE IN LOVE came in during the final edits to give me a little period flavor – which side of the hat Guelphs wore their feathers on, etc.

Lastly the Italian version of GLI SCALIGERI, 1277-1387, edited by Arnaldo Mondadori is chock full of facts and contains photos of just about every Scaligeri artifact a body could want.

Many of my other source texts were in Italian, German, or Latin. When this is the case, it behooves one to read these languages with something that resembles fluency. Though my Italian has improved greatly, I was still often forced to rely on translators. For their work in this capacity, I must thank Mrs. Sylvia Giorgini (Italian), U of M Professor Martin Walsh (German), and my old high school chum, professor John Lober, for his help with a bit of Latin.

This novel could not have been fully formed without the internet. Halfway through a paragraph I’d come up with a question that I’d go online to answer. What were the makes of saddles? Who was ruling Aragon, or Egypt? What was the date of Easter Sunday, 1315? Fully half of my research happened on the web, sifting through incomplete and conflicting data. I plan to provide the most important and reliable links at a later date, but let me just bless Wikipedia.

Still more sources to follow.

-DB

Good Reads 2 - The Winter King

Bernard Cornwell is certainly best known for the Sharpe series. But I maintain that his King Arthur trilogy is his best work. Beginning with The Winter King, then moving on to Enemy of God, and ending with Excalibur, the series follows a little-known character from early Arthurian myth, Derfel. Rasied by Merlin and fighting for Arthur, he is constantly drawn into the intrigues of both their worlds.

What I love so passionately about this series is that it deconstructs the flowery Arthur myths. This is the fifth century, not the twelfth. No jousts, no pageants, just warfare and survival.

Some of the things I like best:

- Arthur is not a king, he's a warlord. This correlates to the earliest mention of him as a Dux Bellorum, a Duke of War.

- Arthur spends most of the three books fending off the Saxons. This is what he was famous for in the first place, but it has seemed to hold no interest for any author in the last eight hundred years. They're much more interested in his lovelife.

- Lancelot is a cad. His reputation for bravery comes from the bards, whom he pays.

- Arthur is a pagan who doesn't care at all about religion until it stands in his way.

- the Round Table was just a table a feast. Someone took it and made it famous in a song, leaving out the fact that it was cracked and vomited upon by the end of the night.

- Merlin isn't hunting the Holy Grail. He's a pagan, so he's after a pagan cauldron!

These are just a few of the elements I enjoy, the ones that don't give away major plot points. A brilliant series. I once tried to get the rights to adapt it to the stage. My wife, Jan, wrote a script for the first novel. But when Cornwell read our draft he cheerfully said he thought we'd been too faithful to his book. After that, sadly, the rights were granted to the Welsh National Theatre, or Clwyd Theatr Cymru. I had drinks last year with the CTC artistic director, Terry Hands, who told me how the project was progessing. It makes me sad that so much has been changed in their drafts. Cornwell's novel caused Jan and I to see the action staged just as it was written.

Nevertheless I want the play to be a huge success. And I keep buying the first book for people. Everyone should be aware of this version of the classic tale.

-DB

Violence, on the Stage and on the Page

The battle scenes in the book are some of my favorites. I am a stage combatant, trained in different styles of swordplay and other Medieval weapons. I’ve traveled all over the world to learn from the best in the field.

So when it came time to write an skirmish, then a duel, then a battle, I found myself standing in my office, sword in hand, working the movements one after another. I’d pick up a spear. Then an axe. I actually own a halberd, a gift from a cast of Richard III I once directed, and that came into play up on my roof. I found myself choreographing the fights as I would for a stage show, but on a much larger canvas.

The art of stage combat is looking incredibly violent while being incredibly safe. As Maestro David Woolley puts it, “Your job is to make sure your partner is safe and looks good. You do your job, he does his job, everybody’s safe, everybody looks good.”

It is also a goal, as a choreographer, to make violence seem as awful as it is. It’s not enough these days for Juliet to just stab herself, or for the Duff family to be murdered. My goal is to leave the audience squirming.

