The Master of Verona

The sound of hooves vanished as the river swallowed him. He didn't know how to swim. He lunged in the water, using his arms and legs as if he were running, flailing towards the bridge. His shoulder hit hard against something and he grabbed onto it as best he could. His fingers recognized the feel of stone. Whatever it was he grasped it and pulled himself along. It was slimy and slippery, hard to hold. He dug in with his fingernails. His lungs were beginning to burn. Then his hand emerged from the water and he pushed his head up and through and sucked down sweet air.

He was holding onto one of the arches of the old Roman bridge. Above him he heard the continued cascade of mounted soldiers. Idiots. Wherever their enemy was, it wasn't here. Why charge, then — in darkness, when a horse was likely to trip and fall? Ciolo had nearly been killed in a night charge once. The horse in front snapped a leg, killing not only its rider but the two riders behind him.

He could still hear the cheering in the city, and he knew that he had almost been killed for the sake of a parade. A show of honour, of skill. Fools. Sputtering and shivering, Ciolo mouthed a string of curses against whoever had come up with the notion of chivalry.

Hand over hand he dragged himself to the edge of the support. He was lucky that the Bacchiglione wasn't flowing hard, and luckier that what current there was had been dulled by the mills. Otherwise he would have been swept clean away. For the first time he wondered what had happened to Girolamo. But it was useless to call. If he'd survived, he'd meet Ciolo at the house.

It took Ciolo ten minutes to reach the river's edge. Though the riverbank was solid, there was no way to reach the high gate from below. The only way was from the bridge. Ciolo took a breath and began to scale the cracked stone walls carefully. His wet fingers made it difficult. Muttering and cursing, he pulled himself onto a carving of some old god just below the lip of the bridge. There he stayed, waiting for the horsemen to pass. He squirmed until he found a position that freed his arms so he could wrap them around himself. He was cold, teeth chattering. Damn all Paduans and their stupid patavinitas.

The final horseman passed, with the citizens chasing after, cheering their fool lungs out. Twisting, he pulled himself up onto the bridge proper. No one stopped to help him. In fact, he was almost knocked over again by the press of the people. God, did he hate Paduans.

Dry land under him, he was swept along by a different kind of current as the mob wept with joy and pride. Blending in, he tried to cheer through his chattering teeth. The crowd was warming him up, and he was pleased when he realized how easy it would be to get into the city now. He simply had to play the part of happy citizen watching his army go off to glory. He wondered vaguely where they were off to, but didn't truly care.

"Fall in, did you?" asked someone with a grin.

"Y-y-yes," replied Ciolo with a shrug. "Quite the fool." He'd been to this city three or four times before. He'd even once been defended on some petty-theft charge by the famous Bellario. So Ciolo was able to fake the accent.

The thrill eventually passed and slowly the Paduans began returning to their homes. Recrossing the Ponte Molino with them, Ciolo made jokes and slapped backs, joining in the laughter at his obvious misfortune.

Halfway along the bridge he found the body of Girolamo. Ciolo recognized him from his vest, since his face had been crushed. Ciolo bent down quickly, but it was no use. He'd already been robbed.

Ciolo entered Padua with a smile on his face and joined a group of men heading for a tavern. He held himself to one bottle of wine, but sang with gusto and thumped the table for as long as it took for his clothes to dry. Then he told his new best friends that there was a wench waiting and took his leave.

He had a job to get on with.

A life to end.

He found the house, right where it was supposed to be. There was the hanging garden. There was the juniper bush. There was the fresco of a pagan god holding a staff entwined with snakes. The painted deity stood between two massive lead rings for tethering horses. Just as described.