Maggots. Nothing in all Dante's traversing of Hell was so disgusting. Maggots. Literally eating him. Morsicato, the Nogarola's physician, had sworn that they were the best way to fight infection, that they only ate dead meat, not living flesh. So they were wrapped under the bandages, right in there with his puckered wound. Maggots. Pietro couldn't help imagining the soggy little white things gnawing away at him. What if they move away from the knee? What if they move up…?
Cavalcanti. You were thinking of Cavalcanti. 'Bilta di donna e di saccente core e cavalieri armati che sien genti…'
But poetry was no refuge from his imagination. He'd come out here hoping to drift into sleep, but the idea of dozens of tiny mouths chomping at him kept him awake. Worst was the itching. Pietro had woken this morning from dreams of gigantic worms feeding on his blood and tears to find his little brother newly arrived and poking under the folds of the bandages for a glimpse of the little devils at work.
Of course Poco's curious. His brother is a walking feast for worms.
As if to illustrate the point, Morsicato approached bearing a tray. Smiling gruffly, he said, "Master Alaghieri."
"That time again?"
"I'm afraid so. May I?" The physician knelt beside Pietro's outstretched leg, removed the blanket and lifted the long shirt, then began gently unwrapping the injury. "Rain shows no sign of letting up."
"No," said Pietro, desperately not watching the fellow adding or subtracting maggots to the wound. Valiently, Pietro fought to keep his bile down. He'd already vomited twice today. It was one of the reasons he'd moved into the open air. "But after two days of sweating, it's good to be outside."
"The army would have happily exchanged places," said Morsicato. "I was out in their tents this morning looking after minor ailments." He paused to grin, stroking his forked black beard. "Venereal ailments. Anyway, they're all huddled in tents, wrapped in straw and murdering time by using pig knuckles for dice."
One of the maggots had transferred to the doctor's beard. Pietro looked sharply away. "How are they holding up?"
"They're anxious. Wondering why we're not moving. Full of the usual rumours."
That got Pietro's attention. "What rumours?"
"Oh, some say having his victory snatched away by rain has driven the Scaliger mad. That he's slain all of us in the palace and torn out hunks of his hair and dashed his brains out against the walls. Others say he's kept to the private chapel of the Nogarolas, begging the Lord to clear the skies. A few say he's found a new mistress to keep him occupied until the rains pass." Morsicato gave a grim chuckle. "At least that would explain his delaying the attack." Suddenly he looked guiltily up. "Not that I mean-"
Pietro pressed his lips together. But the doctor was only echoing what was in the mind of every man in Vicenza. When Cangrande's army had arrived a day after the battle, the Capitano immediately dispatched a century directly back to Verona with most of the prisoners, fourteen hundred in all. Far too many to shackle, Cangrande had ordered their ankles bound in single file for the march. That done, everyone waited to hear him give the order to march for Padua.
But that order never came. Instead Cangrande had called five of his most trusted councilors together, given them orders to hold in place, and then retired to his sister's palace.
Now it was too late. For two days the rain had not stopped, swelling the natural defenses of Padua, turning the roads to muck, destroying any chance of taking the city and ending the war.
If he hadn't delayed they might have been victorious. But to say so aloud was treason.
Pietro took a breath, thinking of what a man of his position should say. "I know it's difficult, but we have to trust our lords. Especially this lord."
"You're right, of course. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me." The doctor bowed his bald head and continued gently examining Pietro's leg. The maggot in his beard had disappeared.
The awkward pause lasted until Pietro said, "How is Lord Nogarola's arm? I haven't seen him today."
Shaking his head slightly, Morsicato's voice was clipped. "Recovering from the surgery."
Pietro tensed. Surgery! That meant that Antonio Nogarola's broken arm had begun to fester, and Morsicato had been forced to cut the arm away. Lookng at his own leg, Pietro silently urged the little maggots on in their horrible work.
The doctor produce a poultice. "This will sting." And indeed there was a pinch as the doctor touched a raw spot among the stitches. Squirming, Pietro found himself wishing for the one person who could take his mind off his wound. Nonchalantly he said, "Is Donna Katerina with him?"
"No, she's with her brother. They've been closeted all day with his closest advisors."
"I'm still new to Verona. What can you tell me about the Scaliger and his family?"
The knight-doctor gave him a quick glance. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Are there more in their family?"
"Their father, old Alberto della Scala, had three sons by his wife. Two have died. Bartolomeo and Alboino. And there were two daughters, Donna Katerina and her sister Costanza, who is the eldest of the lot."
"Is she still alive?"
"Oh yes," said the doctor, finally discovering the fat maggot in his beard and replacing it in Pietro's wound. Pietro quickly closed his eyes. "She resides at the palace of her second husband, Signore Guido Bonaccolsi, brother to Passerino."
Eyes firmly shut, Pietro felt the process of wrapping begin. "Passerino Bonaccolsi. He's the Mantuan lord. Someone told me he's Cangrande's best friend."
"They're close, but I'd have to say the Scaliger is closer to my patron, Donna Katerina's husband. But then Bailardino helped to raise him. The day he married Katerina he accepted her little brother as a squire…"
Listening to pieces of della Scala family gossip, Pietro tried to puzzle out Katerina's age. If Katerina was just married when she took her brother in, she was at least twelve years her brother's senior. As close as he could guess, that put her somewhere between her thirty-fifth and fortieth year. Twice his own age.
The doctor was still praising the lord of Vicenza, and Pietro felt the need to change to topic. "You said that they're with advisors. Who?"
Morsicato frowned as he tried to list all the famous names. "Their cousin Federigo. The Mantuan lord Bonaccolsi. Lords Montecchio and Castelbarco, of course. And the Paduan Nicolo da Lozzo. Bishop Guelco. Oh, and the new man in Verona, Cap-something."
"Capecelatro," supplied Pietro, intrigued that Antony's father was being included. A cynical voice wondered how wealthy he really was.
"That's right. Oh, and your father, of course! I'm sorry, he should have been first."
Pietro laughed. "You're forgiven. My father isn't known for his diplomacy either."
The doctor chuckled dutifully and leaned back. "There. Is that comfortable?"
Lying through his teeth, Pietro said it was. He knew he couldn't actually be feeling the maggots wriggling, yet he had to force himself to lie still. "Who else?"
Morsicato pulled a face. "I heard they've invited the two captured Paduans, Il Grande da Carrara and his nephew."
"That ass," growled Pietro involuntarily.
The doctor nodded. "And a Venetian ambassador called Dandolo."
That made Pietro sit up. "A Venetian? What's he doing here? Is Verona going to war with Venice?"
"I have no idea," said Moriscato, holding up his hands. "Now sit back. I've told you all I know. Except…"
Pietro gave him an urging look. "Yes?"
Morsicato looked rueful. "Well, it's just that I was passing the door not long ago and it sounded like-"
"Like what?"