I had an especially good time doing the fights for Defiant Theatre’s A Clockwork Orange. Some fights had the audience laughing, some cringing, one in particular drew gasps most every night. Fun fun fun.

I tried to bring some of that to the novel, varying the type of fighting, the kind of weapons, the intent of the combatants. Sometimes the fighting is light-hearted, sometimes desperate and sudden. The page also allows me to do two things. Firstly, I can broaden the scope of the fighting, doing a great deal on horseback, which I have only had one abortive attempt at in theatre (seriously, don’t ask). Secondly, I can slow the action down. Part of the trouble in stage violence is that if it goes by too quickly the audience isn’t sure what happened. If it happens too slow they don’t believe it. A very tricky balance to maintain. Now, pacing is as important in a novel as it is onstage, but the written word does afford me a little more latitude.

In the end I noticed I was wounding my lead far more than I ever intended. Pietro was never meant to be crippled by a blow to the leg so early in the book. It just happened, though I have to admit it made all his subsequent fighting much more interesting. I’ve always been a fan of the James Bond and Sharpe books where the hero has to spend a month in the hospital after saving the day. I never heap physical woe upon Cangrande. Always poor Pietro, as much my victim as my hero.

-DB

Chapter 2 - A Crowd of Spirits pt. 2

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Verona

“Alighieri! Hola! Alighieri!!”

Weaving in and out of the midday crowd, Pietro turned at the hail and was at once knocked to the ground. He felt the trod of feet and a buffet of absent blows before a hand caught him by the shoulder. “Alighieri!”

“Alaghieri.” Dazed, Pietro staggered to his feet, brushing dirt and filth from his best doublet.

“Are you alright?” He was turned about to behold a face no older than his own, with hair black as jet and eyes as blue as sparrow’s eggs. The doublet bordered on frippery, but the hose, boots, and hat were of the finest quality. He was closely shaved, as if to show off a mouth a trifle too pretty.

“Fine,” said Pietro, a little shortly. His best doublet was his best no longer. But the teen looked familiar. It had been chaos last night, and with all his father’s luggage to bestow, his brother running about pointing out the windows, Pietro hadn’t caught half the names thrown at him. Embarrassment mounting, he tried to remember…

“Montecchio,” supplied the comely youth. “Mariotto Montecchio.”

“You had the baby hawk.”

Montecchio’s smile was dazzling. “Yes! I’m training it so I can hunt with the Capitano. Maybe you can join us next time?”

Giving up on the doublet, Pietro nodded eagerly. “I’d like that.” He had missed the revelry last night, consigned to unpacking. The Alaghieri paterfamilias had, of course, participated, riding forth with the nobility on the midnight hunt. All night long Pietro and his brother had groused, and this morning he felt the pangs even worse, for everyone was talking of the sport.

Not that Pietro really enjoyed hunting. Like soldiering, it was more that he wished he were the kind of man who enjoyed it. It seemed to be something he should love.

Montecchio looked him up and down, checked the length of his arms. “We’ll get you a sparrowhawk. It’ll match the feather in your –” Mariotto’s brows knit together as he glanced at Pietro’s head. “Where’s your hat?”

Pietro ran a hand up and discovered his head was bare. Looking about he spied his fine plumed hat a few feet away, wilted and trampled.

Montecchio leapt forward to snatch it out from under the trod of boots and sandals. “I am so sorry,” he said gravely. He looked genuinely pained as he held it in his hand. Mariotto took attire seriously.

Pietro did his best to smile as he took the limp cloth with its broken feather from out of Montecchio’s hands. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn't a very nice cap.”

It had been a very nice cap. A trifle, surely, but Pietro was allowed few trifles. His father had an austere code that applied to all things, including dress. Pietro had barely managed to win the right to wear the doublet and hose, which his father viewed as extravagant and showy. The hat had been a gift from the great Pisan lord Uguccione della Faggiuola, who knew all about young men and their vanity. Pietro had convinced his father that refusing the gift would have been an insult. “I only wear the hat out of respect for your patron, father,” he’d said. Somehow the old cynic had bought it. Now it was crushed and covered with dirt.

“I’ll replace it,” declared Mariotto instantly.

“You don’t...”

