C:\Users\John\Downloads\R\R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano.pdb
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R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano
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Chapter 1
A string buzzed against his fingernail; the finger itself slipped, and the
beat was lost. Damiano muttered something that was a bit profane.
"The problem isn't in your hand at all. It's here,"
said Damiano's teacher, and he laid his ivory hand on the young man's right
shoulder. Damiano turned his head in surprise, his coarse black ringlets
trailing over the fair skin of that hand. He shifted within his winter robe,
which was colored like a tarnished brass coin and heav y a s coins
. Th e colo r suite d Damiano
, whos e com
-
plexion was rather more warm than fair.
"My shoulder is tight?" Damiano asked, knowing the answer already. He sighed
and let his arm relax.
His fingers slid limply across the yew-wood face of the liuto that lay propped
on his right thigh. The sleeve of the robe, much longer than his arm and
banded in scarlet, toppled over his wrist. He flipped the cloth up with a
practiced, unconscious movement that also man-
aged to toss his tangle of hair back from his face.
Damiano's hand, arm, and shoulder were slim and loosely jointed , as was the
rest of him.
"Again?" he continued. "I thought I had overcome that tightness months ago."
His eyes and eyelashes were as soft and black as the woolen mourning cloth
that half the women of the town wore, and his eyes grew even blacker in his
discouragement . He sighed once more.
Raphael'
s gri p o n th e yout h tightened
. H
e shoo k him gently, laughing, and drew Damiano against him.
"You did. And you will overcome it again and again.
A s man y time s a s i t crop s up
. A
s lon g a s yo u pla y th e instrument. As long as you wear flesh."
Damiano glanced up. "As long as I... Well, in that cas e ma y I figh t m y
proble m a goo d hundre d years
! I s that why you never make mistakes, Seraph? No flesh?"
Hi s tooth y smil e apologize d fo r th e witticis m eve n a s h e
spok e it . Withou t waitin g fo r a n answer
, h e droppe d his eyes to the liuto and began to play, first the treble lin
e o f th e dance
, the n th e bas s line
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, the n bot h together
.
Raphae l listened
, hi s eye s quiet
, blu e a s lapis
. Hi s han d stil l la y o n Damiano'
s shoulder
, encouragin g him
.
Raphael'
s grea t glistenin g wing s twitche d slightl y wit h the beat of the
music. They caught the cloudy daylight and sent pearly glints against the
tiles of the wall.
Damiano played again, this time with authority, and smoothly passed the place
where he had to change th e meter—tw o strokes
, ver y fast
, plucke d b y th e mid
-
dl e finger
. Whe n h e wa s done
, h e looke d up
, hi s fac e flushed with success, his lower lip red because he'd been
biting down on it.
Raphae l smiled
. Hi s wing s gathere d forwar d an d in, making a sort of private
chamber within the drafty
Delstreg o hall
. " I like d that, " th e ange l said
. "—Th e way you played it, too, first each line, then both."
Damian o shrugge d an d flicke d hi s sleeve s fro m hi s hands, his
hair from his face. Though his expression remained cool through this praise,
he squirmed on the benc h lik e a child
. "Oh
, tha t wa s jus t t o war m u p t o it .
I wouldn't perform it that way."
"Why not?"
"It'
s to o simple
. There'
s nothin g t o it , jus t playin g the one line, without even any trills
or ornament. "
The archangel Raphael took the little wooden in-
strumen t ou t o f Damiano'
s hands
. H
e edge d awa y along the bench, and his wings swept back in a busi-
nesslike manner. His face, as he retuned the strings, wa s chisele d
perfectly
, almos t hars h i n it s perfection
, unapproachable, forbidding. But the high B string rang flat
(the pin tended to slip), and his left eyebrow shot
u p i n theatrica l shock
, alon g wit h hi s lef t wing
. Damian o smothere d a laugh
. Slowl y Raphae l bega n t o pla y th e melod y "C
e fu t e n mai, " whic h i s a ver y simpl e tune
, one he had helped Damiano to learn three years previously
. H
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e playe d i t a numbe r o f time s through
, without trills, without ornamentation , without coun-
terpoin t o f an y kind
. H
e did
, however
, pla y i t different
-
ly . Th e firs t iteratio n wa s jolly
; th e second
, sad
. O
n th e third trip through , the song bounce d as though it were ridin g a
horse
, an d th e fourt h tim e th e sam e hors e wa s bein g ridde n int
o battle
. Th e fift h becam e a dirge
, an d when it all seemed over for good (like an eventful life—that song—now
over for good), he played it through agai n lik e th e danc e i t was
. Damian o listened
, hi s amusemen t turning to awe.
"I'l l kee p m y mout h shu t fro m no w on, " muttere d the youth.
" I woul d b e sorr y i f yo u di d that
, m y friend, " sai d th e angel
. " I lik e t o hea r yo u talk.
" Th e smil e h e turne d on Damiano was terrifying in its mildness, but
Damiano was used to Raphael's smile. He grinned back.
"Please
, Seraph
, whil e yo u hav e th e lute
, pla y m e agai n th e Frenc h piec e fro m las t week
. I can'
t gras p th e cross-rhythms. "
Raphael lifted his golden gull-wing brow again, bu t a s n o musicia n
need s t o b e aske d twice
, h e bega n to play.
Damian o watche d an d listened
, thinking
: I a m privilege d lik e n o othe r ma n o n earth
. I ca n neve r deserve this, not though I transmute lead to gold and flesh
to fire, not though I keep my chastity for life.
It then occurre d to him that perhaps not every young man in the Piedmont
would consider it a reward worth remaining a virgin for—hearing an angel of
God pla y th e lut e o f fou r courses
. Eve n Damian o himsel f ha d hi s moment s o f dissatisfactio n (wit
h virginity
, tha t is, not with Raphael).
And then angels were not a popular object of study, even among the order of
alchemists, since they
had no material power to offer and were more apt to tel l th e trut h tha n
tel l th e future
. Eve n Damiano'
s father, who had been a witch of great repute, had never tried to summon an
angel. Other sorts of spirits he had contacted, admittedly, but of that
Delstrego had repented.
A t leas t Damian o hope d hi s fathe r ha d repented
. I t was quite possibly so, since Guillermo Delstrego was a good while
dying.
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Whil e Raphae l playe d th e pastorelle
, Damian o attempted to follow him, knowing the music. But soon the angel
burst the confines of the French piece, as his student had known he would, and
drifted away into melodies and rhythms suggested or invented on the spot.
Raphael had a trick of running his lines together until, like the triune
Godhead, they were united into a singl e being
. Then
, whe n Damian o ha d almos t forgot
-
ten what he was listening for, the different lines sprang apart again. There
were four, no five of them. Six?
Soon Damiano was utterly lost, as the angel struck th e string s al l
togethe r i n wha t shoul d hav e bee n a dissonant crash but was not.
Raphael brushed the string s lightly
, a s thoug h wit h hi s wings
, an d hi s lef t hand fluttered over the smooth black wood of the lute's
neck. The sound was no longer music at all—unless water was music or the
scraping of wind over the grass.
Damian o hear d silenc e an d notice d Raphael'
s eye s o n him
. Th e angel'
s fac e wa s perfec t a s silver
, a s a statue
, an d hi s gaz e wa s mother-shrewd
. H
e waite d fo r
Damiano to speak.
"Am I ever going to play like that?" the young man mumbled, nudged out of a
waking dream.
White wings rustled on the floor. Raphael seemed surprised by the question.
"You will play like—like
Damiano
, a s yo u d o already
. N
o on e ca n d o elsewise.
"
"That's all? As I do already?" His disappointment dissolve d i n th e
intensit y o f th e midnigh t gaze
.
"Mor e an d more
, you r playin g wil l becom e
Damiano.
A s you r lif e take s it s form
, s o wil l you r music.
"
Damian o purse d hi s bee-stun g lips
. Hi s eyes
, avoiding Raphael's, slid around the great hall with its cream-colore d
walls
, floo r o f painte d flowers
, an d as
-
sorted alchemy bric-a-brac scattered on the acid-stained oak tables. He
focused on the black kettle hanging over th e centra l hearth
.
"Damiano jerks and stutters. He has the smooth articulatio n o f a
sore-foote d cow
. An d a s fo r hi s life
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—
wel l hi s lif e i s t o tak e lessons
: i n magic
, i n music
. H
e has done that for twenty-one years."
Raphael didn't smile. "You are very hard on your-
self. Remember that the harshest critic on earth is my brother, and his
specialty is telling lies. Personally I like
Damiano'
s playing.
" H
e extende d th e liuto.
Damian o took it and fondled it absently. He always felt uneasy whe n Raphae
l bega n t o tal k abou t hi s brothe r th e
Princ e o f Darkness
.
"If you continue to study," added the angel, "I
expect you will develop the ears to hear yourself as I
do."
"I knew there was some reason I was studying,"
he muttered. "So it's just so I can hear myself without wincing? "
Hi s grumbl e die d away
, an d Damian o lifte d hi s eyes to the echo of siege engines, distant
and ghostly, resoundin g i n th e hall
. Th e iro n lid s o f th e man y pot s o n th e heart h rattle d i
n reply
.
The angel didn't seem to hear. "I thought that was don e with, " muttere d
Damiano
, furrowin g hi s fore
-
head. Rough brows met in a straight line. "Last Tues-
da y th e me n o f Savo y crep t ou t o f Partestrada
, betwee n midnigh t an d matins
. Th e citizen s the y abandone d ar e in no positio n to fight."
Raphael seemed to contemplate the bare hall. "It's no t really..
