The Master of Verona

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Ciolo's nerves jangled in time with his spurs. During the whole ride they hadn't seen a soul. Not on the road, not in the fields. No one at all.

"What does it mean?" asked Girolamo.

"I don't know," said Ciolo.

"Is Padua under siege?"

"I don't know. Let's keep going."

"How will we get in?"

"Keep riding."

"But…"

"Think of golden florins."

"I've never been to Florence!"

"Shut up!" hissed Ciolo.

Empty fields gave way to empty suburbs. Some hovels and shacks were burnt out, but more were intact, even new — Ciolo saw fresh-cut timber struts and new bricks. Marks of an old siege, not a new one. If there were a present siege, by now he would have heard the sounds of hundreds of men muttering, cheering, singing, impatient horses stamping, the crack and whine of siege machines, the smell of fire and filth.

But the only smells were common night scents. The only sounds were crickets and the occasional goose or dog. There were no tents or firebrands, no bristling spears. The city wasn't under siege. So where the devil was everyone?

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