Mariotto insisted. “It’s your first day here! No, we're going to the best haberdasher in the city. Follow me!”

Not to agree would have been churlish. The late morning sun warmed Pietro’s back as he ducked and weaved through the myriad enticements of the Piazza delle Erbe, trying to keep up. (The finest whips and crops!) Men of all shapes and sizes jostled with each other as buyers and sellers called out their wares to pilgrims, palmers, Jews, even the occasional heathen Moor. (Fish! The fruit of sea, the Captaino’s favorite!) Pietro’s eyes encountered millers, fishmongers, barbers, and smiths, all crying their wares from tented stalls or storefronts. (Love potions! Dump the man you have and get the one you deserve!) There were so very many small nooks, but Pietro didn’t have the time to even glance into one before Mariotto was off in another direction. (Skins, well cured! Don’t let the heat fool you! Winter’s coming! Stay warm!)

It was loud! Anvils chimed in their workshops, and the cries of exotic animals on display only added to the din. Monkeys hopped around in cages, hawks screamed, hounds barked, all underscored by guitars, lutes, flutes, viols, rebecs, tambourines, and the voices of the troubadors. It was Nimrod’s Tower come to life, cacaphonous pandemonium. A seller of headstones was immediately replaced by a purveyor of sweet pasties who held his samples in the air, enticingly aromatic. Legally a vendor couldn’t physically accost a traveler, but that only increased the assault on the other senses, and the huge signs which hung over the stalls were worse than grabbing hands. Each proclaimed the trade of the stall-owner, even as the owner shouted insults at the vendor across the way. Above the signs, in row after row of low balconies, men capered and shouted to friends below, watching the course of various arguments and fistfights and making loud bets with each other as to the outcome.

Mariotto easily navigated the shops and stalls, using short-cuts through alleys and leaping over barrels that blocked their path. Pietro followed him down a sidestreet purfumed with mulled wines and spiced meats. Trying to keep up, Pietro continued to make the proper protestations. “Actually, I was on an errand for my father.”

Mariotto grinned. “Something devilish?”

Pietro laughed because he was expected to. “I have to order him some new sandals.”

Mariotto turned to walk backwards as he asked, “What happened to his old ones? Burned in the hellfire?”

“No,” said Pietro. “My brother.”

Montecchio nodded wisely, as though the answer made sense. “We'll head to the river and circle around to Cobbler Lane on the way back to the palace – you cannot deny me the opportunity to replace your cap. It would stain my family’s honor to let this injustice go unanswered.” Pietro’s guide laughed as he whirled off into the crowds. Pietro followed.

Behind them came the sound of the human tongue in disjointed harmony. Each traveler spoke their native language, causing the air to be thick with a war of French, English, Flemish, Greek, and more. Interlaced into the cacophony rose the harsh guttural sounds of German. Veronese speech owed at least as much to German as it did to Italian, and the local dialect was redolent with its sounds.

Over the noise Pietro said, “Why are you out this morning? Weren’t you in the wedding party?”

“Yes! I did my best, but I couldn’t talk him out of it! Poor fool – just a couple years older than us and already tied down to a wife! But until the feast there’s nothing but servants racing about the palace and women cooing about how lovely it all was. I had to escape.”

A roar of approval from the men around them raised their eyes to the highest balconies of the building nearby. Several young women had emerged and draped themselves over the railings, their garments falling revealingly open. One girl waved at Pietro and flashed something pink from beneath her bodice. Pietro blushed and waved shyly back.

Mariotto said, “I could arrange an introduction.”

I shouldn’t be shocked, thought Pietro. This is the market plaza, after all. Aloud he said, “In Florence they’re forced to wear tiny bells.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes. There’s an old joke about churches and prostitutes – the bells call a man to repent what the bells call a man to do.”

As they talked, Pietro spied a score of soldiers swaggering through the square. Montecchio never stopped talking as he led a merry chase down the long street. Figuring that Pietro would soon be sent to hunt for tools linked to his father's profession, Mariotto made sure to point out where to find the best wax for sealing, the best cut quills.

