Vicenza
The Following Morning
The Count of San Bonifacio sat on horseback atop a hill overlooking the walls of San Pietro, a suburb of Vicenza. An old soldier, beneath the metal protecting his arms the muscles were thick from years of slinging a sword. The beefy hands inside the gauntlets were callused from fire and leather. The stout legs were well used to the combined weight of plate and chain armor. A large man, he sweat freely and now mopped his forehead with a cloth. His visage was round and cheerful, a face belonging to a merry friar or a troubadour with a fondness for German beer. It seemed sorely out of place atop the body of a knight-soldier.
Beside him was the Podestà of Padua, Ponzino de’ Ponzoni. Not only an unfortunate victim of alliteration, but a poor man’s general. At the moment the Podestà was visibly sickened by the destruction of his honor. Ponzoni said, “Is there nothing we can do?”
The Count shook his head, daubing his face with a handkerchief. “Nothing until they’ve spent themselves. If we try to stop them now, we’ll get a spear in the back and be robbed of our armor.”
The day had not gone well for the Podestà of Padua. So auspiciously begun, it had turned into a waking nightmare. Too intellectual, judged the Count. Too devoted to the damn Chivalric Code.
But then, Ponzino was an disappointment in every regard. He’d wasted the summer campaigning months, insisting upon avoiding confrontation, concentrating instead on razing the enemy’s lands. Against a different foe it might have worked, but Ponzoni hadn’t comprehended the vast resources at his opponent’s fingertips. In the last four years the enemy had taken prime land to the north, south, and west. All that remained was the east. Since Padua was the key to the east, the city elders had forced Ponzino to attack, raid – do something!
Not that the fate of Padua concerned the Count of San Bonifacio. He couldn’t have cared less about Paduans or their thrice-damned patavinitas, the exclusively Paduan code of honor that seemed to rule every waking moment in their benighted city. The Count was a foreigner, a guest, an advisor, an observer. Unwelcome, but necessary.
This invasion of Vicenza – his idea – was supposed to be the answer, Padua’s salvation. It had started well. The army had made the ride to the city unobserved. Silencing the guards at Quartesolo, they had skulked the four miles from there to the target. Like most city-states, Vicenza was a series of walled rings, with more walls between, like the spokes on a wheel. The outer-most circles were the suburbs. Here dwelt the poorer classes, and the less essential commodities were stored. The next set of walls enclosed the city itself.
The strategy was to infiltrate the outer suburb called San Pietro. The Count himself led the foray, cutting down the guards in the tower and opening the gates. Revealing himself to the peasants, he had been cheered. He wondered if they genuinely adored him, or if they were simply in fear for their lives. Not that it mattered. He had taken San Pietro, the key to Vicenza.
To that point, everything had gone according to plan. The presence of the Count of San Bonifacio had precluded the need to slaughter the innocents, something the Podestà quailed at. Ponzino had led his army through the suburb towards the next ring of walls, only to discover himself surrounded by flame.
That had been the first crack in Ponzino’s armor. Though, in fairness, even the Count admitted the fire was surprising. Who would have thought Nogarola would be willing to risk the loss of the whole city to fire rather than cede to Padua? Fire was one of the threats most feared in any metropolis, especially one more than half made of wood.
Undeniably the fire was a setback, but not fatal to their plans. If handled properly. But it took Ponzino too long to gather his wits. He had wandered fecklessly, failing to call the Paduan leaders together and form a new strategy. It was the Count who convinced him to order the army to pull back just outside the city wall, leaving a breach in it to renew the attack when the fires died.
The army disobeyed. After four years of meaningless battles and a shortage of food, they were loath to relinquish the foothold they had gained in Vicenza. When the order to withdraw was given, the men revolted. They began to torch the parts of the suburb not yet ablaze. They plundered, robbing the inhabitants. The Count had been with Ponzino when they’d come across a dozen of their own citizens – not even foreign auxiliaries! – sacking a convent and violating the nuns there. Together they had put the rapists to the sword, but what could be done about the rest? The Podestà rode glumly out through the city gates and waited for his men’s rage and bloodlust to die down, his hopes for glory crumbling around his ears.
