By Brian
Flynn in San Romano, Italy
I watched Florence's brave cavalry snatch victory from
the jaws of defeat in a battle so fierce that the fields
turned red with blood beneath my feet.
Around me, the ground is strewn with the broken bodies
of those who paid the price for General Niccoló
da Tolentino's reckless charge against the Sienese .
The clammy summer air filled just hours ago with a hideous
cacophony of clattering weapons, whinnying warhorses and
the chilling screams of soldiers is now silent.
For the only warriors left on these churned-up crimson
killing fields are the fallen.
They lay scattered like so much litter among the abandoned
lances, helmets and banners that stretch as far as the
eye can see.
When Tolentino entered the plains on his chalk-white charger,
parading before the enemy in his gold and red ceremonial
hat like an arrogant cockerel showing off his plumage,
it seemed little more than posturing.
Buoyed by his display of bravado, thousands of cavalrymen
and infantrymen lined up behind him.
But as Siena's commander Bernardino della Ciardathe sounded
the call and his men poured from their camp like angry
hornets defending a nest, our general's folly became clear.
The sun glinting off their lances and armour transformed
the fields into a spectacular, shimmering ocean of silver.
As a standoff developed, vile insults and threats were
hurled across the divide.
Ominously, the armies began beating their shields in unison.
The ear-splitting din was so fearsome it seemed like the
Gods themselves were hammering sheets of metal in the
clouds above.
Then, quiet.
A moment later, I heard Tolentino scream "For Florence"
as he thrust his lance in front of him and thundered into
the enemy ranks.
His charge was so impulsive he did not even think to grab
his war helmet from his attendant.
The ground literally trembled beneath my feet, pounded
by thousands of hooves as the ranks of cavalrymen galloped
headlong into each other.
I was surrounded by a chaotic, writhing mass of horses
and warriors filling the air with the hot, salty, overpowering
stench of sweat and fresh blood as they fought for their
lives.
Hour after hour soldiers fell and horses trampled their
blood into the fields, churning the sticky mud into a
grotesque sea of red.
As Florentine ranks thinned, a humiliating retreat seemed
inevitable until a teeming mass of colour appeared on
the hilltop.
I wondered if I was hallucinating.
But as the apparition grew closer, I heard roars of joy
above the commotion. The name the Florentines were cheering
was Micheletto Attendolo.
There were shouts of "We're saved" as his reinforcements
ploughed into combat.
Enemy soldiers visibly slumped in their saddles, their
spirit suddenly draining away.
Our horsemen sensed their moment and I was just metres
away as a lance smashed into General della Ciadathe, hurling
him from his seat.
Today our men taste sweet victory and hot-headed di Tolentino
is hailed a hero, yet only Attendolo's intervention spared
us from swallowing the bitter pill of defeat.
ENDS |
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