Padua, 16 September, 1314
Looking about him, Ciolo’s nerves jangled like spurs. During the whole ride they hadn’t seen a soul. Not on the road, not in the fields. No one at all.
“What does it mean?” asked Girolamo.
“I don’t know,” said Ciolo.
“Is Padua under siege?”
“I don’t know. Let’s keep going.”
“How will we get in?”
“Keep riding.”
“But…”
“Think of golden florins.”
“I’ve never been to Florence!”
“Shut up!” hissed Ciolo.
Empty fields gave way to empty suburbs. Some of the spaced-out hovels and shacks of the laborers were burnt out, but more were intact, even new. Ciolo saw fresh-cut timber struts and new bricks – marks of an old siege, not a new one. If there was a present siege the hovels would all be still-smoking hulks and by now he should have heard the sounds of hundreds of men muttering and cheering and singing, the stamp of impatient horses, the crack and whine of the siege machines, the smell of fire and filth. Ciolo’s nose twitched.
But the only smells were the common night scents. The only sounds were crickets and the occasional goose or dog. There were no tents or firebrands, no bristling spears. The city wasn’t under seige. So where the devil was everyone?
Ciolo’s skin went cold with a horrible notion. A pest. A pest had come and even now the Paduans were hiding in their homes scratching at scabs and vomiting blood. He glanced at Girolamo but kept his mouth shut. He thought of the money, then put his dirty hand over his mouth to keep out the bad air and rode slowly on.
They approached the bridge to the city’s north gate. The Ponte Molino was an old Roman bridge the length of fourteen horses whose triple arches spanned the Bacchiglione river. The center arch was supported by two massive stone columns rising from the rippling river. Nearby water mills creaked and groaned.
The bridge ended right at the lip of the fortified gate. Ciolo squinted hard. No bodies piled up outside the gate. A good sign. With no one in sight, Ciolo nudged his horse onto the bridge and began to cross it. Girolamo followed.
Halfway across the bridge Ciolo could make out that the gates into the city were open, but dark. Ciolo paused, looking ahead.
Girolamo said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this job.”
Suddenly a flame showed high on the tower above them. A torch. Two more joined it. At the same moment Ciolo heard a human noise. Thousands of voices cheering. Men, women, children. Bells pealed and musicians played. All the people were inside the city walls, watching for sunset and the lighting of torches.
Ciolo sagged in his saddle and mopped his brow. “See, it’s nothing. A celebr…”
Then he heard thunder and his relief shattered. An army of horses was pouring out of the gate right in front of them. Plumed helmets and shining breastplates reflected light from the brands held high as countless Paduans knights emerged from the city, riding furiously across the Ponte Molino.
Riding right at Ciolo and Girolamo.
In panic Ciolo threw himself from his saddle, abandonded his horse, and ran, arms pumping, to the edge of the bridge and jumped. He hit the water feet first, plunging below the surface. The sound of hooves vanished as the river swallowed him. He didn’t know how to swim. He lunged in the water, using his arms and legs as if he were running, flailing towards the bridge. Something hit him hard in the shoulder and he grabbed onto it as best he could. He couldn’t see at all but his fingers recognized the feel of stone. Whatever it was he grasped it and pulled himself along it. It was slimy and slippery, hard to hold. He dug in with his fingernails. His lungs were beginning to burn. Then his hand emerged from the water and he pushed his head up and through and sucked down sweet air.
Ciolo was holding onto one of the arches of the Roman bridge. Above him he heard the continued cascade of mounted soldiers. Idiots. Wherever their enemy was, they weren’t here. Why charge, then? In darkness, when a horse was likely to trip and fall? Ciolo had nearly been killed in a night charge once. The horse in front snapped a leg, killing not only its rider but the two riders behind him.
He could still hear the cheering in the city and he knew that he had almost been killed for a parade. A show of honor, of skill. Fools. Sputtering and shivering, Ciolo mouthed a string of curses against whoever had come up with the notion of chivalry.
Hand over hand he dragged himself to the edge of the support. He was lucky that the Bacchiglione wasn’t flowing hard, and luckier that what current there was had been dulled by the mills. Otherwise he would have been swept clean away. For the first time he wondered what had happened to Girolamo. But it was useless to call. If he’d survived, he’d meet Ciolo at the house.
It took Ciolo ten minutes to reach the river’s edge. Though the river bank was solid, there was no way to reach the high gate from below. The only way was from the bridge. Ciolo took a breath and began to scale the cracked stone walls carefully. His wet fingers made it difficult. Muttering and cursing he pulled himself onto a carving of some old god just below the lip of the bridge. There he stayed, waiting for the horsemen to get past. He squirmed until he found a position that freed his arms so he could wrap them around himself. He was cold, teeth chattering. Damn all Paduan and their stupid patavinitas.
Then he heard the last horseman pass, with the citizens chasing out after them, cheering their fool lungs out. He twisted and pulled himself up onto the bridge proper. No one stopped to help him. In fact he was almost knocked over again by the press of the people. God, did he hate Paduans.
He was swept along with the mob that wept with joy and pride. He tried to cheer through his chattering teeth. But the crowd was warming him up, and he was pleased when he realized how easy it would be to get into the city now. Knowing his own horse had probably bolted he didn’t bother to look for it. He just played the part of happy citizen watching their army go off to glory.
The thrill of the moment passed for the Paduans and slowly they began to return to their homes. Recrossing the Ponte Molino Ciolo made jokes, slapped backs, joining in the laughter at his obvious misfortune. Halfway along the bridge he found the body of Girolamo. Ciolo recognized him from his vest, since his face had been crushed. Ciolo bent down quickly but it was no use. He’d already been robbed.
Ciolo entered the city with a smile on his face and joined a group of men entering a tavern. He’d been to Padua three or four times before. He’d even once been defended on some petty theft charge by the famous Bellario. So Ciolo was able to fake the accent. He held himself to one bottle of wine, but he sang with gusto and thumped the table for as long as it took for his clothes to dry. Then he told his new best friends that there was a wench waiting and took his leave. He had a job to get on with.
A life to end.
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