Cangrande led his horse to a tree a dozen yards from the building, using a low branch as a makeshift hitching post. Pietro copied him. As he was tying the reins, Cangrande leaned close. "Bring the sword."
Pietro drew the knife first and tucked it in his belt. Then he unsheathed the sword and paused. What to do about his crutch? Were they going into trouble? He had to assume they were. He decided to leave the crutch. Holding the sword low on his right side, he limped after Cangrande towards the unlit structure.
There was no door, just a stone frame. Cangrande paused under the lintel and stood there, listening and looking like a hound catching a scent. Pietro strained to hear something beyond the rain. Is there someone in there? Is it an ambush? Heart thudding, ears pricked to the slightest sound, Pietro stood in the door, facing the rain and guarding the Scaliger's back.
A rasping noise brought him spinning around, sword ready to strike. Cangrande was kneeling and striking a flint on the stone lintel, covering it close with his hand. In moments he had lit a taper. He lifted a candle from a nook near the door. Careful to shield it from the wind, he placed the lit candle back in its sconce. The illumination it cast was poor, as if the weather commanded the air to obstruct light's passage. But in the hazy light Pietro discovered that he was standing in a small chapel with benches set up in rows. At the far end was an altar with a massive carved stone cross suspended above it.
Cangrande crossed the chapel in just four strides. Kneeling before the altar, he used the haft of his sword for a cross as he prayed. Finished, he stood and shook himself as a dog would, throwing water everywhere. Then he turned and grinned. "Pietro, you're soaking. Don't you want to come in and get dry?"
Pietro didn't need telling twice. Genuflecting in the aisle, he followed Cangrande's example and spread his cloak on a bench to dry. He then gratefully settled himself on a bench a couple rows in, away from the rain spitting through the doorway. Cangrande had brought his two spare cloaks with him indoors, now hanging them up to dry on a peg by the door. Pietro felt foolish — he'd left his atop his mount. At least I remembered the sword.
Cangrande found another candle in a sconce and lit it off the one he'd brought, then rejoined Pietro in the pews by the door. Setting the leather satchel with its icon close to hand, he slapped his thigh. "Well well, here we are. I hope the Lord will forgive us our trespass, and our presumption of being armed. These are dangerous times. How is the leg?"
"Glad of the rest," said Pietro honestly, stuggling to find a comfortable postion.
Laying his broadsword close beside him, the Scaliger opened the neck of a wineskin and passed it across. Pietro gulped down a healthy draught. It was followed by a sweetmeat wrapped in a greasy cloth. The treat was sticky and oozed juices out through the pasty exterior, but it was still almost warm.
The Capitano ate his slowly, interspersing bites with pulls at the wineskin. Pietro was hungry, but his nerves kept him from eating much. Padua was less than twenty miles from Vicenza. If he was right about the distance and direction traveled, they had to be somewhere in Paduan territory. Still shaking from cold, Pietro rubbed his hands and tried to wrap his mind around what they were doing. Was this another of Cangrande's insane plans, one of those things only he could bring off? Had the agreement with Il Grande included a secret negotiation with someone? But no, then Cangrande would have brought someone else, someone like Passerino Bonaccolsi. This seemed somehow — personal.
Not knowing how else to phrase it, Pietro simply asked, "My lord, are we invading Padua?"
"Just the two of us, yes." The Scaliger glanced up from his treat, wiping his mouth with the wrapping cloth. "A little late to be asking, don't you think?"
Pietro reddened. "I was just — "
"Everything to do with Padua has been decided in council over the past three days. It is not what I had in mind, but it's the best I can now hope to do." He popped the end of his sweetmeat into his mouth and pointed to its mate in Pietro's hand. "Are you going to eat that? No? Here, I'll split it with you. The short version is this: Padua will officially recognize my claim to Vicenza and relinquish all rights thereto. Both the Vicentines and the Paduans will retain any land that was theirs before the conflict began. All prisoners on both sides will be released." He gazed sorrowfully at Pietro. "That means, I'm afraid, you'll get no ransom for Marsilio. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."
Licking his sticky fingers, Pietro shrugged off the loss — it was a fortune gone, but he'd hardly had time to think about it. Besides, he was used to being poor. Still, it galled him a little to think that Marsilio would be able to crow about keeping his fortune. Both Mari and Antony would be livid on Pietro's behalf. Imagining their indignant outrage, he smiled. He'd made friends for life in those two. Far more valuable than Carrara's gold.
Pietro's loss was nothing compared to Cangrande's. Between the recent battle and other skirmishes, the Capitano had more than two thousand Paduan captives, a least a hundred of whom could have been ransomed at a high price. If he was forcing his men to give up a fortune, he was losing several more himself. "What prisoners do the Paduans have?"
"Though they hold no Veronese of note, they do have many Vicentines. Remember, I wasn't fighting this war in the name of Verona. I was asked by the people of Vicenza to be their champion against the Paduans, and the Emperor named me their Imperial Vicar before he died. This has been mostly a defensive war, in a cause juste. That is what I have on my side. The law. The right. Justice." He took another pull at the wineskin. "I haven't been fighting only the Paduans, either. Bologna, Ferrara, and Treviso have all sent food, money, soldiers. They're worried, you see. If Padua falls, they think they'll be next. And behind them all are the Venetians. Venice doesn't want Verona's influence expanded any further. As long as all the inland city-states are warring, Venice has everything its own way." The Capitano's voice grew steely. "I won't allow that, if I can help it."
"You sound as if you're planning a war against Venice."
That drew a low chuckle that almost sounded admiring. "War with Venice is unwinnable. The Serenissima, that most serene city, is unique in the world, I believe — a city without walls. Why bother building walls when you've got the water to protect you? They have no land assets, a recent lesson hard learned from Ferrrara. They have no real armies but their fleets. For land war they just hire mercenaries or, even more practical, get someone else to do their dirty work while they reap the profit. Think of the Fourth Crusade. Profit is their aim, and trade is their sword. They do more with an abacus and a scale than they would with an army." Cangrande got a sly look. "But if I were to plan a war with Venice, I know how I'd do it."
"How?"
"I'd hurt them where they'd feel it. I would block their merchants, levy fines and dues on their traders. Pope Clement showed me how. I would erode their trade."
"You'd side with Genoa?" said Pietro.
"No no! The Genoese deal with gold in one hand and a knife in the other. No, Pietro, once I have shown the world what I can do in war, I will awe them by what I can make of peace. I shall use your father's words as an example. His notion of empire. The only way mankind can prosper is through peace, and peace can only occur under a single ruler empowered by God to make war. That's probably the best definition of a strong government — one that's willing to go to war to maintain the peace."
"If that's true, why not make a treaty with the Paduans years ago?"
"I cannot appear weak. Nor could I betray my oath to the Vicentines."
Pietro shifted, resting his leg on the bench in front of him. "So you wouldn't've taken Padua?"