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Authors: David Blixt
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aviary. Having been disturbed by the noisy dance, they were still fidgety.
"Do you want to see my bird?" asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. "Dilios!" The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master's voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. "He's still small enough that I can hold him without protection." He indicated his arm, which bore only the sheath of leather from the light-coloured farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto's arm with its pounces. "Here, Dilios. There's a good boy."
"Dilios?" said Antony, puzzled. "What kind of name is that?"
"Greek." Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.
"The only survivor of Thermopylae," supplied Pietro.
Antony look a little embarrassed. "I'm a dunce about literature." Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.
Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios' leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.
Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger's greyhound, tail stiff, head low.
Something was happening. With a quick look among them, the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios' blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall, they watched and listened.
"This happened this morning?" The Capitano's eyes scanned the few written lines again and again, ripping every ounce of meaning from them.
"Just — before dawn," gasped the rider. "Ant– Ant–"
The Scaliger looked up. "When you can! Don't waste my time!" The youth cowed, Cangrande's tone softened. "Get your breath back, then tell. You did well getting this past the enemy. A minute more won't break us." The parchment was glanced at once more. A wry grin came to the thin lips. "Good for you, Ponzoni. I didn't think you had it in you."
Mariotto frowned, then turned to his new friends and mouthed the word Padua .
Cangrande turned his full attention to the messenger. "I'm going to put some questions to you. You will answer with nods. Understand?"
The young rider started to speak, then caught himself and nodded.
"Vicenza's suburb is taken?"
Nod.
"They put up a fight?"
Shake.
"They went willingly?"
A hesitant, almost fearful, nod. There was no change in the face that questioned him.
"Antonio Nogarola is in charge in the city?"
Nod.
"Bailardino must still be in the north."
It wasn't a question, but the young messenger nodded anyway.
"Has he fortified the inner city wall?"
A nod, but there was some hesitation.
"He was just ordering it when you left."
A vigorous nod, then the lad opened his mouth. His breath had returned. "Not only the walls — Ser Nogarola ordered the houses in San Pietro fired — to deprive the enemy of cover."
"Excellent!" He clapped a hand on the messenger's shoulder. "You've done well. One more question — was there any sign of the Count of San Bonifacio?"
"They say he lead the assault into the suburb."
Cangrande swore, then patted the boy on the shoulder. "What is your name, youngster?"
"Muzio, lord."
"Muzio, you've completed your charge. You may now have any bed in the palace, including mine. Just repeat what you told me to my master-at-arms below. Ask for Nico da Lozzo. Tell him I said to muster as many men as he can and ride to Vicenza." His eyes flickered to a wineskin hanging from
"Do you want to see my bird?" asked Mariotto. He raced over to the far end of the loggia where a young sparrow hawk, just growing to maturity, was sitting. "Dilios!" The red hawk twisted its blindfolded head towards its master's voice. Montecchio reached out a hand to lift the creature from the stand. He unhooked the tether on its leg and transferred the hawk to his own arm. "He's still small enough that I can hold him without protection." He indicated his arm, which bore only the sheath of leather from the light-coloured farsetto. Had the bird been grown, it could have easily pierced Mariotto's arm with its pounces. "Here, Dilios. There's a good boy."
"Dilios?" said Antony, puzzled. "What kind of name is that?"
"Greek." Mariotto produced the new jesses Pietro had bought him.
"The only survivor of Thermopylae," supplied Pietro.
Antony look a little embarrassed. "I'm a dunce about literature." Mariotto and Pietro shared an amused look.
Montecchio had just begun placing the new jesses on Dilios' leg when a door slammed, causing all the hawks and falcons in the hall to cry out. The three youths turned to see Cangrande della Scala stalking into the empty palisade, a parchment in hand. His air of languid amusement was gone. In its place was the crisp, clipped stride of the general.
Trailing behind the Capitano was a dust-covered messenger, no more than thirteen years old, breathless and exhausted. No one came to wash his hands or stop his shoes leaving tracks across the marble. Behind them capered Jupiter, the Scaliger's greyhound, tail stiff, head low.
Something was happening. With a quick look among them, the trio of youths quickly slipped behind the nearest curtain. Mariotto used the loop that hung from Dilios' blindfold to clamp his beak closed. From their hiding place at the far end of hall, they watched and listened.
"This happened this morning?" The Capitano's eyes scanned the few written lines again and again, ripping every ounce of meaning from them.
"Just — before dawn," gasped the rider. "Ant– Ant–"
The Scaliger looked up. "When you can! Don't waste my time!" The youth cowed, Cangrande's tone softened. "Get your breath back, then tell. You did well getting this past the enemy. A minute more won't break us." The parchment was glanced at once more. A wry grin came to the thin lips. "Good for you, Ponzoni. I didn't think you had it in you."
Mariotto frowned, then turned to his new friends and mouthed the word Padua .
Cangrande turned his full attention to the messenger. "I'm going to put some questions to you. You will answer with nods. Understand?"
The young rider started to speak, then caught himself and nodded.
"Vicenza's suburb is taken?"
Nod.
"They put up a fight?"
Shake.
"They went willingly?"
A hesitant, almost fearful, nod. There was no change in the face that questioned him.
"Antonio Nogarola is in charge in the city?"
Nod.
"Bailardino must still be in the north."
It wasn't a question, but the young messenger nodded anyway.
"Has he fortified the inner city wall?"
A nod, but there was some hesitation.
"He was just ordering it when you left."
A vigorous nod, then the lad opened his mouth. His breath had returned. "Not only the walls — Ser Nogarola ordered the houses in San Pietro fired — to deprive the enemy of cover."
"Excellent!" He clapped a hand on the messenger's shoulder. "You've done well. One more question — was there any sign of the Count of San Bonifacio?"
"They say he lead the assault into the suburb."
Cangrande swore, then patted the boy on the shoulder. "What is your name, youngster?"
"Muzio, lord."
"Muzio, you've completed your charge. You may now have any bed in the palace, including mine. Just repeat what you told me to my master-at-arms below. Ask for Nico da Lozzo. Tell him I said to muster as many men as he can and ride to Vicenza." His eyes flickered to a wineskin hanging from
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