. battl e tha t yo u hear
, Dami
. Pardo'
s ram s are knocking down walls outside of town."
"Walls
? Whose
? Why?
" Damian o sho t t o hi s fee t
and wedged his shoulders into the narrow crack of a window. A man of more
substance would not have been able to do it. The wall was almost two feet
thick, fo r th e Delstreg o hous e ha d bee n buil t a s a fortress
.
Damian o crane d hi s hea d lef t an d peere d alon g th e main street
of Partestrada. From this particular win-
dow
, i f h e twiste d wit h a goo d will
, h e wa s abl e t o sp y aroun d on e corne r t o th e fron t o f
Carl a Denezzi'
s house, where in good weather she sat on the balcony, doing her complicated
needlework. Damiano was prac-
ticed at making this particular neck twist. What it told him often decided
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whether he'd bide his time at home or venture out.
Toda y th e balcon y wa s empty
; an d it s woode n shutters
, drawn
. Th e stree t below
, too
, wa s empty
, totall y empty
. No t a ma n o r a woman
, no t a n o x wago n o r a wanderin g as s t o b e seen
. Th e tow n didn'
t even smell right, he thought as he inhaled deeply through his nose. It
didn't stink of urine, peppers, pigs, sheep, men'
s o r horses
' sweat—non e o f th e comfortabl e smell s that meant home to him. The
streets smelled burnt, lik e th e ai r surroundin g a forge
. H
e lifte d hi s eye s t o the distant fields and forests beyond the town
wall, which faded from brown to gray to blue in the November air. Damiano
squinted—his far vision was not the best.
Ou t o f habi t h e reache d bac k alon g th e wall
, hi s han d scrambling over the slick tiles till he grasped his staff.
It was not the traditiona l witch's stick, not being brown, branchy, or
picturesquely gnarled. Damiano's staff was ebony and lathe-straight, ringed in
three place s wit h silver
. Knobbin g th e to p wa s a silve r cres t se t wit h fiv e topaze
s an d a rathe r smal l rub y (re d an d gol d bein g th e Delstreg
o colors)
. I t ha d bee n give n t o
Damiano by his father when the boy was twelve—he then stood only as high as
the second silver band.
Now, nine years later, the staff was still a bit taller than h e was
, fo r Damian o ha d no t grow n t o Delstrego'
s expectation.
The staff was as important to Damiano as crutches
wer e t o a lam e man
, thoug h youn g Damian o ha d tw o limbe r an d usefu l legs
. I t wa s hi s spelling-instrument
, an d upo n it s blac k lengt h h e worke d wit h mor e facilit y
tha n h e di d o n th e lute
. Also
, althoug h h e ha d neve r worke d a spel l towar d th e purpose
, Damian o believe d h e coul d se e bette r holdin g th e staff
. H
e hel d i t now
.
"The wall belongs to a man named Francesc o
Alusto," answered the angel, his quiet voice cutting easil y throug h th e
ston e wal l t o Damiano'
s ears
. Damian o weasele d bac k int o th e room
, hi s cheek s flushed
, hi s eyes bright with worry.
"Alusto? He owns the vineyards, such as they are.
But why? What will they do when they get in? Isn't it enoug h tha t the y
contro l th e town?
"
Ther e wa s a n indefinabl e reproac h i n th e angel'
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s eyes
. "Why
? Becaus e Alust o becam e a wealth y ma n under Savoy patronage.
Although his being a wealthy ma n migh t b e enough
. Wha t wil l the y do
? Damiano
!
They will rape and kill, take what they can carry or haul
, an d the n marc h away
. Perhap s the y wil l bur n th e place as they go.
"But I am not here to instruct you in the customs o f war—tha t woul d b e
a ba d education
, I think
, an d more easily gotten elsewhere. " He spoke withou t heat, ye t Damian o
droppe d hi s eye s t o th e patter n o f th e floor. Against his
better judgment, almost against his will he found himself saying, "Don't you
care, Seraph?
Don't you hear the cries of men dying? The weeping? It rang in my ears all of
last week when they fought beside the city wall. The good God knows that since
the Plague there are few enough men left in all the world."
The angel's expression might have been called ironical, if irony were a thing
that could be built on a foundatio n o f pity
. " I kno w yo u hea r them
, Dami
. I
almos t wish yo u di d not
, fo r whe n th e ear s ar e open
, the rest of the soul must follow, to its own pain. But I
hear men suffering. I too. The difference between us is
tha t yo u hea r the m whe n the y cr y out
, wherea s I hea r the m always.
"
Damiano's startled glance flew upward to his teach-
er' s face
. H
e sa w th e pity
, no t directe d onl y towar d suffering humanity but also toward Damiano
himself.
He stood confused, not knowing why Raphael should waste his pity on Damiano
the alchemist, who was young and wealthy, and in good spirits besides.
"What would you have me do?" the angel contin-
ued. His wing feathers gathered up like those of a bird in the cold. "I can't
change the heart of man or the history he's making for himself. I am not"—and
here h e sprea d hi s hand s ou t befor e hi m an d hi s wing s ou t
behind him in a sweeping gesture that took in the entire arc of the
compass—"in truth a part of this world. I have no calling here."
Damian o swallowe d hard
. "Excep t tha t I calle d you
, Raphael
. Don't—giv e m e up
. Please
. I f I spea k offensively in your ears, remember I'm only a mortal man.
Tell me my fault. I would take a vow of silence rather than have my words
offend you." He reached out and slapped the angel's knee, awkwardly and with
rather too much emphasis.
"A vow of silence? That's a rigorous promise, Dami, and there are few people I
have met less suited to it."
Raphael leaned forward, and yellow hair fell gently curling around his face.
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"I will not give you up, my friend
. Compare d t o mankind
, I a m ver y patient
. I
hav e th e time
, yo u see
. An d I a m no t a s easil y offende d as you might think. But you
must not ask me for answer s tha t ar e no t reveale d t o men.
" Th e golde n eyebro w ros e further
, an d on e win g scrape d th e fla t ceiling
. "—I
t ma y b e tha t the y ar e no t reveale d t o me
, either."
The wing descended, obscuring the window light lik e a filte r o f snow
. "Besides
, Damiano
, th e importan t question s involv e no t th e inten t o f Go d
towar d u s bu t the soul's own duty, and you know that clearly, don't you?"
Damian o di d not kno w it—no t o n certai n issues
, anyway
. Behin d Damiano'
s teeth
, whit e an d onl y slightl y uneven, trembled the question that had
waited in si-
lenc e fo r thre e years
, ripening—th e terribl e questio n abou t th e necessit y o f
virginity
. Surel y no w wa s th e tim e t o broac h it
. Raphae l ha d practicall y aske d fo r suc h a question—i t wa s no
t somethin g unreveale d t o men, after all, but only knotty. Such an
opportunity woul d no t knoc k again
.
H e hear d a scrabbl e an d pantin g o n th e stairs
, an d hi s do g tore int o th e hall
, calling
, "Master
, Master
, there'
s a soldie r a t th e door
. Wit h a spear!
"
She was a small dog, knee-high, very heavy in the hea d an d shoulders
, an d bandy-legged
. Ugly
. He r colo r was white, except for a saddle mark over her shoul-
ders
, an d s o sh e wa s calle d Macchiata
, whic h i s t o say
, Spot.
"Wit h a spear?
" echoe d Damiano
, feelin g th e mo
-
men t fo r hi s questio n dar t of f lik e som e smal l anima l that
, onc e frightened
, wil l foreve r b e harde r t o ap
-
proach. He stood, indecisive, between the angel and
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Macchiata.
"Pax tecum,"
whispered Raphael. His wings rose an d glittered
, an d h e wa s gone
.
Macchiat a blinke d a t th e disturbanc e i n th e air
. Sh e shifted from leg to crooked leg, and her ruddy hackles stoo d ou t
lik e th e quill s o f a hedgehog
. "Di d I scar e him away, Master? I'm sorry. I wouldn't scare Raphael on
purpose.
"—But there's a soldier..."
"Wit h a spear, " adde d Damian o disconsolately
, and he slouched down the stairs after Macchiata.
Chapter 2
Th e secon d floo r o f th e hous e wa s broke n u p int o smalle r
rooms
. Damian o passe d throug h th e vestibul e with its florid tiles and
heavy, glinting hangings, where the hearth sat smoldering through the short
autumn day
. Th e doo r wa s mad e o f oa k panel s layere d wit h th e grai n
i n differen t direction s an d studde d wit h iron
. I t stood ajar, as always, for the convenience of Macchiata.
Th e sergean t watche d Damian o advanc e throug h the dimness. It was a
boy, the sergeant thought—a servant
. Beast s wit h huma n tongue s wer e ba d enough
—
more than bad enough. That bitch made his honest, thoug h thinning
, hai r stan d o n end
. H
e woul d no t no w b e pushe d of f o n a servant
. No t thoug h Delstreg o could give a man boils with his stare, as the
townsfolk said. Pardo could do worse to the man who did not follow his
instructions.
Then Damiano stood in the light.
Not a boy, quite. But spindly as a rail. Girl-faced too.
Damiano blinked against the sudden brilliance .
"I want your master, boy," growled the soldier. He spoke surly, being afraid.
"Yo u wil l fin d hi m i n th e eart h an d abov e th e sky, "
answere d Damiano
, smiling
. Th e sergean t wa s surprise d at the depth of the voice issuin g from
that reedy body ;
an d thoug h h e di d no t trus t th e words
, h e involuntari
-
l y glance d upward
.
Bu t Damian o continued
, "Dominus
Deus, Rex
Caelestis:
He is my master and none other."
