Hands beginning to shake, Katerina was filled with an indescribable premonition. "Quickly," she commanded, "back to the palace."
Thirty-Four
Pietro's men barely finished overturning a wagon across the mouth of the alley when the Paduans launched an assault. As Cangrande had predicted, they were focusing not on driving Bailardino's forces back but on circumventing them entirely. Just as the Persians had found the goat trails above the cliffs of Thermopylae, so too did the Paduans discover the alleys, all blocked by small forces like Pietro's, all under heavy attack.
Filled with straw and nightsoil, the upturned wagon wasn't enough to hold back the soldiers who pressed forward, hoping to capture the glory of victory by beating down these paltry few defenders. Pietro ignored the growing ache in his bad leg as he stood in the gap between the wagon and the wall beating aside blade after blade. His horse was at the far end of the alley for a hasty retreat, but he hoped he wouldn't need it.
Behind him the Moor swung a captured halberd like a demon's axe. On the wagon's far end, Morsicato was swearing like the devil. The rest of Pietro's men were singing again, much feebler now that their numbers were reduced. The attacking Paduans trampled their wounded and their dead in their desire to break free from the yard and wreak havoc on the city at large.
Half-blind from the smoke, Pietro swung and blocked and beat weapons aside. Someone pitched a torch into their midst. It bounced off Pietro's borrowed armour, sending a flutter of sparks up to singe his face. He winced, then saw an opportunity. As he pulled back from a stab he kicked the stick of burning pitch into the overturned wagon. At once he tasted the gratifying stench of burning straw. In another minute the wagon in the alley's mouth was ablaze and Pietro's men could step back and recover their breath. A few mounted Paduans tried to jump the flaming hurdle only to be skewered on spears or the Moor's halberd, their bodies becoming additional barriers in the blaze.
A skin of wine appeared from somewhere. Pietro sloshed the liquid around in his mouth, spitting away the distasteful remains, then swallowed a few gulps before handing the bag off to the next man. One of Pietro's men was wiping some blood from the Moor's eye. Pietro turned to Morsicato. "How are we?"
"We're holding, but they're going break through somewhere. They have to."
"I heard the bells," said Pietro hopefully. The exhausted doctor just nodded.
The Moor was staring at the sky. "It's going to rain. Good."
The doctor stared at him in horror. "That's good?"
"Of course." The Moor grinned. "It will help the drought."
Morsicato goggled. Pietro's men started hooting. Apparently the heathen Moor had earned their trust. Pietro murmured, "Tharwat. Not Theodoro. Yes?"
The Moor nodded. "You will become used to it."
"Tharwat al-Dhaamin, secret astrologer to princes and kings. I just thought I'd like to call you by your right name…" Pietro's voice trailed away and he looked in the direction of the battle. Before I die.
Again, the Moor seemed able to read his thoughts. "You won't die today, Ser Alaghieri."
Pietro laughed. "I take that as a binding promise. So tell me, what does Arūs mean?"
"The Bridegroom," rasped Tharwat. "If we live through this, I may tell you the story."
"Now there's a reason to survive."
Suddenly their overturned flaming wagon jerked towards them. It stopped, then skidded another five feet up the alley, away from the yard. Something was bashing at it with tremendous force, pushing it forward.
Pietro swore. "A battering ram! Pull back! We can't stop them here!"
Already his men were retreating. The Paduans had torn doors off the few intact buildings and were using them to bash the wagon up the alley. Pietro's cleverness with the fire didn't seem so clever now that it prevented his men from stopping the moving barricade.
Running to the alley's end, he remounted his horse. It was oddly peaceful the next street over, with nothing but the smoke to show where the battle raged. That and the tremendous noise. He turned to Morsicato. "Go find Cangrande, let him know they're coming! We'll hold this street as long as we can!"
"You can't hold this street yourself!"
"Don't worry about us! I've got a plan! Go!"
Morsicato wheeled his horse about and galloped north on the empty street. At the corner he turned right, circling around to the back of the Vicentine forces.
Pietro looked around at the expectant faces of his men — my men, he thought. There were only seven of them left. Nine, counting the Moor and himself. Pietro grinned at them all. "Nine is my father's lucky number."
"Let's hope it runs in the family," said one. "What's your plan?"
Pietro had no plan. He'd said that to get rid of the doctor. Now he looked around at the empty street. No masterstroke of military strategy popped into his head. He shrugged. "We kill every figlio di buona donna that shows his face in our street."
Pietro was gratified to see his men's grim nods and determined smiles. They would die, but it was a glorious death, a death their fathers and children could be proud of.
To Tharwat he said, "How are those stars looking now?"
"Too much smoke. Can't see the sky."
"I suppose it's up to us, then." The crashing in the alley was close now. "Pull back, down the street! They'll be blind and stumbling when they come out. They'll be expecting us to run! And they'll be looking north! We'll ride from the south and take the fight to them!" Together they rode to the end of the block and turned their horses about. "It's been an honour knowing you all."
The flames of the cart licked at the corners of the alley. The next bash of the Paduan ram would send it out into the open street.
"Ready," roared Pietro in a choked voice.
The flaming cart shattered as it tumbled into the street before them.
"Now!" Pietro gave his horse his spurs, driving the massive beast forward. He saw the edge of the makeshift battering ram pull back and bash forward again. The wreckage of the cart cleared from their path, the Paduan foot soldiers ran out into the street, turning north to loop around and catch the Vicentine forces from behind. Only a few noticed the nine men on horseback racing towards them from the south. These men tried to warn their fellows, but for the first wave of Paduans through the mouth of the alley there was nothing to do but dive for cover. The nine horses trampled anything in their path, the swords above them slicing through the air around their ears, battering them to pulp.
The charge carried them past, and Pietro's men were in the open again. The Moor looked to Pietro. "Stay or run?"
It was their last chance. They could escape to one of the north or west gates. Pietro said, "We have to hold them as long as we can." They wheeled around.
Scenting victory, more Paduans poured through the unstoppered gap in the defenses. This time Pietro let them come to him. His men shouted curses and jibes, taunts and insults, as their swords met. One fell to a spear in the chin. Pietro killed the spear's owner, shouting, "Come on! Avanti! Avanti!"
The astrologer fought like the demon he appeared to be, dark skin covered in blood, scars on his neck and face pulsing white. Pietro blocked a blow to Tharwat's side and together they hacked into the sea of men who hungered for their deaths.
Hands pulled at Tharwat's reins. He fought desperately but was struck a blow that dented his conical helmet. Pietro tried to grasp the Moor's toppling figure, but something bashed into his weak leg. He was wincing but still swinging when a heavy blow to his back unseated him. He felt himself sliding through the air, bouncing off the bodies of Paduan foot soldiers. He struck the ground heavily and lay flat upon his back, still swinging his sword wildly.