You should have seen us marching along, signore. Soldiers with their steel armor shining in the sun. The duke with his pretty armor and the Sforza banner streaming, such bright colors! What a day that was, the sky so blue and the hills so green! Leo rode next to me on a white horse and half the soldiers thought he was an angel, with his golden hair, sent from God to work miracles for us. The war-wagons were all loaded, so heavy their axles creaked, with bad news for Mirabello…
You a soldier, signore? No, that’s none of my business, you’re right. But anybody, soldier or not, would have admired the duke’s strategy.
When we got to Pavia, the duke ordered his men in without any of the special stuff we brought. Just like they were an ordinary army come to relieve Pavia, see? The condottieri were caught with their pants down, saving your presence, but they beat his men back and ran to Mirabello.
So there they were, safe behind the wall of the park. The game was turned on its head, a siege to break a siege. The duke brought his army up and occupied the land north and east of the park. He sent his herald to the Porta Pescarina to say, “Hey! You! Genovesi big shots! Come out here right now, or I’ll send your heads home to your mamas in a bunch of fruit baskets!”
The condottieri didn’t know il orrendo like we did, or they’d never have said what they did in reply, which was something real rude, saving your presence. He got their answer and he smiled, and spat out a fig he was eating and said: “Barelli, let’s have some fun with them.”
So I grabbed Leo and we ran back to the wagons. I ordered the Horse to be unloaded.
The duke sent troops in a feint attack, as though they were going to breach the wall at the Porta Pescarina. He did it so slow, and so obvious, the condottieri laughed and whooped from their places on the wall. But in a few minutes they stopped and got real quiet, looking east, where our wagons were.
What they saw, signore, were teams of men pulling on ropes, raising with pulleys and tackle a big monster, an iron Horse. We’d brought it lying on its side, lashed to three flat wagon-beds. It rose up slow. When it stood at last, tall as a church tower, it looked like Sin and Death.
It stood there maybe a half hour, while we made it ready. All the time the condottieri were staring at it, trying to figure it out. We could hear their officers telling them it was just a Trojan Horse. “That’s the oldest trick in the book!” they said. “Dumb Sforzas!”
But then it began to roll forward, all by itself, belching steam. The rumbling and clattering it made was the only sound for miles. The condottieri were frozen like rabbits. We hardly drew breath ourselves, watching it. The duke looked like he was in church, seeing something holy. Leo was biting his lips to blood, praying I guess that everything would work. Fiammetta was crying, but that’s what women do, eh?
And the condottieri were so busy looking east, they didn’t think to look north, which they should have done.
Because, there was the duke’s cavalry, racing along like they were at full charge. But they weren’t charging the walls, signore. They were pulling the Flying Machines. Yes, that was the first place they were ever used. You didn’t know? Leo’s invention! Oh, he sweated blood over those, his little clockwork bird models, no use to anybody until I slapped him and said: “Not flapping, gliding! Look at how vultures fly, dummy!”
Fast and faster the horses ran, and men ran behind holding up the big machines with their spread canvas, bouncing, looking foolish until they lifted off—one, two, three, ten angels of death rising up on black wings! And such big shadows they cast, crossing the bright face of the sun that day. You had to look hard to see the tiny man in each one, clinging tight to the framework, but I could make them out, and, I’ll tell you, signore, every one of them had wet himself.
Some crashed right away, ran into trees or only got across a few fields before coming down, but there were three that remembered to work the controls. They circled and soared. Only one or two archers on the wall noticed them—nobody else could tear their eyes away from the Horse, that was coming on faster now, but it didn’t matter. By the time they got a few shots off, the Flying Machines were high up out of range. Still they circled, just like vultures. Then—ha, ha!—they laid their eggs, signore.
Yes, they dropped grenades of Greek Fire, on the army camped in the park behind the wall. Dropped from so high, how far it splattered! What screams we could hear! Smoke began to rise, and you could see the men on the wall thinking: “We’ve been tricked! They sent this stupid Trojan Horse to make us look the other way while they attacked from the sky!”
But they were wrong, signore.
Because, while half of them were running from their positions on the wall to try to put the fires out, the Horse just kept rolling closer. The ones who were smart enough to stay at their posts, you could see them wondering: “What’s it doing? Do they think we’ll let it through the Porta Pescarina?” Because, see, they expected a Trojan Horse to be full of soldiers. That’s called, ah, what’s that big word, Leo? Misdirection.
Only when it got right to the base of the wall did they figure out it must be some kind of siege engine. They started peppering it with crossbow bolts, which only tinkled off like rain. The Horse just stood there a minute, smoke coming from its nostrils like a real horse breathing out steam on a cold morning.
Then it began to rise up, rearing from its wheeled platform, and the gears ratcheting echoed loud over the field. I was keeping my fingers crossed, because I didn’t know if we’d made it able to extend high enough. But up it went, and pretty soon it brought its big iron forefeet down, clang, on the battlements. Men on the wall were hitting the feet with axes; no good. Up above, the Horse turned its head slow, like it was looking at them. Smoke twined out of its nostrils, past the flames dancing there, from the little oil-lamps we’d built in.
Now, in the head there was a little room, with one gunner in there. He worked a pump. Nasty stuff—worse than Greek Fire, Leo’s own invention—came spraying out of the head, igniting as it passed the flames in the nostrils, splashing all over the men on the wall. Then we heard screams! Some of them died right there, cooked like lobsters in their own armor. Some jumped down and ran, trying to get to the little Vernavola stream that ran through the park, but it was already full of men trying to wash off the Greek Fire.
And so they left the wall undefended.
Now, signore, the Horse’s head opened right up, like one of Leo’s pictures of cadavers opened out, and from his platform the gunner opened fire over the wall, but not with a cannon! No, this was a machine with rotating chambers, fired hundreds of little grenades, looked like bright confetti flying, but where they came down there wasn’t no carnival, you see? Boom boom boom, black smoke and red flame, men flying to pieces, little pieces, arms and legs blown everywhere! We found them for days afterward, all over the park.
But that ain’t the best part.
The Horse’s behind had a room in it too, and three men in there got busy, cranking the reciprocating gears, and the Horse’s prick—is that the word in English, not too rude? Well, saving your presence, but that’s what came out of the Horse, an iron prick turning as it came, with a burin on the end all sharp points. It bit into the wall. Oh, we laughed like hell! Round and round it went, boring at the wall, one big screw!
When the screw had gone in deep, the men set the Horse in motion, thrusting and pounding at the wall like it was a mare. I thought the duke was going to rupture himself; he laughed so hard the tears were streaming down his face.