Still, as he laid his head to rest once more he recalled the dream Cesco's final words: If God won't help me, the devil won't fail me. An apt phrase for the coming dawn.
Thirty-Two
Vicenza
22 May 1317
Feeling unrested, Pietro awoke to a light tapping on the door to his suite. Fazio was up quick as a snake to answer it. Outside were Morsicato and Bailardino, with a few servants behind them. The doctor was wearing armour. Pietro stood and shook his head clear. Pulling on his breeches he said, "What time is it?"
"About two hours before dawn," said Bailardino. "Time to armour up and gather your men."
Fazio made for the chest that contained Pietro's armour, but Pietro stopped him. "Not today." He pointed to the servants bringing in another chest. As they lit the tapers about the room, Bail threw back the lid of the trunk, revealing another set of armour, much more worn than Pietro's. The helmet sat on top, a peaked dome with gilded metal rings providing the protection for ears and neck. Underneath it lay the breastplate. This was both gilded and plated in sliver, the two shimmering colours acid-etched into fantastic flowery swirls. At the center were two stars in opposition. For some reason, Pietro found this troubling.
"Gaudy, isn't it?" Bail was grinning at Pietro's expression. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to swallow your pride and wear the awful thing for at least a few hours."
Pietro slipped a shirt over his head. "It's not that. How am I going to fit it? He must be built like a wall!"
Bail snapped his fingers and the servants began strapping padding to Pietro's midsection. "Oh, this is good," he groaned.
"Don't knock it," said Morsicato from the door. "Many knights would kill for extra protection."
"Most knights would get killed in extra protection," retorted Pietro.
The breastplate was put in place, then the codpiece, followed by the arm and leg greaves. As he helped Pietro fit on the gloves, Fazio asked, "Whose armour is this?"
Bailardino chuckled. "It's the armour abandoned by Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio when he fled Vicenza three years ago. The Scaliger's been saving it for just such an occasion. When the invaders get to the gates they'll see a friendly face beckoning them in. Everything will be as inviting as possible."
Fazio nodded thoughtfully, then asked Pietro, "But why give it to you, ser?"
Pietro patted his leg. "Because the Count and I share a limp. We both list a little in the saddle. It will make the disguise that much more effective."
Fazio looked into the empty trunk. "Is there armour for me?"
"No," said Pietro. "No, don't argue. You're staying at the palace. I don't want to have to explain your death to the Scaliger's wife. Now help me get down the stairs."
Bail wished him good luck, then did the same for the doctor — it had been decided the night before that Morsicato would join Pietro's band of soldiers. Bail wished he could as well, but Katerina had pointed out that the Paduans were sure to have spies in and around the palace. If he were to disappear moments before a 'surprise' attack, the whole thing might fall apart.
The hardest part of leaving the palace was convincing Mercurio to stay behind. The hound sensed something was afoot, but he was a hunter, not a war dog. Eventually they were forced to lock him in a side chamber without windows.
When Pietro, Morsicato, and Fazio emerged from a side entrance to the palace, the sky was still dark. So when a shadow beside the door moved every man drew his sword. "Who's there?" demanded Pietro in a whisper.
He was answered by a rasping voice scraped from a friendly throat. "The Arūs."
Pietro lowered his blade as the Moor stepped close. He was dressed in some kind of eastern battle gear, lighter and quieter than theirs. Pietro sheathed his sword and took the hand the Moor offered him. "I hope you brought that falchion of yours."
"Don't be nervous, Ser Alaghieri. You will not die today."
Pietro let out a short laugh, half hope and half disbelief. "My stars said that?"
"They did."
"What about me?" demanded Morsicato.
The Moor looked at the face under the nondescript armour. "Is that the doctor's beard I see? My apologies, ser dottore, but I did not consult the heavens for you."
"Marvelous," muttered the medical man.
As they resumed walking, Pietro apologized for drawing his sword. "I'm a little jumpy today. I had this dream last night…"
Theodoro's brow furrowed. "Tell me."
"Oh, it was nonsense." Yet Pietro took time describing it.
The Moor was quiet for a moment, then said, "That's from your father's poem. The descent among the violent."
Pietro noted the Moor's grasp of Dante's work. But he was feeling foolish for even mentioning it. "It was nothing."
"You recall the proverb regarding early morning dreams?"
Pietro did. They were the ones that most often came true.
The Moor was pensive. "Perhaps I should not go with you."
Morsicato said, "Afraid? Do your stars say you won't die today?"
The Moor looked at the doctor with a level gaze. "The dream indicates danger to the boy."
Fazio piped up. "You should stay with Ser Alaghieri. What if he needs you?"
"I'll be fine." Pietro wondered if his voice carried any conviction. The truth was that he liked the idea of that wicked falchion covering his back.
The Moor said, "Someone needs to look after Cesco. Just to be certain he's safe."
Fazio puffed out his chest. "Why not me? You won't let me fight, but I'm fourteen. I'll be a man next year. I can watch over him."
"That might answer," allowed the Moor.
Pietro considered. "Very well. Take Mercurio, Cesco likes him."
Fazio saluted. "I won't let the boy out of my sight!" He rapped on the door and was readmitted by a Nogarola servant.
"A good solution," said Morsicato. "Keeps him busy."
"I hope so." Pietro led the way to the stables that housed his soldiers, all soundly asleep. Someone groaned, "What time is it?"
"What's the matter?" asked a veteran, snapping awake at the sight of Pietro in full armour.
Pietro cleared his throat. "Today, we have — that is to say — ah…"
Morsicato stepped forward into the light of the single taper. "There's a plot to take the city. Word has reached the Podestà this morning that the Paduans are planning an attack." He glanced at Pietro, who added, "I've offered our services to defend the city. So, ah, arm yourselves. Quickly."
They were already moving, throwing open their packs. Even the least experienced ones worked with a minimum of fuss, helping each other with chain mail and gauntlets, swords and pikes.
Pietro spent a few moments stroking his palfrey's long head. "Sorry, but today's work is for Pompey." He used a small stool to clamber onto his destrier's back. "Is everyone ready?"
"Yes!" The son of Pietro's neighbour was anxious for his first battle.
The Moor stepped into the light. "Don't be too eager."
"Who the devil is that?"
"A heathen!" All the men wheeled about to draw weapons.
Pietro put his horse between them and the Moor. "He's with us!"
One veteran looked horrified. "You want us to fight side by side with a back-stabbing Moor?"
"As long as he's beside you he can't stab you in the back, can he?" countered Pietro. "Look, there's no time. You trusted me with your lives. I trust him with mine. That should be enough. Now let's get moving."
At that moment the enemy was scaling Vicenza's walls. Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio, led his small army of mercenaries and exiles up the battlements of San Pietro, repeating the action he'd taken three years earlier. Reaching the top, the Count's men quickly secured the turrets and made their way to the guardhouse. The guards put up no resistance, moving aside to allow the invaders access to the gates. The Count looked about him in delight. Whatever today brings, within a month the Scaliger will be no more.