Cangrande appeared dubious. "Hmm. We'll see. Certainly he was generous enough in return. The feast he threw in honour of San Bonaventura was magnificent. I haven't danced like that in years."
Castelbarco passed across a tray of food. "The whole affair was definitely a triumph. Ludovico confided to me that he's planning on making it an annual event."
"The only shame was that Gargano wasn't there," said Bail.
"He was invited," said Cangrande. "I made sure of that. But he chose not to come. Said it might mar the occasion. As you say, a shame."
Swallowing, Nico pointed his knife aimlessly. "You know who I liked that night? Bonaventura and his wife. I'd heard she was mad, but I don't think I've ever heard sparring the like of theirs."
"Well, they were on display, weren't they?" said Bailardino, reaching over to fill Nico's bowl of wine. "As a Bonaventura, young Petruchio shares the name of the feast's saint. That mad wife's a Paduan, no?"
Cangrande said, "Yes, we seem to be stealing all the Paduan brides."
"I hear she's pregnant," said Poco, earning him a sour glance from Nico. None of the other pages would have spoken without invitation. But his news was enough of a pleasant surprise that the others overlooked the poor protocol.
Bailardino clapped his hands. "Excellent! A year of children! Where did you hear that?"
"Yes, where?" asked Cangrande in a droll tone. "Your spies must be better than mine."
Trying to disguise his pride, Poco said, "There's a girl in Ser Bonaventura's house, I've gotten to know her…"
He was answered by mockery and sly looks. Bailardino in particular was gleeful. "Well done, lad! Are there any other pregnancies we should — what the devil?!"
The tent flap was thrown wide by one of Cangrande's soldiers, who burst in. "My lord — trouble!"
Throwing aside the benches the five generals followed the soldier outside, Poco and the other pages at their heels. "There, my lord," said the veteran, pointing. Tracing the line he indicated, all heads turned towards the town walls. They were glowing red.
"Treachery?" asked Passerino.
"I'm afraid so," said Cangrande in a grim tone. "But I don't think the kind you mean."
"What is it, then?" demanded Castelbarco. "Is Cremona attacking?"
"No. Someone has taken it upon themselves to break my word. Horses! Arms! Let's see if there's any way to salvage this!"
Nico rounded on Poco, who stared with horror at the growing flames. "Move it, boy! Don't bother with the fancy stuff, just gambeson, helmet, and sword. Move!" With a shove Nico sent him running.
Fifteen minutes later Cangrande led his personal guard as they galloped into chaos. Men on fire, women screaming under the weight of armoured men mercilessly having their way. Not all the women screamed — some had had their throats cut before they were violated. A lone child wandered into the road to be trampled by a mad horse running wild. Blood pooled in the streets, sprayed the pitted stone walls, bubbled in the mouths of blackened corpses.
Poco felt a shiver run from his forehead to his fingertips as he stared wide-eyed at the carnage. But it was the sudden smell of burning human flesh that made him turn his head and vomit down his horse's side. His stomach heaved, then heaved again. He looked around, embarrassed, his eyes watering in the smoke. He saw Nico kill a rapist as Cangrande used his sword to bring final peace to a burning man. Drawing his sword, Poco followed the leaders up and down the street, helping those they could, killing those they could not. It was a kind of mercy.
Entering one bloody and smoking piazza they heard a voice cry out, "Havoc!" The shout was echoed from mouth to mouth among the garrison of German mercenaries Cangrande had left within the town walls. The havoc cry was famous, a foreign idea that had quickly translated into a simple rule — there were no rules. For the duration of one day, theft, rape, even murder would go unanswered at law. It was the free pass that allowed soldiers to vent their basest desires, enriching themselves or taking out their revenge against the world. Generals sometimes allowed their men to wreak havoc on a town as a reward for their efforts. Sometimes soldiers raised the call themselves.
"Round them up!" shouted Cangrande to his men. "Kill anyone who doesn't instantly fall in!"
His men responded with vigour, turning their blades on their allies with a feral fury that matched their commanders eyes. They worked to secure one piazza at a time, leaving soldiers behind to guard the few survivors. It took almost an hour to gain control of the situation, that being achieved mostly because by then there was no one left to save. Cangrande never seemed to rest, racing from place to place, a whirlwind of tightly controlled violence. Terrified, Poco trailed along, barely swinging his sword as he watched each grisly scene open up before him. The worst was when they came across a square where the mercenaries were playing some sort of game, using burning poles to hit balls into overturned baskets. A closer look revealed the balls to be human heads. Some were very small. Poco wept and, in that square, he killed his first man. None of the mercenaries in that square survived.
Recognizing that the town couldn't be saved, Cangrande abandoned the idea of fire brigades in favor of rescue parties. Only when the smoke threatened his men as much as the fire did he call for the withdrawal of his troops.
As the sun set its burning eye, the town of Calvatone was a smoldering ruin. Lined up before the collapsing gates were the last remaining mercenaries, forcibly dismounted and down on their knees. None had escaped some kind of injury. They looked up at Cangrande, sitting atop his magnificent horse and watching the last timbers fall inward, sending up a spray of sparks and ash. He remained there a good deal longer, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned and murmured an order to Castelbarco, who whipped his horse back towards the camp.
From his knees, the German leader called out to the Scaliger. "Der Hund! Why do you persecute us? We were only following your orders!"
Cangrande leapt from the saddle and ran over to the man, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. "My orders? To murder, to despoil, to ruin my own honour? I vowed that I wouldn't have them harmed! Who gave you these orders?" The leader of the condottiere swayed and shook his head, mumbling something. Cangrande struck him again. "Who!"
"There were written orders," protested the man around his cracked and bleeding mouth.
"Show me these orders!"
"I cannot, Der Hund! The last command on the paper was to burn it!"
"Convenient! Who brought these mythical orders?"
"A man I never before had met! But in your colours! And the orders bore your seal!"
Cangrande struck the man again, a mailed fist full in the German's face that broke teeth. The Scaliger wheeled about and remounted. There were tears in his eyes not caused by smoke. "Now I know how Ponzino felt. Passerino, Bail, bring these curs back to camp. Do not molest them further until I decide their punishment. Nico, take charge of the Calvatonesi, see to their needs. Protect your men, though, in case they try to take vengeance for this. As well they should!"
Cangrande rode off in the direction of the camp. Nico had his men open a path for the disgraced mercenaries, then issued orders for the housing and tending of the few survivors of the massacre.
Poco disobeyed those orders, though. Rather than tend to the blackened, the bleeding, the weeping, or the dazed, he found himself a fat tree to hide behind. He wasn't seen again until after the moon had passed halfway across the sky, and when at last he stumbled into his tent he was utterly, irredeemably drunk.