Pietro's sword was high, ready to release a vicious downward stroke. In desperation he drove the point down to catch the axehead whistling towards him, but nothing could parry the blow's force. The curved point of the axehead cracked against Pietro's shoulder, trapping his sword between the halberd and his chest. Pietro's forward momentum was stopped. His stirrups snapped. His horse rode on while he toppled through the air, heels towards the sky. He landed on the dirt with a crash that drove the air from his lungs.
Dante was on his feet, screaming. Antonia was too breathless to echo him. Blessedly the nature of Marsilio's move made it impossible for him to turn his horse quickly, preventing him from delivering the killing stroke. He was halfway across the Arena floor before he was settled in his saddle once more. Antonia watched him heft his halberd and start back to where Pietro lay, unmoving.
Though Dante did not, several people turned to the Capitano to plead him to halt the combat now. Marsilio had unseated Pietro. He could be declared the victor.
Cangrande said nothing. All eyes returned to the fray.
On the Arena floor, Pietro gasped for air, his head ringing inside his helmet. His left shoulder ached, but he was able to lift his arm above his head and wrench himself free from the metal bucket. He swallowed at the cold air that burned his bruised lungs. Blinking the dancing lights out of his eyes, he focused on breathing. A calm, resigned voice said, Lie still. The end will be quick.
He agreed with the voice. There was nothing he wanted to do less than move. Yet he found himself turning his head. He saw the horse pounding across the dirt floor. Its path would trample him, even if Carrara's halberd didn't spear him to the ground.
Don't move. Just relax. It will be quick.
Pietro rolled onto his right shoulder and tried to stand, but his weak knee buckled under the weight of his armour. He fell forward, his left hand barely stopping him from crashing face-first into the dirt.
See? You're just prolonging the inevitable. Don't move. It will only hurt for a moment, then you can rest.
Over last night's bandage Pietro's hair was damp with sweat and new snow, making it cling to his eyes, obscuring his sight. I should have shaved my head. Through the haze Pietro could just discern Carrara's horse tossing up chunks of snowy earth a dozen yards away.
His fingers found the helmet and suddenly the voice in his head changed. Do it! Don't think! Do it now!
Discarding pain, Pietro pitched the helmet. Carrara easily ducked the missile, but he took his eyes off of Pietro for a split second. Pietro rolled across his good shoulder, propelled by his good leg. His blade rose in the montante sotto mano, a rising backhanded slash. He'd never done it, only seen pictures. He had no hope of damaging the armoured horse. Instead he wanted to invoke the horse's training to leap upward and drive its hooves into an attacker.
This the horse did. But Pietro had already checked his blow and was rolling again, clearing himself to the right of the deadly nailed hooves. Carrara's horse landed on empty ground.
Pietro staggered to his feet. He'd succeeded in slowing Carrara's horse and confusing the Paduan, who now saw Pietro standing with brandished sword at the ready. Carrara brought his horse around again for another pass. The crowd booed him for remaining mounted against an unseated foe.
At the far end of the Arena, Jacopo called frantically to his brother. He held a second shield in his hands, unscarred and ready. As tall as a man, with a spearhead at either end and a long pole running north to south, this shield was meant to be used on the ground, two-handed for defense and offense both. Jacopo was furiously debating whether or not to rush out into the center of the Arena and pass it to Pietro. He saw Pietro glance over at him. That was all the encouragement he needed. He dashed forward, into the fray.
Pietro's glance backward was to be sure that Poco wasn't doing something foolish. Pietro felt he was in pretty decent shape, all things considered. His breath was coming back, he was armed. Carrara was still on his horse, but Pietro had an idea about that. The halberd wasn't too much of a worry, as long as Pietro didn't lower his guard.
But here came his little brother playing the good little squire. Only there wasn't time! Carrara was beginning his next charge. There was no way Jacopo could get out onto the field, pass off the shield, and get clear in time.
"Pietro! Pietro!" shouted Poco, though in greeting or in warning Pietro couldn't know.
Carrara was closing in. With his free left hand Pietro waved Jacopo off. "Down! Down! Get back!"
Jacopo ran faster. Pietro mentally cursed his little brother. They were both going to die. Carrara could trample them and claim it was a terrible mistake, the boy shouldn't have been out there.
The savvy crowd redoubled its jeers for Carrara. Swearing aloud, Pietro did the single thing he knew he shouldn't — he turned his back on his attacker and ran to meet his brother. He heard Marsilio's sour laugh behind him as the Paduan spurred in pursuit.
Pietro and Poco now had a single chance, one that hinged on Pietro reaching his brother before Carrara removed his head from his shoulders. Pietro's right leg was trembling and weak, ready to collapse at every step. Come on, damn you! You can hold up a little longer! Why couldn't Poco run faster? Remembering the split skin at the soles of his brother's feet, remnants of the foot Palio last night, Pietro thought savagely, I should have asked Antonia to be my squire!
Antonia was watching the scene on the Arena floor in absolute terror, no longer able to turn away. The crowd made more noise than ever, most calling foul on Marsilio. Behind her, Bonaventura's friend was mocking the idiot squire that was running into a duel at the wrong time. She sent another withering glance his way, then silently urged Pietro on. Don't die, big brother! Do something!
Pietro reached Jacopo barely five yards ahead of the charging horse. He was screaming something to Jacopo and waving his hand in the air. Apparently Jacopo understood, for he lifted the shield in both hands and flung it forward. In one move Pietro dropped his sword, caught the shield, and pivoted. Driving the spearhead at the bottom of the tall shield into the earth, he dropped to his knees. Jacopo slid across the dirt to shelter himself with his brother behind the shield's protection.
The nobles on the balcony went hoarse crying their praise. Even Mariotto stood to cheer as Carrara's horse balked at the obstacle, veering to the side instead. Pietro caught the spike of Carrara's halberd on the shield and deflected it easily.
"Oh thank God," breathed Antonia. The bastard behind her was booing again. She whipped around, unable to contain her annoyance any longer. "What is wrong with you?"
The short fellow looked surprised. "What?"
"Why are you rooting for a Paduan?"
"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded hotly. "A Paduan fighting a Florentine? Neither one is Veronese." He gestured to Bonaventura, hooting and cheering beside him. "My cousin married a Paduan, so I'm supporting the family. Besides, Florence is a cesspit. Have you read what Dante said in his Inferno?"
Antonia stared at him in disbelief. All she could think to say was, "That's my brother."
Bonaventura's cousin shrugged. "Then you cheer for him."
Petruchio Bonaventura smacked his cousin across the back of his head. "Ferdinando, show some manners!"
"What, to her?"
Resisting the impulse to hit the oaf, Antonia turned away. Down the balcony Nico da Lozzo was proclaiming, "This is the best fight I've seen in years!"
Guglielmo da Castelbarco agreed. "After this, I'll back Alaghieri in any tournament he chooses!"