Th e sergean t flushe d beneat h hi s bristl e an d tan
. " I
seek Delstrego. God I can find on my own."
Insouciantly
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Page 9
, Damian o bowed
. "Delstreg o yo u hav e found," he announced. "What can he do for you?"
The sergeant's left hand crawled upward unnoticed, •
prying between the leather plates of his cuirass after a flea. "I meant
Delstrego the witch. The one who owns this house. "
Damiano's unruly brows drew together into a line as straight as nimbus clouds.
"I am Delstrego the alchemist: the only Delstrego dwelling in Partestrada at
thi s time
. Thi s hous e i s mine.
"
Snaggin g th e flea
, th e sergean t glance d dow n a momen t an d notice d a patc h o f
white
. Tha t hideou s do g again
, standin g betwee n th e fellow'
s leg s an d hal f conceale d b y th e robe
. He r teet h shon e whit e a s th e
Alps in January, and her lips were pulled back, displaying them all. Perhaps
she would open her mouth in a minute and curse him. Perhaps she would bite.
Surely this Delstreg o was the witch , whateve r he looke d like o r calle d
himself
.
"The n i t i s t o yo u I a m sent
, fro m Genera l Pardo
.
He tenders his compliments and invites you to come an d spea k wit h hi m
a t hi s headquarters.
" Thi s wa s a prearrange d speech . Had the sergean t chose n the words
himself
, the y woul d hav e bee n different
.
Bu t Damian o understood
. "Now
? H
e want s t o se e me now? "
"Certainly now!" barked the soldier, his small store of politeness used up.
"Right now. Down the street in the town hall. Go."
Damian o fel t Macchiata'
s rag e vibratin g agains t hi s shins
. H
e restraine d he r b y droppin g th e heav y skir t o f his robe over
her head. "All right," he answered mildly.
I'm on my way." He stepped out onto the little, railless porc h besid e th e
sergeant
. A
twiglike
, whit e tai l pro
-
truding from the back of his robe pointed stiffly upward.
The sergeant noted the gold and scarlet velvet of th e rob e an d it s
foppis h sleeves
. Inwardl y h e sneered
.
H e furthe r note d th e blac k wand
, man-high
, ornamente d like a king's scepter. "Not with that," he said.
Damian o smile d crookedl y a t th e soldier'
s distrust
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Page 10
.
"Oh
, yes
, wit h thi s especially
. Pard o wil l wan t t o se e this.
" H
e spok e wit h grea t confidence
, a s thoug h he
, and not the sergeant, had just left the general's pres-
ence
. Glowerin g bu t unsure
, th e sergean t le t hi m pass
.
"Aren't you coming along?" inquired Damiano, turning in some surprise halfway
down the stair. The sergeant had stood his place at the open doorway, his
ruddy bare knees now at Damiano's eye level. "—To se e tha t I don'
t pla y truan t b y dartin g ove r th e cit y wal l o r turnin g int
o a haw k an d escapin g int o th e air?
"
"I am to guard the house," answere d the soldier stolidly.
Damian o stare d fo r a moment
, hi s min d buzzin g wit h surmises
, the n h e continue d dow n th e stairs
.
Unde r th e arc h o f th e stairway
, besid e th e empt y stables
, stoo d anothe r o f Pardo'
s soldiery
: a tal l ma n with a scar running the length of one leg. He too watched
Damiano pass and kept his place.
The street was not so bare as it had appeare d earlier. It was scattered with
swart-garbed soldiers, who stood out against the dust and stucco like black
peppe r o n boile d frumenty
. Damian o ha d neve r bee n able to abide boiled frumenty. No more did he
like to se e th e street s o f Partestrad a dea d lik e this
. H
e wa s quit e fon d o f hi s city
.
Damiano could feel, using a little witch-sense—whic h wa s nothin g lik e
sigh t o r sound
, bu t rathe r lik e th e touc h o f a feathe r agains t th e fac e
or
, better
, agains t th e back of the palate—that there was no one at home in an y o
f th e squar e plaste r house s aroun d him
. H
e gripped his staff tighter and strode forth, immediatel y stumbling over
Macchiata.
"Ge t ou t o f there, " h e grumbled
, liftin g hi s skirt s and giving the dog a shove with his foot. "Walk
before, behind or beside, but not under."
Macchiat a lai d bac k he r ears
, thin
, white
, an d
folded like writing paper. "You put me there, and I
couldn't see."
Damiano started forward again, hoping no one on the street had noticed. "That
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Page 11
was to keep you away from the soldier. He might have spitted at you in a
moment
, an d there'
s nothin g I coul d hav e don e abou t it . The n wher e woul d yo u
be?
"
Th e do g di d no t respond
. Sh e di d no t kno w th e answer.
Someon e had noticed
. I t wa s ol d Marco
; even wa r an d occupatio n o f th e cit y b y th e enem y coul d
no t kee p him from his place beside the well, squatting on his haunche s
wit h a bottl e o f Alusto'
s poores t wine
.
Damiano, at this distance, could not make out his face, but he knew it was
Marco by his position and by the filthy red wool jacket he wore. Damiano would
have to pas s righ t b y th e ol d man
, an d h e woul d hav e t o spea k to him, since Marco had been one of
Guillermo
Delstrego'
s closes t friends
. Perhap s hi s onl y friend
.
Marc o was
, however
, insufferable
, an d a s Damian o passed he only bowed in the general direction of the
wel l an d called
, "Blessin g o n you
, Marco, " hopin g th e ol d so t ha d passe d ou t already
. Quit e possibl y h e had
, since it was already the middle of the afternoon.
"Hraaghh?
" Marc o ha d no t passe d out
. H
e jack
-
knifed to his feet and strode over to Damiano, holding the wine bottle
aggressivel y in one sallow hand. Mac-
chiat a yawne d a shril l canin e yaw n an d droope d he r tail
, knowin g wha t wa s coming
. Damian o fel t abou t th e same.
"Dam i Delstrego
? I though t yo u ha d flow n t o th e hills three days ago, just ahead
of the Green Count's army."
Damian o brace d hi s staf f diagonall y i n fron t o f hi m an d
leane d o n it . "Flown
? Fled
, yo u mean
? No
, Marco
.
Yo u haven'
t see n m e fo r thre e day s becaus e I'v e bee n tendin g a pot. You
know how it is in November ; people wan t m y father'
s phlegm-cuttin g toni c fo r th e winter
, an d whe n I sa y I' m no t a doctor
, the y don'
t hea r me
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.
"Wh y di d yo u thin k I' d ru n away?
"
Marco waved his bottle expansively, but very little of the contents splashed
out. "Because they all have.
Every man with any money in the village... "
"City, not village," corrected Damiano under his breath
, unabl e t o le t th e sligh t pass
, ye t hopin g Marc o would not hear him.
"And every young fellow with two arms that could hol d a spear
, an d al l th e wome n o f an y age
, thoug h som e o f thos e ol d hen s ar e flatterin g themselves
, I wil l tel l you...
"
"Wh y di d the y leave
, an d fo r where?
" Damian o spoke louder.
"Why?" Marco drew back and seemed to expand.
Damian o sighe d an d cas t hi s eye s t o th e muc h dis
-
turbed dust of the street. Nothing good had ever come fro m Marc o swellin g
lik e that
.
"Why
? Yo u juic y mozzarella
! T o sav e thei r sof t littl e lives, of course. Are you so addled with
your books and your devil's music that you..."
"What do you mean, 'devil's music'?" snapped
Damiano in return, for nothing else Marco could have said would have stung him
as sharply. Macchiata vocal-
ize d anothe r yaw n an d floppe d upo n he r bell y o n th e ground.
"Maniac , pagan.. . The church fathers themselve s calle d i t cursed.
"
Damiano thumped his staff upon the ground. Its vibration
, smoot h an d ominou s a s a wolf'
s growl
, brough t him back to reason. "They did not. They only said that
contrapuntal music was not suitable to be played in the mass. But that too
will come," he added with quiet confidence
, thinkin g o f th e hand s o f Raphael
.
Marco listened , sneering , to Damiano' s words. To the deep humming of the
staff, however, Marco granted a more respectful hearing. The old man plucked
absently a t hi s fel t coat
, fro m whic h al l th e gol d embroider y ha d long since been picked
out and sold, and he raised his bottle.
"Well, boy. You should still get out. You have two
arms and two legs and are therefore in danger of becomin g a n infantryman
. An d Pard o isn'
t fro m th e
Piedmont; he may not be intimidated by your father's name."
" I than k yo u fo r you r concern
, Marco
. Bu t I a m much more valuable as an alchemist than I would be as a
soldier. If Pardo is a man of vertu, he will see that."
The bottle did not quite drop from Marco's hand.
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H e stare d a t Damian o slack-jawed
, al l th e stump s o f hi s front teeth exposed. "You will go over to
the monster?"
Damiano scowled. "The monster? That is what for forty years you called Aymon,
and then his son Amadeus.
He was no friend to Partestrada. He ignored our city, sav e a t ta x
time—yo u yoursel f hav e tol d m e that
, an d a t great length."
"The old tyrant grew softer once he'd filled his belly from us, and his son at
least is mountain born,"
snorted Marco.
"Perhap s Pard o wil l b e different
. Perhap s h e i s th e on e wh o wil l realiz e h e ca n rid e t o
greatnes s alon g wit h th e cit y o f Partestrada
. I f h e ha s a mind
, an d eye s t o see
, I wil l explai n i t t o him.
" Damian o spok e word s h e had been rehearsing for the general's ears.
Marco cleared hi s throat
, spat
, an d turne d hi s bac k o n Damian o t o shuffle toward the
sun-warmed stones of the well.
