The stars favored Pietro again. His shield's spike caught the halberd between the axe and the shaft and deflected the blow. Pietro was still kicking with his spurs, and finally the destrier under him responded, tearing away along Carrara's left side. With a flick of his own spurs Marsilio twisted about in pursuit.
Pietro cursed. In close-quarter fighting he was at a disadvantage. Raising the lance, he pitched it backward. With any luck, Marsilio's horse would trip on it, and so end the fight. That wouldn't happen, of course, but it was pretty to think so.
Pietro's hand scrabbled to draw his sword from the saddle's scabbard. It was a longsword, more than twice the length of Pietro's forearm. He'd tried it out before the duel. It was slightly point-heavy, the better to bring a blow down onto an opponent's head or neck. Brandishing it in his gloved right hand, he shifted in his saddle. Carrara was behind him, spurring hard to close the gap and bring the halberd to bear again. Swinging the weapon from the very end of the shaft, the Paduan had a long reach but poor leverage.
It was an impossible situation. So long as Pietro allowed himself to be chased in circles around the Arena, Carrara had the upper hand. But the moment he stopped, he would be eviscerated by the spike or axehead.
An image suddenly appeared in Pietro's mind. The Scaliger, facing a spear on one side, a sword on the other, and a morning star behind. He recalled the Capitano's leg snaking out to grasp the spear. Pietro couldn't do that with the halberd. But he could remove the halberd from play, if he was willing to sacrifice… Yes. But first, he had to build Carrara's confidence.
Pietro recalled Cangrande's lesson as they looked at the walls of Vicenza. Show the enemy what he expects to see. Yanking his reins inward, Pietro cut across the Arena floor in a close facsimile of panic.
"What's he doing?" demanded Antonia.
"I'm not sure," her father breathed.
They saw Pietro twist the reins again, cutting south instead of west, and Ludovico Capulletto roared in outrage. "He's running away!" His two sons were silent, for different reasons. Antony was rigidly watching the duel unfold. Luigi, silently rooting against his brother's champion, hoped Carrara's weapon would find its mark. Their feelings horribly conflicted, Mari and Gianozza were unable to turn away.
"He's a coward," sneered young Mastino della Scala, inviting a clout from Guglielmo del Castelbarco.
"Kill him, Carrara!" cried someone. Antonia twisted around to see a short fellow seated beside Ser Bonaventura. They looked related. She gave him a frosty glare, then returned to covering her eyes.
Down in the Arena something drifted across the slit in Pietro's helmet. A snowflake. Calm and gentle, snow had begun to fall. If it got any heavier, it could be an aid, obscuring his actions from view. But he couldn't wait for the weather. Pietro touched his mount's left flank, turning it north. He'd lost all sense of where Marsilio was. Hopefully he'd gained a few steps. If not, his next move would see him killed.
Turning his horse left once more, he yanked back on the reins. His horse was now almost broadside to the approaching Paduan, with Pietro's round shield protecting his body. Behind it, Pietro raised his blade and hacked down. To the crowd, it looked as if he were cutting off his own arm.
"What is he doing?" shrieked Antonia again.
Eyes fixed on the battle, Dante just shook his head.
Pietro peered over the top of his shield. His opponent was approaching fast, and Pietro could almost hear the options register in Mariotto's brain. Pierce the shield with the spike, drag the axehead across it, or hook it again in the hope of stripping away Pietro's best defense. Carrara veered his horse to the right. He'd chosen the hook. It made sense. If Carrara dragged the shield away as he rode past, the strap on Pietro's shield would yank him out of the saddle, cutting him at the same time with the spike. A mollinello over Marsilio's head would then bring the axehead around into Pietro's chest, finishing him.
Carrara choked up on the halberd's shaft, gaining a finer measure of control. A thousand voices shouted warnings at the boy cowering behind his shield, awaiting to the blow that would eviscerate him.
Flexing his grip on his sword, Pietro prayed he was dexterous enough to pull off the move he'd conjured from his own pure brain. He heard the hooves and saw the snow rise in a gust of air created by the legs of Carrara's horse. There was a flash of steel as the hook swept in. Here it comes. Oh, God, please don't let me fail.
The halberd's hook caught the edge of the shield. Riding from right to left Carrara used his mount's momentum to heave, expecting Pietro to be dragged uncontrollably forward with his shield, opening him up for the spike and axe.
But Pietro didn't jerk forward. The shield came away from his arm easily. Severed by Pietro's own sword, the loose ends of the strap fluttered in the chill air.
Pietro's blade was already in motion, beating away the halberd's spike with a clanging parry. Carrara felt his trailing halberd head leap up of its own volition, his right arm dragged up with it, exposing his side….
"Look! Look!" cried Antonia.
The stroke started on Pietro's left side and rounded his head in an arc that ended in a smashing blow to the Paduan's ribs.
Marsilio was almost past his adversary when the sword impacted. The armour prevented Alaghieri's blow from severing flesh but it almost didn't matter. The force of it cracked several of Carrara's ribs. Marsilio retched and the crowd cheered as he spat blood.
"Clever," breathed Guglielmo da Castelbarco in admiration.
Nico da Lozzo slapped Dante on the shoulder. "Quite a son you've got there!" At the center of the balcony Bailardino and Morsicato were cheering loudly. The doctor roared, "Never seen anything like it!" The short fellow next to Bonaventura was booing loudly.
But if Pietro had hoped to end the fight with that surprise move, he'd failed. His second stroke, a roversi at Marsilio's helmeted head, sliced only air. In the front row, Cangrande watched with a carefully imposed air of impartiality.
Down on the pitch, Marsilio's left hand involuntarily went to clutch his dented armour as his horse pulled him away from Pietro's next stroke. In his right hand Carrara kept hold of the halberd, dragging it along behind him.
Pietro cursed. He'd thought only so far and no further. Now he faced a halberd with only a sword to defend him. His shield lay uselessly on the ground, far out of reach. No clever moves left, he would have to rely on straightforward fighting.
But Carrara hadn't turned his horse yet, was just now gripping his weapon with his second hand to brandish it anew. Spurring forward, Pietro took up position behind Marsilio, hoping to give chase as he himself had been chased just moments before.
Now it was Pietro who was lured into position. Marsilio was a practiced rider, well used to tricks of the saddle. As his horse trotted away from the point of last impact, seemingly without direction, Carrara glanced back and cried, "Poor fool! One lucky blow and you think you actually stand a chance?"
Head encased in his padded helmet, Pietro couldn't make out the words. Doubtless another taunt. He spurred harder, drawing closer, though not yet within his sword's reach.
Ahead, Carrara slipped his right foot out of its stirrup. With a skill that bespoke of years of riding, he stood upright in his single stirrup. At the same time he dragged the spur of his right boot across his horse's flank. The horse turned into the cut, angling right. Instead of being pursued, Carrara's horse suddenly was at right angles with Pietro's.
Hitching his right ankle on the wooden arcione at the back of his saddle, Carrara brought the halberd around, the axehead driving in for Pietro's breastplate.