Then they reached milliner row, close to an ancient tufa wall, a stark contrast to the rose marble and red brick all around them. These were the old walls, built by the Romans or their forebears – no one knew for certain. The first true inhabitants of Verona were lost to memory. Regardless, the walls existed, enclosing the oldest and richest part of the city – though what good they would be if attacked, Pietro wasn’t sure.

Twenty minutes later Pietro was once more appropriately, if ostentatiously, hatted. He had settled on a puffed-out burgundy affair sporting a thin green feather just above the left ear – the Ghibbeline ear. Feeling rakish, he followed Mariotto to a string of cobblers where he ordered sandals to be ready for the poet the following day.

The sun was directly overhead, the bridal dinner nigh. Mariotto unfettered his infectious grin. “We’d better get back. My father asked me to be amusing for Monsignore Alighieri’s children.”

“Alaghieri.”

“That’s what I said.” He clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. “To tell you the truth, I was dreading it. Thank you for being nothing like what I imagined the son of a poet to be.”

Again Pietro smiled because he was supposed to. Inside his skin he shuddered. That’s the question, isn’t it? What is the son of a poet – of any great man – if not less than. Inferior. Useless.

To cheer himself up, Pietro looked for a way to repay Mariotto’s kindness. Being lost and alone in a new city was nothing new, but having a friend was. When they were five minutes from the palace, traversing the Plaza delle Erbe once more, he spotted the perfect gift. “Wait here,” he said, dashing off through the crowd. A few moments later he reappeared.

“For you, signore,” said Pietro with an elaborate bow, twisting his new hat between his fingers in a flourish. With his free hand he offered a pair of fine corded leather straps. From one end of each hung a solid silver vervel for engraving the owner's name.

Montecchio’s eyes lit up. “Jesses!” Reaching out, he checked. “Really, Alighieri, it's too much.” Now it was Montecchio’s protests that were feeble.

Pietro was helpless to stop his embarrassingly lop-sided smile. “Your hawk should be as well-dressed as you are.”

Mariotto admired the small token. “Tomorrow we’ll go riding along the Adige and see if the fellow will fly at all.”

Pietro nodded. If father will let me. Out loud he said, “I’d like that.”

A bell began to ring to the south, then another to the east. Mariotto’s eyes grew wide. “We're late!”

Cut Scene I - Attack of the Paduans pt. 4

The conclusion to this cut scene is actually a hodge-podge of two versions - one in which we follow Ponzino, the other in which the Count is our guide. I hope the shift is not too jarring. Enjoy!

In the end, Vanni Scornigiani (detto Asdente) was one of the hundred men who swam across the moat and stood, rope and grapple in hand, under the walls of the suburb of San Pietro. In the lead with him were Marsilio da Carrara and his cousin Umbertio, Albertino Mussato, the della Torre, Vinciguerra di San Bonifacio - and the Podestà of Padua.

Ponzino knew he shouldn't have come. These were the assignments on which a good commander sent able, but expendable, men. But to have his name forever sung in connection with the retaking of Vicenza, a chance for glory and fame - how could he not go forth? Besides, he felt the need to assert his authority. He had noticed how many men in his army turned to Giacomo il Grande and the Count for guidance. Il Grande was too clever to actively usurp Ponzino's authority in any way, but his mere presence eroded it. Ponzino had left him behind to lead the Paduan army through the gates once the signal was given. The fame of leading the attack on the city would belong to Ponzino de' Ponzoni. If he lived or not.

Like most city-states, Vicenza was a series of walled rings. The outer-most circles of the ring were the suburbs. Here dwelled the poorer classes, and were stored the less essential commodities. The next set of walls enclosed into the city itself. The plan was to infiltrate this outer suburb, called San Pietro for the church it held. Once inside, they would open the gates and ride the bulk of the army through to assault the inner walls. But success could only come if they could maintain the secrecy that had brought them this far. The element of surprise is everything in war.

The plan had been the Count's idea, so it was he who gave the signal to begin. As one the leading knights threw their lines, catching them with a thunderous crash that they were sure would bring a thousand spears down on them.

Nothing.

Not a single voice raised in alarm. Not even a murmur.

