This is taken from my very first draft of the book. In later versions, the bulky knight we follow on this ride is the Count of San Bonifacio. In the final draft poor Ponzino gets very short shrift. I feel it’s only right to let him have his moment of bravery, in the final part of this section.
This scene, like the last one, starts before Ciolo’s death and continues on through the night. It not only further introduces Ponzino and the Count, but Vanni ‘Asdente’ as well (too many names for folk we only see occasionally).
* * * *
"They say the sky is always clearest on the eve of a great victory."
Ponzino de’ Ponzoni, Podestà of Padua, said this to the Count of San Bonifacio. The Count merely grunted. Ponzino gripped his saddlehorn, and Pelio, his groom, stepped in to assist as needed, torch held high to give illumination.
Ponzino pulled on the saddle, lifting his great bulk from the purchase of his left stirrup. His concern about the horse had been prophetic. Unnerved by the closeness of the torch in Pelio’s hand, the horse shied and stepped sideways. Half in the saddle, Ponzino lost the stirrup. His body slipped down and only his hands held him to the leather straps. He felt his palms break out in sweat, which made his grip even more tenuous. In a moment he would be under the horse.
In the few seconds he struggled, a part of his brain laughed at him. A marvelous end to this great campaign, over before it began! He made a mumbled exclamation, half a laugh, half a cry for help. Pelio moved forward but the horse turned from the light, dragging Ponzino around with him. The nobles shifted in their seats, looking for an opening to assist. It was the boy Marsilio who kicked his own horse forward and lunged for the mane. He managed to grip it firmly without spooking the horse further, and held him while Ponzino clambered the rest of the way into the saddle.
It could have been a bad omen. Ponzino tried to turn it around without delay. He grinned at Marsilio.
"You see? With you in our army, the Lord cannot help but shower us with laurel wreaths." The boy looked back uncertainly. Ponzino’s foot rediscovered the lost stirrup, the right foot fell into place, and he settled his weight. He kicked his foot playfully at Pelio, nicking his page’s shoulder with the long golden spur at his heel. "Watch your torch near the next animal, or you may find yourself victim of a meaner kick." Ponzino de’ Ponzoni, Podestà of Padua, rode four miles up the road, where he overtook the lead elements of the army he commanded. The host was crossing the new canal between the Brenta to the north and the Bacchiglione. Here he caught up with his second-in-command, Vanni Scornigiani.
For all the thunderous exit of the city, the army was remaining remarkably quiet. This was entirely due to Vanni’s presence.
They greeted each other, Ponzino’s horse falling in beside the older man’s. Little love was lost between these two. The older man seemed to know Ponzino’s every insecurity, and relished each opportunity to rub his nose them. Ponzoni removed his helmet, handing it down to Pelio, riding close behind.
"Any trouble?" the Podestà asked.
"I had to get rough with a few of the Flemish knights to get them to shut up," the old soldier growled. "The rest fell in line."
"How rough?" Ponzino asked.
Vanni’s twisted grin looked like the rictus of a corpse. "Battle hasn’t started, and we’ve got casualties." He paused, noting Ponzino’s hardening look. Vanni shrugged, "They’ll live to complain."
Ponzino stifled the rebuke he felt building. He needed Asdente, and both of them knew it. Instead he asked if any spies had been found.
"Haven’t seen a soul," Vanni replied. The grizzled soldier was put out. He’d been hoping the little fart would say something about his method of discipline. Not that the Podestà was a small man, physically. He was almost a whole head taller than Vanni, who was no shrinking violet. "They’re lazy after that scare last month. Think we’ll hole up until next spring."
"Then this surprise will work."
"It better," said Vanni, grimacing.
They hadn’t known each other long, these two men. This Podestà of Padua had only arrived in the city that June, voted into office in a special election. Before that he had been an official of Cremona, far to the west of the politics of the lands of the Feltro. Vanni, on the other hand, had been a part of this war since it began. At the heart of the conflict was their destination – the Commune of Vicenza.
Ponzino was an educated man. The irony of this war was not lost on him. In opposition to historical precedent, a minor war had grown out of a larger one, a dispute over a century old. A hundred years before, Emperor Henry VI had declared his right to rule the lands of central Italy – Tuscany, Umbria, Romagna and the marches. These lands had been ceeded to his father, Frederick Barbarossa, by a duke named Welf VI. Before Henry pressed the claim, these lands had always been under the influence of the papacy. Henry hadn’t had the political might to enforce his asperation, but ten years after his death his sucessor, Otto IV, did. After promising to renounce all rights to these fertile lands, immediately following his coronation in Rome he did just the opposite. These central states assumed, correctly, that they faced less interference from an Emperor in Germany than a Pope in Rome. Thus they flocked to Otto’s banner, under the cry of "Welf!" Meanwhile, opposition among the northern states solidified behind another German faction, the Waiblingens, who devoutly supported, not the papacy, but the rights of another German ruling house, the Hohenstaufen. When Otto died, he was succeeded by the Hohenstaufen ruler Frederick II. Ironically, the Welfs, rather than be extinguished, sided with the pope against the Waiblingens. Adopting the fight for their own, the Italians changed the names of the parties. Welf, a hard German sound, had become Guelph, and Waiblingen had transformed into Ghibbiline. And the lines had been drawn.