The Count of San Bonifacio could not have cared less for the plight of the citizenry – after all, they had supported the Pup. What he deplored was the wasted time. The San Bonifaci family had been fighting the Scaligeri since before Mastino the First came to power. As a young man the Count himself had fought against that first Scaliger leader of Verona. He remembered the dark brown hair and sharp features. He also remembered the Mastiff’s eyes – light green with the dark ring about them. They had been other-worldly, as if the man had trekked through all the fields of Hell and seen all the unthinkable horrors there. The Count remembered him well, and blessed the day his father, working through Paduan tools, had had the bastard killed.
Recalling the fierce joy Mastino showed on the battlefield, he shivered. Almost four decades later he could hear the bastard’s laugh. It was a trait Mastino’s nephew shared, causing the Count to worry now. If they took too long in breaching the inner walls, word would reach the Scaliger. He would come, and that could be disastrous. Of all Pup’s traits in battle, the worst was his unpredictability.
Vanni Scoriginai appeared, the man known as Asdente, or the Toothless Master. The previous year at Illasi he’d earned his nick-name by taking a sword in the mouth and living to boast about it. A mere look from the scowling, twisted face could make a hardened knight blench.
Now he was grinning, completely unfazed by the carnage inside the suburb. “Well, that’s a mess, isn’t it?” Vanni’s twisted grin looked like the rictus of a corpse. Blood soaked his left arm up to the elbow. “I do so love Dutch soldiers!” he chuckled.
“And they love you,” replied the Count ironically, passing Asdente a wineskin.
“Can’t you stop them?” asked the Podestà desperately.
Asdente chuckled while he drank and patted Ponzino familiarly on the arm. “Don’t worry. They’re good boys. In another hour they’ll be tired and ashamed and back here for orders. Then we’ll take that damn gate.” He gave a snort of disgusted respect. “Have to admit, firing the houses – didn’t think Nogarola had it in him.”
“He learned from the Pup,” said the Count.
“He never plunders,” said Ponzino.
San Bonifacio was silently scornful. Ponzoni didn’t seem to realize that plunder was the reason most men-at-arms went to war. There was little talk of the Just Cause among the common foot soldiers, or even among the knights. A soldier signed on with a troop for wealth and to vent his spleen on the world.
Asdente said, “It’s just pragmatism. Nogarola has to fight. He’s fixed himself too firmly to Cangrande’s star to do anything but!”
Ponzino cuffed a bead of sweat from his face, serruptitiously blinking back the dampness in his eyes. “Do you think the citizens will ever forgive us? After they welcomed us in the way they did, to be so betrayed?”
Vanni looked at the Podestà in shock. “Who cares?”
The Count changed the subject. “Do you think a rider got off?”
Asdente nodded happily. “We saw one heading west just as the fires were starting,” He washed out his mouth from the wineskin and spat, a difficult exercise without front teeth. Sometimes, as now, he forgot, and grinned abashedly as crimson spittle ran down his chin. “A child. Some of my boys tried to catch him, but I called them off.”
“Why?” demanded the Podestà, aghast. “The longer Cangrande is unaware, the better our chances of success!”
Vanni Scornigiani looked at the ground, feigning embarassment. “Aw, well, sir – you don’t know the Greyhound as I do. No doubt he’s brave, but he’s reckless. Foolhardy. Thinks he’s indestructible. He’ll likely set out rapidly and poorly prepared.” His face twisted even further, intent added to injury. “We’ll make mincemeat out of him.”
Ponzino goggled at Vanni, whose tone was unmistakable. If Cangrande arrived, they wouldn’t take him prisoner, as the rules of chivalry dictated. They would kill him outright. Murder? How much honor was he going to lose this day?
The Count saw the struggle in the young general. “It’s the sensible course,” he said.
The Podestà wiped his brow again and said, “Vanni, get down there and calm this mob down. I want the women protected, and the men-at-arms rounded up and ready for the siege.”
“I’ll try,” said Asdente. The Count of San Bonifacio had no doubt he would. It was an excellent excuse to crack a few skulls. “But this kind of rage has to burn itself out.”
“Do it now or I’ll feed you to the Greyhound myself.”
Vanni smirked. “Now, that’s downright unchivalrous.” He spurred off.
Together the Count and the Podestà turned their mounts back to watch the rape and slaughter of San Pietro. The first hint of clouds began moving in from the east. Vinciguerra sniffed the air. Tomorrow it would rain, perhaps the next day.
Ponzino is doubtless wishing for rain this very second, thought the Count in disgust. It would hide his tears.
* * * *