Several men missed their first try. Rather than throw again, they waited to follow up another's rope after the first up had secured the wall. They began to climb. The old Count surprised everyone by being quickest to the top. He swung himself over the crenellated turret and drew his longsword. Marsilio was next over the wall, with Ponzino scabbling up third. They all looked around for the guards. 

Not a soul.

Vinciguerra began to feel uneasy. It had to be harder than this! He waited with Vanni and Ponzoni for the rest of the first wave to reach the top. Then, leaving some men behind to signal his waiting army, they began the descent to the gatehouse.

"I'm right behind you," Marsilio whispered in the dark. "Just in case."

The Count didn't answer, not even to hush the idiot child. More rage than sense, that was this Carrara. None of his uncle's forethought. If he got cut down in the next few minutes, the Count decided he would not be missed.

Down the steps, hugging the shadows, the cluster of men moved as silently as they were able. The bulk of their armor they had left behind, but the mail links on their gloves and skirts jangled noisily.

Still no one stirred. This was too easy. They all felt it.

They reached the guardhouse less than a minute after Vinciguerra first clambered over the wall. Here, he was actually glad to see, there were guards. Three men slept in chairs, and one more snored under a table among the straw rushes. A flagon of wine, stained at the lip, sat beside one prone figure. Vanni flung wide the door and burst in, the others directly behind. Bleary eyes opened in startled faces. Before the drunken garrison could do more than fall off their chairs the struggle was over. Taking all the necessary keys and tools, the invaders departed, leaving the four corpses soiling the rushes.

Still the Count worried. A canny general would certainly sacrifice four men to draw an enemy into a deadly trap. And the usurping mongrel was unquestionably canny. The hair was standing out on the back of Vinciguerra's neck as he joined in the effort to open the gates. He could see his own suspicions reflected in the faces of the men around him. It was all too easy.

It was the opening of the first set of gates that woke the populace to the fact that they had been invaded. There was a bell attached to the pulley which none of the Paduans noticed until it began to clamor. At the sound, men and women rushed out of their homes. Upon sighting the soldiers, the men shoved their women back inside, then began to advance. Vinciguerra watched them draw cautiously closer.

"I said it was a trap!" Marsilio hissed furiously.

"If it were a trap, boy," Vanni shot back, "there'd be soldiers, not citizens, waiting for us!"

By now both the inner and the outer gates under the arch were open, and the torches were lit along the ramparts to signal the full army to ride in. Albertino Mussato and the della Torre were struggling with the winches that lowered the huge wooden bridge across the moat, but it would be another ten minutes before the bulk of the army arrived to cross it. If the citizens attacked now, Vinciguerra knew their small force had little hope. And there could be an army hidden behind these houses, waiting to strike.

There was an awkward quietness. The Count of San Bonifacio scanned the faces of the citizenry, perhaps twenty yards away. They held fear, resentment, confusion, anger: they could be swayed in almost any direction. All it would take was one voice raised to have them charging forward. They would all be dead and the gates sealed before the army could arrive.

Ponzino must have realized this as well. He stepped forward and held out his shield emblazoned with the yellow cross on the royal blue filled that was the most basic of Paduan symbols.

"My name is Ponzino de' Ponzoni, Podestà of Padua. I have brought an army to liberate the city of Vicenza from the Scaliger dog!"

If he had hoped for a cheer, he was disappointed. The crowd was silent. Still, Bonifacio had to give him credit. He plowed right on. "I give you my word, as a knight and a gentleman, that there will be no plundering of person or property, regardless of how you receive us! It is my wish to accomplish this peacefully!" He raised his arms above his head, as if asking to be embraced. "Come, friends! Renew your ties with fair Padua, and together we shall live and prosper!"

Another silence. Vinciguerra willed himself not to look back at the army riding towards the gate. From the sound of it, they were still too far to do any good. He risked a sidelong glance at Vanni. The Toothless Master was staring at the crowd, frowning. He seemed to be looking for something.

Vinciguerra was sure the crowd was about to turn. He was in the front line, so he would be the first to die. He wished he had worn more of his family armor - the helmet was old and battered, and the chain mail was nothing fancy. If they had seen his armor, perhaps they would have recognized him, and rallied to him. For the family of San Bonifacio was one of the most famous names in these lands. I should have thought of that! I could have used it to turn the tide.