"Wait, Marco!" called Damiano , hurrying after. He grabbe d th e greas y
sleeve s o f Marco'
s jacket
. "Tel l me
.
Ar e the y al l gone
? Fathe r Antonio
? Paol o Denezz i an d hi s sister
? Wher e i s Carla
? Hav e yo u see n her?
"
Marco spun about, vermilion-faced. "Tell you? That woul d giv e yo u
somethin g els e yo u coul d explai n t o
Genera l Pardo.
" Withou t warnin g h e swun g th e cla y bottl e a t Damiano
. Th e staf f too k th e blow
, an d th e bottle fell in purple-stained shards at his feet. Only a swallo
w ha d bee n lef t i n it
.
"Your father," called Marco, stomping down the stree t i n th e directio n
fro m whic h Damian o ha d come
, "was an honest witch. Though he burns in hell, he was an honest witch."
Damian o stood starin g at the drop s of wine bead -
ing the dust, till Macchiata laid her triangular head agains t hi s leg
. "H
e shouldn'
t hav e sai d tha t abou t your father," she said.
Damiano cleared his throat. "He wasn't insulting my father. He was insulting
me.
"Bu t I can'
t believ e Marc o think s I woul d betra y my friends, let alone my
city. He is just old and angry."
Damiano shook his head, took a deep breath, and jerke d hi s sleeve s fro m
hi s hand s an d hi s hai r fro m hi s eyes.
"Come, " h e said
. "Genera l Pard o i s expectin g me.
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"
Damiano hated being reminded about his father, whom he had last seen dissolvin
g into a green ichor.
Guillermo Delstrego had died in pain and had stained the workroom tiles on
which he lay. Damiano had neve r know n wha t spel l o r invocatio n hi
s fathe r ha d bee n about
, fo r ther e wer e man y thing s Delstreg o would not let young Dami
observe , and that particula r invocation Damian o had never had any desire
to know.
Guillerm o Delstreg o ha d no t bee n a ba d father
, exactly. He had certainly provided for Damiano and had taught him at least a
portion of his arts. He had no t beate n Dam i often
, bu t the n Damian o ha d no t deserve d beatin g often
, an d no w i t seeme d t o Damian o that his father would have liked
him better if he had. A
mozzarell a wa s wha t Marc o calle d him
. Delstreg o prob
-
abl y woul d hav e agreed
, bein g himsel f a bal l o f th e grainies t Parmesan
. Bu t afte r thei r eightee n year s to
-
gether
, an d despit e Damiano'
s quic k sensitivit y t o peo
-
ple, the young man could say that he'd scarcely known hi s father—certainl y
no t a s wel l a s ol d Marc o kne w him.
Damiano was like his mother, whom Delstrego had foun d an d marrie d i n
Provenc e (i t wa s sai d n o woma n i n th e Piedmon t woul d hav e
him)
, an d wh o ha d die d s o long ago she was not even a memory to the boy.
He ha d he r slimness
, smal l face
, an d larg e eyes
. An d
thoug h hi s nos e wa s rathe r large r tha n her s ha d been
, it was nothing like the strongly colored and very Ro-
man appendage that Guillermo Delstrego had borne.
Ye t Delstreg o ha d ha d t o admi t th e chil d wa s his
, because witchcraft did not run in his wife's family, and eve n a s a bab
y Damian o ha d give n of f spark s lik e a cat
.
Wa s Delstreg o i n hell
? Ther e wa s gossi p tha t sai d a witch was damned from birth, but the
Church had never yet said anythin g of that sort, and Damian o had neve r fel
t i n th e slightes t bi t damned
. H
e attende d th e mas s weekly
, whe n wor k permitted
, an d enjoye d in
-
volved theological discussions with his friend Father
Antoni o o f th e Firs t Orde r o f Sa n Francesco
. Some
-
times, in fact, he felt a little too sure of God's favor, as whe n Carl a
Denezz i le t hi m sor t he r colore d threads
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, but he was aware of this fault in himself and chided himself for an apostate
whenever the feeling got out of hand. His father, though, who died invoking
the Devil, alone knew what.. . Who could be sure about him?
When he asked Raphael, he was told to trust in God an d no t t o worry
, whic h wa s advic e that
, althoug h sound, did not answer the question. Damiano prayed both at matins
and at vespers that his father was not in hell.
It was quite frosty, even though past noon. Cold enoug h t o snow
. Th e sk y wa s heav y an d opaque
, lik e a potter y bow l tippe d ove r th e city
, it s ri m restin g o n th e surroundin g hills and trappin g all inside
.
Excep t i t ha d no t trappe d anyone
, anyon e bu t ol d
Marc o an d himself
. Wher e ha d th e peopl e gone
? Wher e had Paolo Denezzi gone, taking his whole family? It wa s no t tha
t Damian o woul d mis s Denezzi
, wit h hi s black beard and blacke r temper . His sister Carla , however...
Th e whol e cit y wa s on e thing
. A
n undifferentiate d mas s o f peasant s an d vendor s an d artisan s
calle d
Partestrada
; t o Damian o i t wa s al l tha t Florenc e i s t o a
Florentine, and more, for it was a small city and in
nee d o f tending
. Damian o wa s o n pleasan t term s wit h everyone, but he usually ate
alone.
Carl a Denezz i wa s anothe r matte r altogether
. Sh e was blonde, and her blue eyes could go deep, like
Raphael's
. Damian o ha d give n he r a gilde d se t o f th e work s o f
Thoma s Aquinas
, whic h h e ha d gon e al l th e way to Turin to purchase, and he
thought she was the jewe l aroun d Partestrada'
s throat
. Damian o wa s use d to seeing Carla at the window of her brother's house
or sitting on the loggia like a pretty pink cat, studying some volume of the
desert fathers or doing petit point.
Sometimes she would stop to chat with him, and sometimes
, i f a chapero n wa s nea r an d he r brothe r
Paolo was not, she would permit Damiano to swing himself up by the slats of
the balcony and disturb her sewin g further
.
I n hi s ow n mind
, Damian o calle d Carl a hi s Beatrice
, an d i f h e wa s no t bein g very original
, i t wa s a t leas t bette r t o like n he r t o Dante'
s exampl e o f purit y rathe r tha n t o Laura
, a s di d othe r youn g me n o f th e town
, fo r
Petrarch'
s Laur a ha d bee n a marrie d woma n an d ha d died of the plague,
besides.
No w Damian o passe d befor e th e shuttere d Denezz i hous e fron t
an d h e fel t he r absenc e lik e col d win d against the face. "Where
are you, my Beatrice?" he whispered
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. Bu t th e bare
, whit e hous e fron t ha d n o voice—not even for him.
Th e tow n hal l ha d n o stabl e unde r it , an d i t wa s only two
stories high. It was not a grand building, being only white stucco: nowhere
near as imposing a structure as the towers of Delstrego. It had not been in th
e interes t o f th e counci l t o enlarg e it , o r eve n t o sea l
the infected-looking brown cracks that ran through the wal l b y th e door
. Excep t fo r th e weekl y gathering s o f th e tow n fathers
, discussin g suc h issue s a s th e distanc e of the shambles from the
well and passing judgment o n seller s o f short-weigh t brea d
loaves—suc h wer e commonl y dragge d o n a transo m thre e time s
around
the market, the offending loaf hanging around their necks—the town hall had
been occupied by one or another of Savoy's captains , with the half-doze n men
necessar y t o kee p Partestrad a saf e an d i n line
.
Damian o kne w wha t Savoy'
s soldier s ha d bee n like: brutishly cruel or crudely kind as the moment
woul d hav e it
, bu t alway s cowe d befor e wealt h an d authority
. N
o doub t thes e woul d b e th e same
. I t wa s only necessary for a man to feel his own power...
His confidence in his task grew as he approached the open door of the hall,
which was guarded by a single sentry. His nod was a gesture carefully tailored
.to illustrate he was a man of means and family, and a philosophe r besides
. Th e soldier'
s response
, equall y well thought-out, was intended to illustrate that he had both a
sword and a spear. Damiano stopped in front of him.
" I a m tol d tha t Genera l Pard o want s t o se e me, " h e began,
humbly enough.
"Wh o ar e you
, tha t th e genera l shoul d wan t t o se e you," was the cold reply.
A bi t o f hi s natura l dignit y returne d t o Damiano
.
"I am Delstrego. "
Th e sentr y grunte d an d steppe d aside
. Damian o passed through, leaning a bit on his staff, allowing any casua l
observe r t o believ e h e wa s lame
.
"No t wit h that, " spok e th e soldier
, an d Damian o pause d again
. H
e coul d no t li e barefacedl y an d tel l th e man he needed the stick
to walk, but he was also not willin g t o b e parte d fro m it . H
e squinte d nearsightedl y at the guard , musterin g arguments . But the
guard pointe d downward
. "Th e genera l doesn'
t wan t t o se e your dog."
Macchiata' s hackles rose, and she growled in her throat . "It's all right, "
Damian o said softl y to her. "You ca n wai t outsid e fo r me
. An d fo r you r sake
, d o i t quietly!
" Th e do g lumbere d ou t th e door
, watche d b y th e amuse d guard
, an d Damian o proceede d int o th e hall.
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General Pardo was the sort who looked good in black, being hard, neatly built,
and of strong color. His heigh t wa s impossibl e t o judg e a s h e sa
t slumpe d i n th e corne r o f a n ornat e bench-pew
, hi s leg s proppe d o n a stoo l besid e it
. H
e wa s dusty
, an d hi s fac e sun
-
weathered
. H
e regarde d Damian o i n a manne r tha t was too matter-of-fact to be
called arrogant. Damiano bowed from the waist.
