in the melee. We heard the shouts, the city guard running to sort it out, but we thought that we would be safe.
‘This’ll do.’ Guido stopped in front of a high wall. He looked up at the expanse of cream stucco, as a painter might eye a canvas. ‘I’ll get started. You stand lookout.’
He dipped his brush and daubed VV, short for Veritas Vincit , my father’s motto. He was just finishing the open triangle with a bar across the top, which had come to mean my father’s insignia, the eagle, when I heard men coming up the steps. Not just one or two, but a lot of them. I went to look. There must have been ten, walking five abreast, blocking the steps. They were talking loud, laughing and bragging, as men do when they have been fighting. Their black-and-white tunics and hose were torn; one or two were bloody.
‘Count’s men, Guido! Quick!’
I was already running. I expected Guido to follow me, but when I looked back he was standing at the top of the steps, laughing, with the bucket in his hand. He’d thrown the paint all over them. I heard their roar of fury, the stamping of their boots as they took the steps two at a time to get him. He hurled the bucket for good measure and took off into a tangle of little alleys that led up to the walls. This part of the town had been abandoned, the houses tumbled in an earthquake. There were plenty of hiding places in the ruins and overgrown gardens, so I wasn’t worried; besides, I had problems of my own. One of the Count’s men was following me, running swiftly and gaining. He was shouting my name. He’d recognised me. That made me run even faster. I didn’t stop to think how he knew me; I was in trouble enough. I hitched up my dress, but the skirts twisted and tangled round my legs. He would outrun me for sure.
He caught me at the top of the steps that led down to the gates, where I knew I would be safe, grabbing me from behind and pulling me back. I had no weapon, but I thought I could take him. He was a page, not much bigger than me. Feste had taught me how to fight, and fight dirty. I kicked back and felt my heel connect with bone, then I jabbed him in the midriff. As he doubled over, I planned to grab him and pitch him down the steps. I caught hold of his collar, twisting so he couldn’t breathe, and got ready to push and kick him on his way.
‘Violetta!’ He wriggled to get free of my grip. ‘It’s me!’
I let go of him then, looking down the long, steep flight of stone steps. He could have broken his neck. I could have broken his neck. It was Stephano. I hardly recognised him. I hadn’t seen him for a year and more and he looked different. Older. I’d never seen him in his father’s black-and-white livery before.
‘We have to go after the boy who was with you,’ he said.
‘Guido? He can look after himself.’
‘My father’s men – they took a licking on the Stradun. They will be after blood.’
‘There’s plenty of places to hide up there,’ I said. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘You don’t understand!’ He looked around. ‘My father has had the buildings blocked up to keep out beggars and people living there without a permit. The alleys lead nowhere – they are just dead ends.’
We found him in a small square surrounded by tall tenements, their doors blocked with stone, their windows roughly bricked up. He was propped against a well surrounded by the Count’s men, their black-and-white livery flecked with blue splashes. They were taking their time with him. His mouth was swollen. Blood glistened on his hair and ran in a thick streak down his face, dripping on to his tunic. The fun was nearly over. One of them drew his stiletto. Another was easing his sword from his scabbard. Guido was looking up at them, death in his eyes. The Cat’s luck had run out. He’d used up all his lives.
Stephano started forward, dagger drawn. He would likely be thrown aside by his father’s men, but he would not stand by and watch Guido butchered.
A
‘This’ll do.’ Guido stopped in front of a high wall. He looked up at the expanse of cream stucco, as a painter might eye a canvas. ‘I’ll get started. You stand lookout.’
He dipped his brush and daubed VV, short for Veritas Vincit , my father’s motto. He was just finishing the open triangle with a bar across the top, which had come to mean my father’s insignia, the eagle, when I heard men coming up the steps. Not just one or two, but a lot of them. I went to look. There must have been ten, walking five abreast, blocking the steps. They were talking loud, laughing and bragging, as men do when they have been fighting. Their black-and-white tunics and hose were torn; one or two were bloody.
‘Count’s men, Guido! Quick!’
I was already running. I expected Guido to follow me, but when I looked back he was standing at the top of the steps, laughing, with the bucket in his hand. He’d thrown the paint all over them. I heard their roar of fury, the stamping of their boots as they took the steps two at a time to get him. He hurled the bucket for good measure and took off into a tangle of little alleys that led up to the walls. This part of the town had been abandoned, the houses tumbled in an earthquake. There were plenty of hiding places in the ruins and overgrown gardens, so I wasn’t worried; besides, I had problems of my own. One of the Count’s men was following me, running swiftly and gaining. He was shouting my name. He’d recognised me. That made me run even faster. I didn’t stop to think how he knew me; I was in trouble enough. I hitched up my dress, but the skirts twisted and tangled round my legs. He would outrun me for sure.
He caught me at the top of the steps that led down to the gates, where I knew I would be safe, grabbing me from behind and pulling me back. I had no weapon, but I thought I could take him. He was a page, not much bigger than me. Feste had taught me how to fight, and fight dirty. I kicked back and felt my heel connect with bone, then I jabbed him in the midriff. As he doubled over, I planned to grab him and pitch him down the steps. I caught hold of his collar, twisting so he couldn’t breathe, and got ready to push and kick him on his way.
‘Violetta!’ He wriggled to get free of my grip. ‘It’s me!’
I let go of him then, looking down the long, steep flight of stone steps. He could have broken his neck. I could have broken his neck. It was Stephano. I hardly recognised him. I hadn’t seen him for a year and more and he looked different. Older. I’d never seen him in his father’s black-and-white livery before.
‘We have to go after the boy who was with you,’ he said.
‘Guido? He can look after himself.’
‘My father’s men – they took a licking on the Stradun. They will be after blood.’
‘There’s plenty of places to hide up there,’ I said. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘You don’t understand!’ He looked around. ‘My father has had the buildings blocked up to keep out beggars and people living there without a permit. The alleys lead nowhere – they are just dead ends.’
We found him in a small square surrounded by tall tenements, their doors blocked with stone, their windows roughly bricked up. He was propped against a well surrounded by the Count’s men, their black-and-white livery flecked with blue splashes. They were taking their time with him. His mouth was swollen. Blood glistened on his hair and ran in a thick streak down his face, dripping on to his tunic. The fun was nearly over. One of them drew his stiletto. Another was easing his sword from his scabbard. Guido was looking up at them, death in his eyes. The Cat’s luck had run out. He’d used up all his lives.
Stephano started forward, dagger drawn. He would likely be thrown aside by his father’s men, but he would not stand by and watch Guido butchered.
A
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