No. I should have told Ponzino to give siege, he thought. That would have been good advice. But I wanted this over quickly. I wanted a victory before the Scaliger even knew there was a battle. For I fear him. Now I will die for that fear.

The terrible silence was broken by a cheer. It started from somewhere on the left. The crowd advanced. The Count girded himself for the end. Then he heard the voices. "Padua! Padua!" Suddenly he was swept up in offers of gifts - food, wine, beer, gold, someone's daughter, someone's wife. Beside him, Ponzino was laughing. It was all the Podestà of Padua had dreamed, and more.

At the head of the army, Giacomo da Carrara slowed when he heard the cheering. The army crossed the bridge and rode through the gates to a glorious reception. The Count of San Bonifacio waved to him. San Pietro was definitely theirs.

But the gates to Vicenza remained steadfastly closed.

                                    *                      *                      *                      *         

We then move to the opening of Chapter Two, where we discover the complete self-immolation of the attack.

I have no idea if this stuff is remotely interesting to anyone but me. I must confess, half of my plotting is a process of discovery as I write. There are things that have cropped up in later chapters that make me revise thousands of words just to work it in. A major plot-point came up in the final draft, which was unnerving to say the least.

Anyway, I wouldn't have gotten to the start of Chapter Two without having written all this. I suppose what is past is prologue, and all that jazz.

Cut Scene I - Attack of the Paduans pt. 3

Continuing from the last Cut Scene:

Quartesolo derived its name from the Latin quartum milium solum, meaning "fourth mile", as it stood four miles from Vicenza down the ancient Roman via Emilia which linked Vicenza and Padua. The Roman mile measured 1477 meters, the equivalent of 1500 Roman soldier paces, exactly one quarter the distance from this spot to Vicenza. The city was asleep and easily subdued. Ponzino gave strict orders against pillaging. The men of the Paduan army were being paid - well paid. There was no need for plunder. The Podestà's goal was to be welcomed into Vicenza with open arms. If he forbade the unsavory behavior knights were notorious for, made them behave as knights ought, perhaps he could win over the people.

After taking Quartesolo it was merely a matter of waiting for the scouts to return. The three young cavilieres rode brazenly up the road from Quartesolo to Vicenza. When they reached the foot of the hill where the Podestà and his companions waited, they dismounted and strode up to greet them. Vinciguerra thought he saw a spring in their step. The same young Carrara who had baited him earlier didn't wait for a greeting. "There's no guard. None. The outer walls around S. Pietro are completely unguarded. The double gates are shut, but that's all."

Ponzino stared wide-eyed, his expansive face otherwise expressionless. It was Marsilio's uncle who spoke.

"Do you think it's a ruse?" asked Giacomo il Grande. "Do they have an army inside?"

"They can't," Marsilio replied. "We rode on the hill to the north of the suburb. There is no where for an army to be hiding."

"What about the main gates to the city?" Vanni asked.

The della Torre burst in. "Too far to see without being spotted. I did suggest we climb the walls and take a look, but I got outvoted. I thought Florence was the only working democracy," he muttered.

Asdente snorted. "Democracy doesn't work," he said. "One look at Florence would tell you that."

Vinciguerra, though, had latched on to something the della Torre had said. He looked at Marsilio. "Are they scalable?"

The boy disliked being addressed by a Veronese. "The walls? I guess... yes, the outer ones, they're only twenty feet high."

Vinciguerra looked at the Podestà. Ponzino returned the look. "What do you have in mind, my lord Count?"

It took only a few moments to outline his plan. When he was finished the elder Carrara was nodding, a smile across his lips. "I like it," Giacomo il Grande said, giving his seal of approval.

"I don't," his nephew objected. "It could be a trap. He could be handing us over to the Scaliger." But no one paid him an heed, which seemed the best way to deal with the boy.

Vanni Scorigiani was looking at the Count of S. Bonifacio. "You're not serious. We could have those gates down in an hour."

Vinciguerra smiled. "I'll have them open for you in half that."