"Yo u ar e th e wizard?
" bega n Pardo
. T o Damiano'
s surprise, the general addressed him in a clear Latin.
Th e youn g ma n paused
. H
e alway s correcte d peo
-
ple who called him witch, though everyone called him witch. No man had ever
before called him a wizard.
The word was one Damiano had only read in books. It rang better than witch in
the ears, but it also sounded pagan—especially in Latin. It did not seem right
to begin his conversatio n with Genera l Pardo thinkin g him a pagan, and yet
it wasn't politic to begin matters by correcting the general. "I am
Delstrego," he replied finally
, knowin g tha t a t leas t hi s Lati n accen t wa s abov e reproach.
"Not a wizard? " The questio n was sharp.
"I am... an alchemist."
Pardo's response was unsettling. His mouth tight-
ened. He turned his head away. It was as though something nauseated him.
"Deus!
An alchemist," he muttere d i n southern-accente d Italian
. "Jus t wha t I
need. "
Damian o leane d agains t hi s staff
, puzzled
. H
e als o dropped into Italian: the Italian of the Alps, heavily flavore d wit
h French
. "A
n alchemis t seek s onl y t o com
-
prehend matter and spirit, and to raise each to the highest level, using the
methods of Hermes Trismegis-
tus... "
"DON'T," bellowed the general, "TELL ME—" He took a deep breath. A soldier
clattered into the room, then seeing it was only the general exploding, he
backed out.
"—about Hermes Trismegistus, " finished Pardo.
Damian o stoo d pal e an d staring
, lik e a ma n wh o ha s broke n throug h ic e int o col d water
.
"Why?" he asked in a small voice. "Why not
Hermes?"
Th e genera l shifte d i n hi s seat
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. A
smil e sprea d across his features. "Because, boy, I have heard enough abou t
Herme s Trismegistu s an d th e ques t o f alchem y t o last me three
lifetimes. Florence is riddled with fusty old men who claim they can turn lead
into gold. Venice i s almos t a s bad.
" H
e turne d a gray-eye d haw k glanc e on Damiano. "Avignon... is beyond
help.
"Yo u ar e to o youn g an d health y t o b e a n alchemist
, Signo r Delstrego
. Als o to o clean
. Ca n yo u tur n lea d int o gold?
"
"Not.
. .i n an y grea t quantity, " answere d Damiano
, embarrassed.
"Ca n yo u a t all?
" pursue d th e general
.
Damian o sighe d an d fingere d hi s staff
. I t wa s hi s burden that many of the goals of alchemy he found easier to
accomplis h using the tools of his father rather than those of the sainted
Hermes.
"My methods are not pure"—he temporized—"an d the amoun t of labor involve d
is..."
Pardo swung his legs down from the stool and glared at the youth in
frustration . "What I want to know, boy, is HAVE YOU POWER?"
Pard o ha d a n immens e voic e an d wa s use d t o commandin g larg
e number s o f me n o n th e battlefield
.
But Damiano was no longer used to being commanded.
The bellowing raised in him an answering anger. His fingers tightened upon the
black wood of his staff.
Withou t warnin g th e ai r wa s fille d wit h booming
, as every door and shutter in the building slammed back upon its hinges.
Sparks crackled in the folds of
Damiano'
s woole n robe
. Th e ligh t woode n doo r o f th e audienc e chambe r tremble d fo
r hal f a minute
. A
clou d o f plaste r dus t fell
.
Pardo regarded it calmly. "I could feel that," he remarked
, "i n m y ears.
"
Damiano kept his mouth shut, feeling he had done enough
, an d knowin g tha t slammin g door s woul d no t protect him from a
regiment of swordsmen. Besides, he was tired.
"That's what I was trying to find out," added the genera l conversationally
, a s h e nudge d th e stoo l i n
Damiano'
s direction
. "Si t down
, Signo r Delstrego
. I
want to talk to you."
"Than k you
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Page 19
, General.
" Damian o lowere d himsel f gratefully onto the cushion. "I also, was
wanting to speak with you."
"Ahh?"
Uttere d b y a Piedmontese
, tha t single
, interrogato
-
r y syllabl e woul d hav e echoe d i n th e bac k o f th e throa t
and in the nose, like the crooning of a mother cat. At the most a Piedmontese
would have glanced at his companio n a s h e spok e t o sho w hi m i t
wa s t o hi m th e inquir y wa s addressed
. Bu t Genera l Pard o wa s a Ro
-
ma n b y birth
. Bot h eyebrow s sho t u p an d hi s lip s pulled back from his teeth.
The intensity of interest reveale d b y th e singl e syllabl e o f
"Ahhh?
" seeme d i n
Damiano'
s eye s excessive
: a thin g too
, to o pointed
, almost bloodthirsty. It was of a piece with the general's appearanc e an d
hi s snappin g temper
.
These Italians, Damiano thought—not meaning to includ e th e Piedmontese—the
y ar e to o ho t an d to o col d together. Passionate and unreliable.
"To speak with me? I expected as much," conclud-
e d Pardo
, wit h som e satisfaction
. "Wel l b e m y guest
, Signo r Dottore
. I slep t i n a be d fo r th e firs t tim e i n a week, last
night, and now am disposed to listen."
Damian o spare d onl y a momen t t o wonde r whos e bed the general had
slept in, and whether the original owner of it now slept on a straw pile or in
the hand of
God. Then he put his mind to the task.
He leaned forward on his stool, his legs crossed at th e ankles
, eac h kne e drape d i n gol d clot h lik e th e smoot h pea k o f
a furrowe d mountain
. Hi s staf f wa s se t between his feet, and it pointed at the cracked
roof and
the heavens beyond. Against the ebony he leaned his cheek, and the wood was
invisible next to unruly curls o f th e sam e color
. Hi s eyes
, too
, wer e black
, an d hi s mouth childishly soft. A painter or a poet, seeing that unline d
face
, migh t hav e envisione d i t a s springtime
, a thing pretty enough in itself but more important in its promis e o f
thing s t o come
.
Genera l Pard o looke d a t Damiano
, bu t h e wa s no t a painte r or a poet. He notice d the huge hands ,
like the paw s o f a pu p stil l growing
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, an d h e sa w Damiano
, lik e a pu p stil l growing
, a s a bi t o f a clown
.
"It is about this city," Damiano began, and was immediatel y interrupted , as
Pardo inquired what city he meant.
"Partestrada, " replied Damiano , wonderin g how th e genera l coul d b e
s o slow
. "Partestrad a ha s bee n under Savoy governance for many years."
"If you can call it governance," introjected Pardo.
Damiano paused to show he had heard the other, the n continued
. "I
n tha t tim e th e cit y ha s grow n fro m a town of four hundred
families into the only place of any note between Turin and Aosta."
"Of any note..." echoed Pardo doubtfully.
"He r peopl e ar e healthy
, he r surroundin g crop
-
land s flourish
. Sh e support s tw o silversmith s an d a...
"
Damian o decide d no t t o mentio n th e vineyar d a t thi s time.
"... and she is located on the Evancon, a river that is passabl e almos t its
entire length . She has grow n lik e th e chil d o f th e mountain s tha
t sh e is.
"
"An d yo u woul d lik e he r t o continu e i n th e sam e fashion?"
asked the general dryly. "Without interference."
Damiano lifted his eyebrow s in a gesture that, thoug h h e di d no t kno
w it
, wa s th e mirro r o f tha t whic h h e ha d distruste d i n Pardo
. "No
, Signo r Gener
-
al , tha t i s not wha t I wan t fo r m y city
. Al l thi s sh e ha d accomplishe d o n he r own
, unguided
, lik e a peasan t virgin, beautiful and barefoot. What would she be unde r
th e protectio n o f a grea t man?
"
Pard o leane d forward
, uncomprehending
. " I a m
not in the habit of protecting virgins, peasant or other-
wise," he said simply.
Damian o fel t hi s fac e growin g hot
. H
e ha d picke d the wrong metaphor to use with a soldier, certainly.
"Wha t I mea n is, " h e bega n slowly
. "W
e nee d th e presence of a man of wealth and culture, in whose house the
arts will flourish, and whose greatness of soul can inspire Partestrada with a
similar greatness..."
"It's the pope you want," suggested Pardo with a white smile. "Go to him,
Signor Delstrego, and tell him to move from Avignon to Partestrada, where the
air is better."
Wi t i s cheap
, though t Damiano
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, ye t reaso n canno t best it. He dropped his eyes, accepting the
humiliation a s h e ha d accepte d i t fro m hi s fathe r dail y i n
hi s childhood
. Thi s genera l reminde d hi m o f hi s fathe r i n more ways than
one.
Fo r th e sak e o f hi s city
, h e trie d onc e more
.
"General Pardo, it would not be bad for you to join yoursel f t o Partestrad
a an d t o gro w wit h her
. B
y he r placement and her people she is destined for greatness.
Yo u coul d b e th e too l o f he r greatness
. Sh e coul d b e th e too l o f you r ow n glory
. Lik e Viscont i an d Milan.
"
Pardo'
s nostril s ha d flared
, bu t h e ha d le t Damian o continue until he heard the name of Milan.
"Milan!" he barked
. "Whe n I marr y a cit y i t wil l b e on e wit h a greater dowry
than Partestrada! Why do you think I am u p here
, sweepin g you r littl e hil l town s lik e a housewif e with a
broom, if not in preparation for Milan? I need money and power, and my army
needs experience. I
wil l ge t wha t I ca n fro m th e crumblin g Hous e o f Savoy
, whil e Amadeu s i s bus y wit h hi s ne w wif e an d th e stupid
wars of Jean le Bon. When that great one turns t o bit e th e fle a o n
hi s le g I wil l b e gone
.
