After a few minutes Young Carrara arrived. He took up an axe and began alternating strokes with the Count. Vinciguerra chose to find the teenager's distrust amusing.
"We should post guards in the city," declared Marsilio angrily.
"Truth!" replied the Count, swinging with added vigour.
"We're too exposed here." Marsilio timed his stroke a little too close, nearly grazing the Count's axehead.
"Mmm!" The Count swung so hard he had difficulty freeing the blade.
Marsilio smugly checked his blow. "There's no one between us and the gate on the inner wall."
"If you're worried about the lack of guards, why don't you go and keep a watch on the inner gates?"
"Why don't you?" the youth shot back.
The Count lifted his axe and swung. "I'm busy — trying to win this town for you."
Fuming, Marsilio dropped his axe and walked over to speak to his uncle. Evidently Il Grande agreed, as together they mounted and rode north into the smoldering suburb, vanishing in a cloud of black soot and smoke. Good riddance, thought the Count, resting the axehead on the cobblestones and closing his eyes.
His thoughts turned, as they invariably did, to the Pup. Cane Grande. The big dog. A name given when he was still a child. It wasn't until later that the people translated his nickname into the title he now employed: the Greyhound, mythic savior of Italy.
What kind of man was this Greyhound, really? The Count thought he knew. An arrogant, impulsive, sport-loving, bloodthirsty son of a murderer, for all his shows of clemency and frugality. He claimed he cared nothing for money, yet he kept three hundred hawks for his pleasure, dressed in the finest clothes, ate and drank superbly well. Rumour had it he was none too faithful to his wife, either. His bastards littered Lombardy, though a delightful rumour said they were all girls.
How did that sort of man lead his troops against all adversity? More important, why did they follow? What quality did he own? Was it bravery? Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio owned as much as the next man. What was it?
The sound of voices lifted in song made him turn his head. Around a corner of the smoking suburb appeared Vanni Scorigiani leading a group of about sixty men, all carrying plunder — candelabra, sacks of silver, even an overstuffed seat with carvings of curled claws at the feet. No doubt these men, most of them from a condottiere of Flemings, had been hand-picked to do Asdente's plundering for him.
Upon spying the Count, Vanni called, "Ho! Ho ho!" The Toothless Master was drunk. He attempted to dance a quick step on the cobblestones but hit his head on a blackened wooden sign hanging above him. Cursing, he drew his sword and unleashed a flurry of drunken blows on the offending slab of wood. The Flemish soldiers gleefully urged him on.
Ill luck chose that moment for the Podestà to ride up. Having emerged from his tent against advice, he'd ridden with Albertino Mussato to see how the demolition was coming. When he saw Asdente, he looked like he was about to have a fit. "Scorigiani! What the hell do you think you're doing, man? Are you incompetent as well as cruel?"
"Lord?" puzzled Asdente.
At last the Podestà found a target for his frustrations. "You're drunk, man! Have you no shame? Here are men, gentlemen, men of high birth, doing the work of common labourers, while you drink and carouse with your pet mercenaries! What kind of man are you? Certainly no gentleman! You don't deserve your knighthood! This whole day has been a fiasco because of behavior like yours! We could own the city now if it weren't for the base impulses of your men! What have you got to say for yourself?"
Asdente was sober enough to take offence. The Count watched as Vanni considered using his sword to rid them all of this jumped-up Cremonese who was so obsessed with dignity and honour that he couldn't lead his men. Of course, if Vanni did kill the Podestà, he'd be executed for murder. There were too many witnesses who could testify that it wasn't a proper duel. Mussato, the historian with a flair for the dramatic, was watching with interest. Ponzino didn't even have a sword. There was no way for Vanni to kill the weak-livered bastard and get away with it.
Weighing the scales of intervention, the Count decided it would be worth Vanni's death if this enterprise could be led by a practical, competent man. Giacomo da Carrara would take charge, and though Il Grande had his honour, it never got in the way of hard decisions. So when Asdente moved forward with blood in his eye, the Count did not move.
From somewhere nearby they heard the sound of hoofbeats. Two horses were pounding the stones towards them. Beneath that sound, a little further away, there came thunder. The Count glanced upwards. No, the clouds haven't moved. Yet the thunder continued, rumbling closer to them.
The Count was so tired that it took several long moments before he recognized the sound for what it was — the echoes of a mounted force galloping down paved city streets.
Vanni recognized it sooner. Besotted, honourless man he may have been, but he'd been a soldier all his life. Blind with drink, he ran to a nearby water trough and plunged his head in. Emerging, he quickly ordered his Flemings to abandon the trophies and draw their weapons. Trouble was approaching through the roiling cloud of smoke that enveloped the suburb.
Seconds later Marsilio and his uncle Giacomo burst out of the cloud bank, scarlet faces matching their family's scarlet crest. "They're coming!" both men shouted. There wasn't time for anything more.
Vinciguerra raced for his horse, tethered just inside the wall to the left of the arch. As he ran he reached out a hand and plucked up his breastplate from where it lay, scalding his fingers on the hot metal. All his senses were alert, his weariness banished in a rush of blood. Despite the horrid feeling of being unprepared, a strange gladness billowed up inside him. There couldn't be many attackers, only what the garrison could muster. Two hundred men, perhaps three. The Vicentines would ride out and attack, kill maybe as many Paduans. It was just the spur the Paduans needed. Anger at being taken unawares and a thirst for revenge would carry them through these attackers right on to the city gates. Those gates would fall and Vicenza would belong to Padua.
The only task now was to stay alive long enough to see it. The Count was just turning his horse, armour dangling from his fingertips, when something emerged from the smoke. Expecting a horse, he was amazed to see a dog — a wiry black greyhound with teeth bared, jaws snapping. Tears streamed down its face from the smoke, making it appear even more awful.
Then came the horse. At first only the legs were visible from out of the swirling black cloud, then a head emerged, a wide horse's head hidden by the leather and metal headpiece. The Count recognized the device between the eyes, below the single spike, as the Nogarola eagle.
The next stride of the horse brought into view a giant in a billowing scarlet cloak. A silver helmet was fixed on his head, plumeless and fierce. He bore no shield, but wielded a huge mace with studded spikes. He was not the short, broad Antonio Nogarola. This knight was high as a mountain, towering over the beast he rode. Probably the family champion, if they had one. Who else would be using their armour and horses?