Carrara blanched, instinctively bringing his blade down to parry. But too late. There was the tip of Alaghieri's sword, inches from his chest.
Then the traitor in Pietro's body made itself known. His weakened leg buckled, and Pietro's sword merely scraped across Carrara's breastplate, sending sparks flying into the snowy air. It was Marsilio's luck that it didn't pierce the metal, but that was all the luck he had. Sheer chance had trapped his sword's cross in Pietro's own guard. The force of Alaghieri's strike sent the Paduan's sword flying.
Pietro's vision was so blurred he didn't see it. He'd wagered everything he had on this thrust. When it failed to drive home, he thought he was finished. Then, blinking, he saw his opponent was disarmed before him. It was as if the Virgin herself had descend to kiss his hands.
He extended his swordarm, aiming the point at Carrara's throat. He barely had the breath to say, "Yield."
"Never!" Carrara turned. Ducking low, he threw out a hand to balance himself on the cold dirt of the Arena floor. His armoured leg shot out, driving into the fold of Alaghieri's right leg, just above the knee.
The pain seemed to start from the ground, rising through Pietro like water through a geyser. From the elation of victory, Pietro's world turned to agony. All he knew was pain. The snowflakes seemed to hold still in the air, as if time had ceased to flow. Each flake drifted into his sight, unique creations of a benevolent God who would surely now call Pietro to his bosom.
Then the ground hit him, face first, slamming his forehead with a stunning blow.
As one the crowd was on its feet, howling. To strike a man's wound received in the duel was an accepted practice. To strike a cripple's bad leg was decidedly unchivalrous.
Pietro struggled to rise, but his body wasn't answering. He felt himself being rolled onto his side. Above him was the tip of a miseracordia, a thin dagger meant for driving into the chinks of a wounded man's armour. Marsilio lifted Pietro's wounded shoulder to drive the needlelike blade through his armpit, into his heart.
On the very edge of consciousness, Pietro's breathing was laboured. His left arm was growing numb. Carrara was about to murder him and he was helpless to stop it. He saw the arm draw back, ready to drive in the killing stroke. Pietro's right hand fumbled towards his own dagger, strapped to his right hip. The Paduan slapped the hand away with a scorn.
This is it. I'll die in battle. A battle over love. One jilted amour. How stupid.
A whistling pierced the air above him and something thudded into the ground. The hand gripping Pietro's arm faltered. Carrara was looking away from his victim, up towards the Scaliger balcony. Pietro was more interested in the little snowflakes that fell across his face, the feel of them as they melted into his skin.
Shaking his head angrily, Carrara pulled back his knife again. A second whistling sound followed by a thud at Pietro's feet. The cursing Carrara stumbled backward. He didn't seem to have any more energy than Pietro did. Denied his chance to finish the fight, the Paduan collapsed in a heap, eyes closed. Carrara's breath had a strange rattle to it as he breathed in and out.
Pietro lay still, feeling his own breathing grow easier. Rolling slightly he could make out two fletched arrows sticking out of the ground at his feet. From this angle, the Scaliger's balcony looked very tall. One leg perched on the edge of that balcony, Cangrande was lowering a bow.
The duel was over.
And, though with questionable honour, Carrara had won.
Twenty-Seven
Flat on his back on the Arena floor, Pietro considered passing out. Suddenly he was gripped under his armpits and lifted up. Sighing, he decided he didn't care where they took him. Eyes closed, he was aware of the journey back towards the Piazza della Signoria and the palace, but it was as though he traveled through a fog. The most urgent thing that pressed on his mind was the need to urinate. He did this the moment he was lowered from the shoulders of the Capitano's servants, even before they removed his armour. He stood beside the wall of the palace and relieved his bladder, knees trembling. Wonderfully, the servants did not protest or mock him. When he was finished he allowed them to strip off his armour and carry him to Morsicato, who dressed his shoulder wound. Morsicato talked, of course, but the words didn't make any sense. Since the tone was reassuring, not worried, Pietro didn't bother fighting the haze to listen more closely.
He only came back to himself when he was dressed and seated once more in the great hall in the Domus Nuova. A hand touched his shoulder. Dizzily, he turned to see his father, brother, and sister. They were seated on the bench beside of him. Dante was talking, but again it was hard to focus. "What?"
"You fought well and honourably," repeated Dante. "I'm proud, boy."
"What happened?"
Eyes on his father's lips, he was confused when Antonia answered. "The Greyhound stopped the fight. He said he would adjudicate the matter now, based on your actions."
"What?" For the life of him, it didn't make sense. How could little Cesco have broken up the fight? Or maybe she meant Mercurio. She couldn't mean Cangrande, he wasn't the Greyhound.
Pietro's head came around to his sister, but her eyes were fixed on the next bench over. Following her gaze Pietro saw the bandaged Marsilio staring at him through half-lidded eyes. Pietro's focus sharpened instantly. You honourless son of a bitch. Damn you, and damn this leg. Damn it all.
The haze lifted, and Pietro saw the crowd was back, this time hushed in anticipation. Antony was seated on one side, father and brother beside him. Opposite them stood Mariotto and Gianozza, with Lord Montecchio and Mari's sister at a slight distance.
A hush fell as Cangrande entered. He did not take his seat, instead standing at the center of the raised dais. "The duel is finished. Both men fought bravely. I declare the decision to be inconclusive."
Carrara's energy returned in an instant. "No! I won! If you hadn't interfered — "
"Marsilio da Carrara," interrupted the Scaliger, "you proclaimed that your great motivator this day was chivalry. It was your insistence that Antony Capulletto's lack of chivalric qualities made your actions permissible. It is decidedly unchivalrous, Cavaliere, to use an opponent's infirmity against him when you are at a disadvantage yourself. I assume you were caught up in the heat of battle — these things happen, even to the best of us. Based on your earlier words, I felt sure when your head cooled you wouldn't want to have won the contest in so despicable a way. So I stopped the match. I declare the decision inconclusive."
Skewered by his own cleverness, the wind went out of Marsilio's sails. Had he not been so tired, had his side not throbbed in agony, perhaps he could have countered the Scaliger's decision. He turned to Il Grande for help. "Uncle…?"
"I have talked this over with our host," said Il Grande loudly. "I concur with him on all points."
Eyes blazing murder, Marsilio sank back in sullen resignation.
Cangrande nodded his thanks to the elder Carrara. "As Vicar of the Trevisian Mark, as well as Capitano del Populo and Podestà of the Merchants, I have the ultimate authority in judicial matters in this region. I have made my decision regarding the duel. But before I proclaim that decision, I will hear once more from the parties involved."
He turned to Antony, whose eyes were fixed on Gianozza. She gazed back at him. Tears started at the corners of his eyes. The moment the first fell across his cheek, the girl strode across the hall to his side. Leaving her new husband confused, she leaned over her spurned suitor and kissed a tear away. In a voice so soft that none but Antony could hear, she began to speak. He shook his head. Kissing his cheek again, she leaned back. He stared at her, not bothering to wipe away the tears now flowing freely down his face.