"But I will come again. And again. And each time I
will harvest this miserable, cold cloud-land, until I am rich enough and have
men enough, and then I will mov e o n Milan
. I f I canno t bu y tha t city'
s love
, I wil l tak e i t b y force.
"
Damiano's face tightened painfully, but he spoke what was to him the obvious.
"Milan has been in so man y hands
. Yo u wil l no t b e remembere d i n histor y b y takin g Milan.
"
"HISTOR
Y I S S O MUC
H DO
G SHIT!
" bellowe d th e general
, poundin g hi s fis t agains t th e woode n bac k o f th e pew
. "Milan
? Tha t i s somethin g else
. Passe d throug h man y hands
? Wel l th e whor e i s non e th e worse looking for it.
"Boy, have you SEEN Milan?"
"Man y times, " answere d Damiano
, meanin g thre e times
, onc e wit h hi s fathe r an d twic e since
, buyin g books
. "I
t i s a beautifu l city
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Page 22
, althoug h very flat.
"
No w i t wa s Pardo'
s tur n t o lea n forwar d an d stare
.
" I don'
t wan t yo u t o tak e thi s a s a n insult
, Signo r
Delstrego, because I think I could like you. You have loyalt y an d
enthusiasm
. Als o a ver y usefu l talent
, i f tha t busines s wit h th e door s wa s an y guide
.
"Bu t you r provincia l upbringin g ha s colore d you r thoughts
. Yo u hav e rea d abou t Florenc e an d Rome
, an d you think they are no different from your little town in the hills,
where your family has a certain... reputation.
It seems to you better to devote your time to making th e littl e tow n
bigge r tha n t o ris k al l b y startin g ane w i n a plac e wher e
ther e ar e mor e possibilities
, bu t yo u hav e no reputation at all."
Damiano frowned perplexedly and shook his head, but Pardo continued. "My
advice—and I am a man of some experience—is to risk it all and leap for what
you want
. Mos t me n ar e les s tha n the y seem
. I t i s nature
;
thei r fat e i s t o fee d th e fe w wh o hav e visio n an d courage
. Mos t citie s exis t t o b e plundered
, an d i t i s ou t o f tha t plunde r w e creat e th e glor y o f
Rome
, o f Florence
, and of Milan. "
Pard o smiled
, wit h a too-knowin g smile—wit h
Guillermo Delstrego's smile, in fact. And he was speak-
ing in sly, comradely fashion, as Damiano had often heard his father speak to
some low companion , the two
sitting side by side in the empty stable, away from the light of the sun.
"Alchemist s ar e al l posers, " Pard o said
. "An d rea l magic—black magic—is very rare. But it exists! I am sure in
myself that it exists!"
Damian o shoo k hi s hea d mor e violently
. "No t fo r me," he protested. "Never black magic."
"Your father was not above cursing an enemy,"
Pard o contradicte d equably
. "An d I'
m tol d h e di d i t effectively. "
"Wh o tol d you
? That'
s hearsay
. Yo u mustn'
t be
-
lieve it!"
"A
n ol d ma n name d Marc o tol d me, " answere d the general. "At the
same time that he told me where the inhabitants of the city were hiding in the
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Page 23
hills."
Damian o ros e fro m hi s chair
, hi s fac e draining
.
"Marco? He betrayed the citizens?"
Wit h on e han d Pard o wave d awa y Damiano'
s shock
.
"Don'
t worry
. I' m no t goin g t o butche r the m all
. There'
s no value in that. It is what they took with them that I
want
, an d an y village r wh o i s willin g t o di e ove r a purse or a
ring of gold deserve s what he gets.
"Bu t it'
s wha t Marc o tol d m e abou t you r fathe r an d yoursel f tha t I
foun d mos t interesting
. H
e sai d you r father was the most powerful witch—I mean, rather, wizard—i n
th e Italics.
"
"H
e wa s a witch, " sai d Damiano
, dully
, "an d no t the most powerful, by his own admission. He always sai d tha t
Saar a o f Lombardy...
"
"Goo d enough, " interrupte d Pardo
. "H
e als o sai d you were almost your father's equal in power, though too
faddish and delicate-minde d for your own good."
"A mozzarella," murmured Damiano, staring at the floor. Marco betraying the
city. Soldiers with hairy knuckles ripping the gold from around Carla
Denezzi's neck
. Th e gol d an d wha t else
? H
e becam e awar e tha t
Pard o wa s stil l talking
.
"—with me," the general was saying. "I am not proposin g a marriage
, lik e tha t whic h yo u wer e s o
willing to arrange between this town and myself, but I
am not a bad man. I am educated and a Christian. I kill no man for pleasure.
Turn your skills to my service, and I promise you I will reward you well."
Damian o stare d throug h Pardo
. "Wha t di d yo u give Marco, for his services?"
Pardo'
s smil e wa s crooked
. " I hav e grante d hi m the vineyard outside the gates," he replied.
"But Marco i s a n ol d so t an d a traito r a s well
. I coul d b e muc h mor e generous to a man of skill, whom I could
trust."
Damian o foun d hi s tongue
. "Yo u wil l hav e n o need to be generous with me, Signor General."
Pardo rose slowly from his bench. "You refuse me outright?
" Lik e a cat
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Page 24
, whic h begin s it s attac k wit h a single step, the general advanced
on Damiano. "Out-
right?
" h e repeated
.
"I t doesn'
t eve n com e t o that, " answere d th e youth
, standin g hi s ground
. "Yo u see
, I woul d b e o f n o us e t o you. The abilities I possess—or even
those of my father—
do not make good weapon s of war. If they had, I think he would have used them
so."
General Pardo stood facing Damiano. They were almos t o f a height
. "Explain, " barke d th e general
.
Damiano leaned forward upon his staff. He gazed a t th e re d til e floor
, thinking
. A
t las t h e began
.
"Work s o f magi c ar e n o differen t fro m ordinar y labor. One
starts with material and adds the strength of one'
s ow n power
, an d i n th e en d yo u hav e mad e something. When I threw open all
the doors and win-
dow s o f th e building
, I use d th e ai r a s m y too l an d hammered it according to a
design I had learned. In the end I was more tired than I would have been had I
run fro m doo r t o windo w an d swun g the m ope n b y hand
.
"Bu t th e window s i n room s tha t wer e bolte d yo u could not have
touched at all without wizardry. Am I
right?" The general sought in Damiano's face some sign of subterfuge or
evasion. Damiano met his glance.
"Ah, yes. But that is another element: the moral element
, an d tha t i s a ver y rea l thin g i n magic
, rea l an d
dangerous
. I f I ope n a doo r tha t yo u hav e locke d against me, or cause it
to open as you are walking by, wit h th e intentio n o f hittin g yo u
wit h it , the n m y dee d is a wholly different thing than a mere opening
of doors. Magic worked in malice will almost always spring bac k agains t th
e worker
; tha t i s wh y purit y o f hear t i s importan t i n a witch
.
"Yo u ma y wel l laugh, " adde d Damiano
, fo r Pard o was laughing
, "bu t s o i t is
. Bein g a channe l o f thi s power
, I mus t b e carefu l o f m y desires
. I f I gro w angr y wit h a tradesma n an d fee l i n m y
imaginatio n m y hand s around his neck, then I will carry the seed of
strangling aroun d i n m y hea d an d ma y wel l fee l demo n finger
s a t my own neck in the middle of the night."
"Still," introjected the Roman, "curses are pro-
nounced , so someone must dare to pronounc e them."
Damian o shrugged
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. " A witc h ca n b e abl e withou t bein g wise
. Notic e ho w man y wit h th e powe r ar e poo r and diseased, worse
off than the unfortunates they have cursed. Some carry such hatred that they
would rather do harm than remain well themselves. Some have learned the skill
of putting off all their payment unti l som e tim e i n th e future
, trustin g the y wil l di e before the bill falls due."
Damian o sighe d deeply
. "Bu t I don'
t thin k b y dying one can escape that particular sort of debt."
Again he found himself thinking about his father. "Still, even if I could
murder and escape unscathed, it would b e a sorr y sor t o f killing
, becaus e i n th e tim e i t woul d take me to strangle one man through
witchcraft—one man, I say, for I don't have the power to destroy a regiment—I
could be run through ten times by a simple soldie r wit h neithe r min d
no r magic.
"
Pardo'
s gaz e wa s eage r an d predatory
. "Thi s i s interesting. Very. And convincing, since it is my intu-
ition that nothing in this life is free. Yet, Signor Delstrego, you are not a
military man, and therefore you don't know what thing s can be valuabl e in
war. You need not kil l a regimen t t o destro y it ; merel y le t the
m se e thei r
commander fall from his horse, gasping and turning purple. Let me tell you
what things I have seen ruin an army
: flu x fro m ba d water
, th e prophec y o f a craz y ol d whore the night before a battle,
three crows sitting on the corpse of a black heifer. Things as silly as this
make th e differenc e betwee n los s an d victory
. An d i t wil l always be so, as long as armies are made of men. Think wha
t i t wil l mea n t o m y me n t o hav e th e wizar d
Delstreg o ridin g wit h the m int o battle
. Thin k wha t i t will mean to the enemy!"
In General Pardo's gray eyes sparked enthusiasm, and Damiano was not immune to
it. Certainly no man before had ever expressed exhilaration at the thought o f
havin g him a t hi s sid e i n battle
. Th e wizar d Del
-
strego. ...