Padua had long been a supporter of the Guelph cause, harrying each new Emperor in favor of papal rights. Though Vicenza was nominally an independent state, Padua had long viewed it as within the padovano – the Paduan sphere of influence. So when, two years before, Vicenza had declared for Emperor Henry VII, and voted the Dog into office as the Imperial representative, Padua had been outraged. Vicenza was theirs. Peaceful, if vehement, protests to the Venetians and the Florentines proved fruitless. So the Paduans had decided to use force.
Why Padua hadn’t won in that first year had been a mystery to Ponzino, sitting in Cremona listening to reports. The Paduans had done well in the field. Battle after battle was a victory. Vanni especially had distinguished himself, bravely riding into every engagement. "I eat steel for breakfast" he roared, the disfigurement slurring his softer sounds. But still the war dragged on. Regardless of Paduan bravery or victory, they never seemed to be able to weaken the enemy enough to retake their lost city. Nor were they ever able to catch the enemy general in the field.
Ponzino was well versed in tactics and strategy, having learned at the knees of real masters. He had fought in his share of engagements. When he was offered the office of Podestà, he had thought himself ready to cope with the problem the Dog presented. He had laughed at the tales of the enemy’s skill and speed, until he himself faced them. Only recently, after a series of losses or stalemates, had he begun to listen to the advice of his subordinates. Vinciguerra di S. Bonifacio was one whose advice he valued. Giacomo da Carrara was another. Yet something in him balked at listening to this disfigured, irritating – fearsome – knight. The others were honorable men, and behaved as such. Asdente was less scrupulous.
After their brief initial exchange Vanni and Ponzino remained silent. Once across the canal they covered the first ten miles quickly. They were past the border of Paduan lands, into the rocky terrain that had seen so many of these wars. Vanni had the knights spread themselves in small clusters, horses ready to chase any peasant or traveler who started an alarm. As they rode Ponzino had Vanni ride from group to group, informing the men of their actual destination. Many of them had suspected it, but several were truly surprised. The Podestà saw the grins and grinned back.
It was dark, but the sky was clear and the stars provided enough light to keep the horses from stumbling. He guessed it was just after one when they reached Camisano, a castle not far down the road from their destination. Ponzino gestured for the lead group of horses to move off the road and onto a cattle track to remain out of sight of the guardtowers. The track led down to the Bacchiglione on their left, its running waters never fading from their hearing.
It was a nerve-wracking two hours as the entire body of men moved silently past the enemy-held fortress. Ponzino held the ground a mile from Camisano, directing the troops. Young Marsilio da Carrara stayed by his side, grimly assisting the troop movement. Then, after the bulk of the foot had passed, with a shaky grin, the Podestà rode back up the length of his forces to the front line, leaving the boy to finish directing the two hundred soldiers straggling behind. It occurred to the Podestà that perhaps an older man would handle it better, but he couldn’t deny Marsilio the right of his station.
Once past Camisano, the men began to move faster. They would arrive at the gates of Vicenza and sweep through the city like an inferno. The garrison left there would be killed before they unsheathed their swords. For the glory of Padua. And its Podestà.
The army kept away from the roads entirely after Camisano. Instead, they followed the Bacchiglione until it met the Astico River coming down from the Alps. Here Ponzino was faced with a decision. Reports varied on the fordability of the river. They could follow the Astico back up to the road to where a solid bridge stood, or they could ford here and continue following the Bacchiglione.
He searched out Vinciguerra, who had never been far from the general’s side. The Count had known the youngster would need guidance. He studied their options. The Tesina bridge was a compulsory passage to and from Padua and was fortified by the Vicenza population. It was the site of fierce fighting last year. The towers that guarded the bridge had been completely razed. Bonifacio sputtered his lips silently. Someone might be watching the bridge who would raise the alarm in Vicenza while the Paduans were still streaming across. The river looked shallow enough here. So, ford the Astico it was.
Vanni took charge of the logistics. He used the remaining fifty-two Flemish knights to form a wall of horses that would keep back the waters while the bulk of the army crossed. There were curses and protests in Dutch. Asdente persuaded with fists cloaked in mail gloves, with spurred heels, and elbows with spikes on the armor-joints. Two more mercenaries fell before the group moved to obey.
When the first man hit the ground, Ponzino reached for his reins. Vinciguerra reached out a restraining hand. "Don’t."
"I have to stop this," the younger man said. "That’s not the way a caviliere treats his men."
"It is if he wants them to fight," the Count shrugged. "Look at them."
Ponzino looked. He saw the grins on the faces of the Flemish knights. Vinciguerra saw the realization wash over him. Perhaps not all soldiers wanted respectful treatment as Italian soldiers did. The Count watched him spur away. He wondered if the fellow would be any use at all. Not that it mattered. It was old soldiers like Asdente who really ran armies. Generals were for speeches and plans, and the plans were already laid. Vinciguerra spurred ahead, looking for landmarks, ever watchful for enemies.
Some distance away, under the cover of a lone fir tree, Ponzino drank from his wineskin. His hands were shaking. He had to steady them. He was the leader, dammit! So why did everyone know more than he did? How were they all so sure?
A slight jingle from behind drew him around. Vanni rode up easily. His grin was the happiest he owned, thus the most perverse.
