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.