Bu t eve n a s h e fel t thes e thing s Damian o als o fel t his
staff thrumming quietly in his hands, a private voice of warning. He reminded
himself that he had come here to argue for his city, and that Pardo had refuse
d him
. An d Pard o wa s a Roman
, s o obviousl y could not be trusted. Besides, he reminded Damiano of hi s
father
, an d wha t coul d b e les s invitin g tha n that
?
Suddenly he was aware of noises in the hall out-
sid e th e audienc e chamber
, an d th e roo m itsel f gre w dimme r a s bodie s blocke d th e
ligh t fro m th e door
.
Pardo was hedging his bet.
Damiano smiled vaguely at the general, and his finger s tightene d over th e
secon d silve r rin g o n hi s staff. He opened his mouth as though to
speak, but instead he disappeared .
General Pardo blinked. His eyes darted right and left
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. "FIN
D HIM!
" h e bellowe d a t th e me n wh o poure d int o th e small
, squar e chamber
.
For a moment the doorway was empty, and Damiano steppe d throug h o n
tiptoe
, holdin g th e sho e o f hi s staf f of f th e tiles
. H
e pace d th e hall
, tradin g stealt h fo r spee d as he approached the arched door that gave
onto the street.
Macchiat a sa t i n th e dus t wit h a n attitud e o f martyre d
patience. Her nose worked, sensing him near, and her hea d turne d
expectantl y towar d th e entryway
. Th e singl e sentr y stoo d obliviou s t o Damiano
, hi s helmete d hea d crane d ove r hi s shoulde r a s h e attende d
t o th e rising hubbub from the general's quarters.
Damiano touched his dog on the back so lightly she did not feel him. He
whispered two words. She yelped and started.
"Oh
, ther e yo u are, " sh e gasped
, an d he r inade
-
quate little tail wagged stiffly. In answer Damiano put his hand to his mouth
and gesture d for her to follow .
"I am invisible," he hissed, springing lightly along th e bar e street
, wher e aimles s flake s o f sno w ha d begu n t o fall
.
"But I can see you, Master, " the dog replied fol-
lowing in more cumbrous fashion.
"You are invisible, too." Damiano paused, staring.
Agains t th e wel l sprawle d ol d Marco
, snoring
, a powder of snow, like dandruff, across his felt jacket. He looked the same
as ever: dirty, slack, disgruntled, even in sleep
. Ha d h e reall y betraye d th e peopl e o f Partestrad a t o
Pardo
? I f so
, wh y wa s h e stil l sittin g ou t her e i n th e snow
, instead of throned in relative splendor at the house that unti l toda y ha
d belonge d t o Cosim o Alusto
? Pard o mus t hav e bee n lying
. Ye t wha t h e ha d repeate d concernin g
Delstrego and his son was every inch old Marco.
What did it matter? Damiano bent down and shook
Marco by his greasy ears. "Wake up Marco," he whispered. "Talk or I will turn
you into a pig and you will talk no more! Wake up now."
Marco came awake grasping at the air. He gasped, "What? Who is it?"
"I t i s Delstrego
, ol d man.
" Le t Marc o figur e ou t which one himself. "Where have the citizens
gone?
Speak or be sausage."
Marc o clutche d a t th e wrist s o f invisibl e hand s tha t in turn
were clutchin g his lapels, slammin g his head agains t th e stone s o f
th e well
. Feelin g thei r solidit y di d not reassur e him.
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"Guillermo
? D
o m e n o hurt
, ol d friend
. The y ar e i n th e vetc h field
, wher e th e shee p ar e summered
. Pard o sai d h e wil l offe r the m n o violence
, except
, o f course
, fo r
Denezzi
, an d I kne w h e wa s you r enemy
, s o I tol d th e genera l h e ha d gold—mor e gol d tha n h e has
, yo u know...
"
Marco giggled ingratiatingly. In horror, Damiano stood, lettin g him drop back
agains t the well. He turned on his heel and darted off. Behind him came a sna
p an d a yow l o f pain
, the n h e hear d Macchiat a panting at his side. "I always wanted to do
that," she growle d contentedly
. Damian o onl y hushe d her
.
The tall, scarred soldier still stood beneath the arch of the Delstrego
staircase. Peering upward, Damiano could see the door was open. He stopped and
pulled off his boots. His breath was beginning to steam; he hoped it was not
obvious. Barefoot he climbed the stairs, with Macchiata behind him. Her nails
clicked agains t th e stones
, an d h e glare d bac k a t her
.
In five minutes he was out again, still invisible, with an invisible sheepskin
sack slung over one shoulder and th e liuto ove r th e other
. I n th e sac k h e carrie d wine
, cheese, money, and phlegm-cuttin g tonic. In his heart he carried purpose.
He lifted his eyes to the northern hills, where the sheep pastures flanked the
Alps.
Damian o padde d noiselessl y pas t th e guar d an d down the open
stairs. Once at the bottom he turned an d looke d abou t him
, missin g Macchiata
.
Where was the bitch? Surely she knew better than t o wande r of f rattin g
now
, i n th e middl e o f thei r es
-
cape. And it was costing him energy to keep her invisible.
H e hesitate d t o cal l ou t fo r her
, becaus e invisibl e was not the same as inaudible. Painfully, Damiano
squinted up the stairs into the darkness of the house.
Ther e cam e a scream
, followe d shortl y b y a curse
, and then the guard at the door fell flat on the stucco landing, bellowing.
Macchiata's squat form scuttled down th e stair s an d pas t Damiano
. H
e ha d t o ru n t o kee p up
.
"I bit them both, Master!" she panted, exultant. "I
bi t bot h soldier s an d ol d Marco
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, too
! Thre e i n on e day.
"
Suddenl y sh e cam e t o a stop
, turned
, an d thre w her
-
self, slobbering, upon her winded master.
"Oh, Master, I have never been so happy! This war is wonderful."
Damiano could not spare breath to disagree.
Chapter 3
Th e moo n ros e jus t befor e sunset
. I t hun g a s invisibl e behind the slate clouds as Damiano had been to
old
Marco at the well. But Damiano knew where it was, ou t o f a knowledg e s
o accustome d h e didn'
t kno w whether it was his father's blood in him or his father's training. He
always knew where the moon was; he coul d hav e pointe d t o it . Th e
fiv e planet s cam e harder
, but he had a feeling for them, also. Even with peripa-
tetic Mercury he was usually right.
Thoug h Damiano'
s eye s wer e fault y i n daylight
, h e ha d a compensatin g abilit y t o mak e us e o f moonlight
, even moonlight behind clouds. For most of the month h e coul d rea d
withou t candleligh t an d coul d perceiv e thing s i n th e dar k tha
t mos t peopl e coul d neve r se e a t al l (no r di d the y wan t
to)
. Th e ful l o f th e moo n als o tende d t o sharpe n hi s othe r
sense s an d pu t hi s feeling s into a roil.
Guillerm o Delstreg o ha d like d t o sa y tha t mal e witche s wer e
lik e women
, wit h thei r monthl y cycles
. I t was a joke Damiano had found in the worst taste.
Tonight the moon was at her third quarter, wan-
ing. Damiano felt as dull and heavy as a water-soaked log. For the past three
nights he had tended the batch of tonic, sitting on a hard-backe d chair so
that he could
not doze off for more than an hour at a time. The mixtur e ha d bee n read
y thi s morning
, an d Damian o ha d bathe d an d gon e immediatel y bac k t o th e
work
-
roo m fo r hi s lesso n wit h Raphael
. H
e woul d no t b e able to walk the night through.
Besides
, t o th e vetc h fiel d i t wa s tw o an d a hal f days' march .
How did the citizen s do it, with old women and babies, and Alfonso Berceuse
with his one leg?
The road into the hills was also the road to Aosta—
goo d an d wide
, ope n almos t al l th e year
. Wh y hadn'
t h e heard
? Wh y hadn'
t someon e tol d him
? I t wa s sa d that they would all go off and not think of Damiano, alon e
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withou t famil y o r servants
, sittin g u p an d brew
-
in g medicin e fo r thei r sakes
.
Damiano was swept with self-pity. He hated to be forgotten
. An d h e couldn'
t bea r th e though t the y ha d left him behind on purpose. And now
three toes on his right foot had no feeling at all.
Bu t Fathe r Antoni o woul d no t hav e lef t hi m be
-
hind on purpose. Since Delstrego' s death Father Antonio had been very kind to
Damiano and had spent long evening hours with him in the parlor of the
rectory—
th e goo d fathe r fel t constraine d t o avoi d th e Delstreg o tower
, thoug h h e kne w Damian o worke d n o impietie s there—drinkin g
spice d win e an d talkin g abou t sanctit y and Holy Mother Church. It
was a subject about which
Father Antoni o seeme d to know much more than any-
one else Damiano had met. More than did Raphael, for instance
. Fathe r Antoni o wa s th e sor t wh o neve r forgo t anyone—no t th
e leas t o f hi s parishioners
, i n thei r goo d fortune or bad. If he had left without Damiano, it was
because he had believed Damiano to be gone already.
And why not? Damiano hadn't set foot outside for three days, nor let a candle
shine, nor lit any fire save that unde r the caldron . Ther e was no need for
him to feel neglected.
Still
, forgotte n o r no
, h e ha d t o sleep
. Damian o lifte d hi s eye s t o th e rounde d hill s o n eithe r
sid e o f th e
road. Immaculate, white, they seemed to give off their own faint light.
Damiano knew this landscape with a child's minute memory. He remembered that
the hill with a lump on the side of it, three back from the road, concealed a
long, skinny cave, dry for most its length.
