Outside Verona
On a borrowed – stolen! – horse, Pietro tried to keep up with Mariotto and Antony as they tore after the Capitano. Already he was out of sight. Blessedly they’d taken the time to saddle their horses, something Cangrande hadn’t bothered with.
It was not hard to trace the path he had taken. He’d barreled through streets, dodging or jumping all obstructions, shouting out curt warnings. Shaken citizens were just recovering as three more horses dashed past, two of their riders whooping and hollering. All assumed it was another of the Capitano’s games – a hunt through the streets, with a live rider as the prey. Stranger things had happened.
Even though they followed the path he made for them, somehow the three riders were unable to catch up to the lord of Verona. When they reached the bridge on the bank of the Adige, they were stymied by a caravan of millet-bearing mules. But before they had passed a dozen words with the onlookers, the dog Jupiter dashed past them, heading north toward a smaller bridge atop the Adige’s oxbow embrace of the city.
Mariotto watched the greyhound go and cried, “He’s making for the Ponte di Pietro!”
Wheeling their horses around, they followed in the dog’s wake. The stone and wood bridge was not as sturdy as the Roman one, and thus was less crowded. Passing under the open gate they left the city, hoping against hope to catch up to the madman leading them on.
Pietro could already feel the stiff leather saddle biting into him. The stirrups hurt his slippered feet. It had been almost a year since he had ridden this hard, in sport, not war. Not that Capecelatro acknowledged the difference. He shouted as though this were nothing but a great adventure, and Pietro could tell that Mariotto was infected with the Capuan’s joy.
Pietro wished he could feel it, too, but his misgivings held him in check. What is the Scaliger thinking? He can’t take on the whole Paduan army single-handed!
He won’t be single-handed if we can catch him, insisted the devil’s advocate in his head.
And what can we do? he retorted. We don’t even have knives! Stupid wedding etiquitte!
Still, he didn’t turn back. Seventeen years old, he’d been raised on stories of the battle of Campaldino, where a certain young cavalryman named Durante from the undistinguished house of Alighieri had fought with distinction. Poet, lawyer, politician, and soldier. So much to live up to. Pietro spurred on.
The hound Jupiter, trailing behind the horses, his tongue dangling, again dashed ahead and barked. Seconds later Cangrande came into view. He glanced back but didn’t slow down, counting on the boys to catch up to him. He didn’t stop until they reached a bridge just south of San Martino.
A man was bathing on the near bank of the Fibbio. He leapt from the water and, throwing a grubby cloak over his nakedness, ran to collect his toll. Cangrande looked back with an abashed grin. “Anyone have any money?”
Pietro reached into his meager purse and paid the hermit for their passage. “Well,” said Cangrande. “Come on!” Soon they left the road, angling north through patches of wood and hills.
“Wait!” cried Antony. "Where are we going?"
Cangrande was already pulling ahead, leaving the three boys riding together. Mariotto said, “If he keeps going he’ll pass the castle at Illasi. He took it last year, rebuilt it, and filled it with loyal men. We’ll probably change horses there and gather troops. To get there we have to ford the Illasi River."
"Lead the way!" roared Antony. Taking his place in the rear, Pietro winced as the saddle jumped under him.
