The Forest

On September 6, the expeditionary army continued its march. Vitus had prepared two extra bags of fresh water and hung them beneath his saddle. Whenever he grew tired, he washed his face with the water to keep himself from falling asleep on the march.

Suddenly, a faint scream came from the woods to the northeast. At first, Vitus suspected it was an illusion. The next moment, a stream of birds burst from the trees, jolting him fully awake.

"Enemy attack! Form up!"

He drew his longsword and ordered the artillerymen to load grapeshot. The infantry shoved the supply wagons to either side of the road to use as barricades. Before long, the wailing grew nearer, and the surviving scouts came stumbling out of the woods, shouting that the forest was crawling with enemies.

Worse still, a horde of Milanese soldiers surged down the hillside west of the road, sweeping toward them like a mountain torrent.

The artillerymen hurriedly loaded grapeshot, but the enemy had already come within ten paces. Their contorted expressions were clear to see.

Boom~

The cannons fired one after another. The searing shot tore through breastplates and iron helmets, and the Milanese soldiers at the front fell in droves. The force of their charge suddenly slackened.

With the line somewhat stabilized, Vitus climbed onto a wagon. The expeditionary army had fallen into chaos. Some units stood their ground and formed ranks, while others had been routed. Their commanders shouted themselves hoarse, but the fleeing soldiers paid them no heed, scrambling toward whatever direction they thought was safe.

At the rear of the column, the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group instinctively formed a circle. Their spears and halberds made a bristling hedge of steel, but the rout of the supply train crashed into them and shattered their formation. Panicked mules dragged their loads wildly about. Wine casks rolled across the ground, their dark red contents mingling with blood in a strange little stream.

"Keep loading the cannons and fire at will. Regroup the fleeing soldiers who've made it inside the wagon barricade into units of ten."

As more and more cannons joined the fight, Vitus managed to avert the immediate crisis. He left half his men to guard the wagon barricade, then led the rest south to break through and rescue the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group, which had been holding the rear.

Soon, Vitus found Piero, still shaken. The man held a bloodstained longsword, and the first thing he asked was, "Rescue the Doge? Or get the hell out of here?"

Ignoring the arrows whizzing through the air, Vitus hauled Piero onto the top of a supply wagon. "Look, most of the enemy are attacking the Doge's central division. Even so, his banner is still standing. We can still win this battle."

With the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group and the other fleeing soldiers gathered around him, Vitus now commanded more than two thousand men. He decided to risk everything and attack the Milanese troops on the northwestern hillside, where the Visconti banner stood.

"Venice has won battle after battle on the front lines. Milan can only spare so many troops. I doubt they have any reserves left. If we can make it up that hill, we'll win this battle."

Vitus persuaded nearly a thousand men to take the risk with him, and had the artillerymen haul two light Three-Pounders along. After they had gone some distance, Piero excitedly pointed to a figure on horseback.

"Look closely. That fat man on the white horse, wearing a purple cloak, is Duke Filippo Maria Visconti. He'll fetch a handsome ransom, so be careful when you go after him. Don't kill him!"

The prospect of a fortune worth hundreds of thousands of Florins sent the mercenaries' spirits soaring. Ignoring the rain of arrows from the hillside, they charged uphill with spears and halberds in hand.

Boom! Boom!

After two cannon blasts, the mercenaries roared into a charge and clashed with the well-equipped Milanese guards. Piero gripped his halberd and picked out a Milanese pikeman whose thrust had carried too far. The instant the man began pulling back his weapon, Piero stepped forward, hooked the axe blade around the shaft, and yanked hard. As the man stumbled and fell, a companion on his right drove the tip of his halberd precisely into a gap in the target's neck armor. Blood sprayed across the withered grass, carrying a sharp, metallic stink.

"Keep charging! Grab that fat man, and we'll never have to work again!"

Leading a small band of elite fighters, Piero fought his way forward with all his might, miraculously punching through the Milanese guards. Frightened by the mercenaries, who looked like demons gone mad, the duke's horse instinctively turned and fled. To escape his pursuers, the duke tore off his purple cloak and galloped northwest, soon vanishing from sight.

Vitus ordered his own troops to stop pursuing. Two legs could never catch up with four. He set up an artillery position on the hilltop and bombarded the Milanese soldiers still fighting until they withdrew from the battlefield.

At noon, the sun blazed overhead. The survivors silently searched the battlefield, picking through the heaps of corpses for valuables. Ravens circled in the sky, calling their companions to join the feast.

Vitus went to the area where the central division had been stationed. It had borne the brunt of Milan's attack and suffered heavy losses. Blood trickled slowly downhill in winding streams; in some places, it was deep enough to cover their insteps.

Half an hour later, the surviving commanders of the expeditionary army gathered together. Everyone looked grim, especially Piero, who had missed out on a fortune worth hundreds of thousands.

The ambush had dealt Albizzi a severe blow. His confidence was gone, and he earnestly asked everyone for their opinions. When it was Vitus's turn, his answer echoed the prevailing view:

"We're about to leave the Apennine Mountains. We should keep moving and find a suitable place to establish a long-term camp. Milan's defeat is inevitable. As long as we maintain a sizeable army, we'll have a place at the postwar negotiations."

Once the commanders agreed to press on, Albizzi led the troops in better condition northward. Two hours later, they came upon a Milanese camp. The enemy had already retreated, and countless birds were pecking at scattered grains of wheat.

At five in the afternoon, the expeditionary army found and occupied a small town. Unexpectedly, an envoy from Visconti was waiting in the church. He spoke on behalf of the duke and proposed negotiations, offering highly tempting terms.

"No. Milan must surrender!" Albizzi was mediocre as a commander but gifted at politics. He simply could not bring himself to trust the Duke of Milan.

Filippo was a born schemer. In 1412, he had his own brother, Gian Maria Visconti, assassinated. On top of that, Filippo married a wealthy widow and received a dowry of five hundred thousand Florins. When she was no longer useful to him, he had her executed on charges of adultery...

By comparison, Venice seemed more trustworthy.

Albizzi sent the envoy away, then had his soldiers gather food from the surrounding area as they waited for Venice to launch an offensive on the eastern front. They waited three months.

During that time, Venice won victory after victory. Its mercenary commander, Francesco Bussone, thought the war was ending too quickly for him to make money, so he deliberately slowed the offensive, using every excuse to delay sending his troops into battle.

In December 1423, the Venetian Senate gave in and granted an additional bonus of three hundred thousand Ducats to compensate the mercenaries for fighting in winter. The day after receiving the money, Bussone resumed his offensive, marching upriver along the Po River and capturing Pavia at astonishing speed.

By then, the Venetian army was only twenty miles from Milan.