He remembered also that from the top of that hill one coul d se e Partestrad
a dow n i n th e cu p o f th e valley
, where the Evancon ran under this road. He had stood ther e i n summe r
twiligh t an d watche d th e lamp s twin
-
kle through the soft air.
Plunging into the snow-sprinkled gorse at the side o f th e road
, h e looke d a t hi s footstep s behin d him
.
There was no need to concern himself with covering the m over
. Th e win d wa s doin g that
. Th e tin y toe
-
dimples of Macchiata's progress were half obscured already.
A goo d thing
, too
. Damian o wasn'
t sur e h e ha d th e strengt h lef t t o wor k a win d spell
. "Ho w ar e you r feet, Macchiata?" he asked the dog, his words coming
slurre d throug h froze n lips
. Sh e replie d tha t sh e couldn'
t remember, which was probably meant as a joke, al-
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though with Macchiata one never knew for sure. He heard her behind him,
bulling her way through the low shrubbery.
At the top of the hill he stood and looked down, gripping his staff as tightly
as his clumsy hands al-
lowed. There was a light in the valley: one smoky firelight where there should
have been dozens. The wind billowed his mantle out before him, and the ermine
lining glimmered brighter than snow. There wa s n o soun d bu t th e win
d an d th e crackl e o f hi s breath, along with the heavier, warmer
sound of the dog'
s breathing
.
Alread y h e fel t remove d fro m Partestrada
, bot h i n distanc e an d i n time
. Hi s remova l ha d bee n surgicall y quick
, bu t a s h e considere d now
, quit e thorough
. Al l the strings that bound him to his home had been cut:
Carl a wa s gon e ahead
, an d bot h Macchiat a an d th e lut e wer e portable
. Damian o fel t a n unwarrante d lum p i n
his throat—unwarranted because, after all, he was not leaving Partestrada
forever, but just for so long as it took him to find his people, and to do
something about this General Pardo. Perhaps two weeks, he estimated.
He clambere d down from the crest of the hill, pokin g ami d th e dr y
growt h wit h th e hee l o f hi s staff
, looking for the mouth of the cave he remembered .
I t wa s stil l there
. Crouchin g dow n h e crawle d int o it, his hands smarting against
frozen earth.
Insid e ther e wa s n o wind
, an d th e rivule t tha t ha d create d th e cav e wa s froze n o n
th e floo r o f i t lik e a broken silver chain. He inched over it.
Macchiata slid behind .
There, as he remembere d it, was the hole in the wall
: a n egg-shape d chambe r tha t ha d bee n th e perfec t size for a
boy alone to play in. It was tighter for the grow n Damian o an d hi s
lute
, an d tighte r stil l whe n
Macchiat a squirme d in
, curlin g betwee n hi s nos e an d knees. The staff would not fit in at
all, but he laid it along the lip of the chamber with its silver head hang-
ing in. He touched this, mumbling three words in
Hebrew
, an d i t gav e of f enoug h ligh t fo r hi m t o arrang e the
furry mantle between his body and the stone.
"This is not too bad," he whispere d to the red spot on Macchiata' s withers .
She grunted in reply.
He let the light go out. "Tell me, little lady, did you see anyone come near
the house while I was tending the kettle? Did anybody perhaps stop and look
for a ligh t i n th e windows
, an d the n pas s by?
"
Macchiata squirmed sleepily. "I saw many people go by, and horses and
carriages, too. All the dogs of the city, I think. They wanted me to come with
them; they said it would be fun. —But of course I didn't.
"Als o somebod y knocke d o n th e doo r on e day
. No t today . I don' t remembe r when. "
"Ahh!
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" Damian o lifte d hi s head
. "Fathe r Antonio?
"
Macchiata yawned. "No. That Carla with the blond hair."
Damiano'
s skul l struc k th e ston e roo f o f th e cham
-
ber
, bu t tha t didn'
t distrac t hi m fro m hi s joy
. "Carl a
Denezzi
, a t m y door
? Wh y didn'
t sh e com e in?
"
"Because I didn't let her in," explained the dog.
"Yo u sai d yo u wer e no t t o b e disturbed
. I offere d t o take a message, like always, but she just stared and ran
off. She's timid as a cat, that one."
Damiano'
s happines s wa s suc h tha t h e ha d t o hu g someone. Macchiata
gave a piglike grunt. "Timid? Ah, no, little lady, she had courage, or she
would not have com e a t all
. I f tha t lou t Denezz i kne w sh e ha d com e alon e t o th e
hous e o f Delstrego
, h e would..
. well
, I
don't exactly know what he would do, but he would be ver y angry
. An d sh e mus t hav e ha d endles s matter s t o atten d to
: sortin g an d packin g an d settlin g wit h al l th e tradesmen
. Oh
, don'
t sa y sh e i s timid
, Macchiata.
"
The dog stuffed her nose down among her folded paws in meaningful fashion and
said nothing at all.
When Damiano awoke, the cave walls were chalky wit h diffus e sunlight
. H
e wa s warm
, bu t ver y hungry
.
Macchiat a -wa s gone
, bu t h e hear d he r a t th e entranc e t o th e cave
, snufflin g amon g th e shrubbery
. Rollin g onto his back, he dug into his sheepskin bag and found th e waxe
d wrapping s o f a cheese
, whic h emitte d a tin y crackling.
Along the path of the rivulet he heard a frantic scrabble
, an d Macchiat a slamme d he r broa d hea d smartl y against the end
wall.
"Mothe r o f God
, wha t i s it?
" demande d Damiano
, blinking down the length of the tunnel.
"Breakfast. Maybe?" she answered, wagging ev-
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Page 32
erything up to her shoulders .
Damiano laughed . "Maybe, " he admitted .
He divided the cheese expertly in half, as was his custom
, knowin g tha t althoug h sh e wa s muc h smalle r than he was, he had
never had an enthusiasm for eatin g tha t coul d equa l Macchiata's
. (I
t wa s fo r thi s reaso n tha t Damian o wa s thi n whil e hi s do g
wa s fat.
)
He washed down his bread and mozzarella with
wine
. Macchiat a lappe d snow
. Gatherin g hi s gea r an d cradling the lute against his stomach,
Damiano crawled out of the cave.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun beat gloriously over snow a foot deep, and
the occasional pine trees wore blankets and hats. Not a print marked the road,
whic h ra n smoot h a s a plaste r wal l upwar d towar d th e north.
In the distance, beyond the foothills and even beyond the black band of
forest, a jagged rim broke the horizon.
Th e Alps
, clea n an d shar p a s pupp y teeth
. Eve n
Damiano's eyes could distinguish them.
"By John the Baptist and by John the Evangelist and by John the Best
Beloved!—if they are indeed three different Johns—this is magnificent!" He
clambered dow n th e slope
, showerin g snow
. " A goo d night'
s sleep, a full stomach, and the road spreading before us like a Turkey
carpet! Were it not for the plight of the citizens of Partestrada , I would
have nothing else to desire. "
Macchiata peered up at Damiano, her brown eyes puzzled , a lump of snow on her
muzzle . "But you could have slept in the cave anytime, Master. You didn'
t nee d t o b e throw n ou t o f you r hous e t o d o it.
"
Damian o grinne d fro m ea r t o ea r an d spran g ove r th e littl e
valle y wher e th e strea m ran dow n fro m th e hill. "You're right,
little dear. And you know what? I
thin k yo u ar e ver y wise.
"
Macchiata'
s ear s pricke d up
. I t wa s no t a compli
-
men t sh e ha d know n before
.
"We live our lives bound by our little tasks and possessions and never know
how free we could be unless God sees fit to pry us away from them. You know
who knew true happiness? I'll tell you—Giovanni d i Bernardone
, who m ou r Hol y Fathe r ha s sanctifie d under the name of Francis.
He had nothing in the world, and the world had nothing in him, and he used to
walk barefoot in the snow, singing."
Damiano himself began to sing, though he was not
barefoo t bu t instea d wor e sof t leathe r boot s wit h wool
-
e n linings
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. H
e foun d i t difficul t t o sin g an d clim b a t th e sam e time
.
"You have a lovely voice, Master," said Macchiata, feelin g tha t on e goo
d complimen t deserve d another
.
"Eh
? Than k you
, Macchiata
, bu t i t i s nothin g special
.
"Say, you know what I think I'll do?—after finding
Carla, of course. If the soldiers have robbed her, I'll give her my money, and
for those who catch the flux...
"Anyway
, I thin k I'l l cros s ove r th e Rhon e t o
France
, an d mayb e afte r tha t t o Germany
, fo r ther e i s th e hear t an d sou l o f alchemy
, yo u know
. Wh y not
? I
a m youn g an d strong.
"
And he did feel strong—strong enough to bend down a young bull by the horns,
as the burly peasants di d t o sho w of f durin g th e harves t fair
.
"I have an intellect, too, and have studied hard."
Suddenl y Damian o remembere d tha t Carl a Denezz i woul d no t b e i
n German y bu t a t hom e i n Partestrada
.
"And then," he concluded more soberly, "when I have a nam e an d m y word
s mea n somethin g t o me n o f birt h an d education
, I wil l us e m y powe r fo r Partestrada
. I
will return."
Macchiat a ha d bee n listenin g wit h som e concern
.
"What about me, Master?" she whimpered.
Damian o glance d dow n i n surprise
. "Wh y yo u wil l be beside me, little dear. While we both live on this
earth, we will not be parted!"
After this promise they walked some while in silence. Macchiata's robust
little heart was filled with happines s an d touche d b y th e importanc
e o f he r com
-
mitmen t t o Damiano
. He
, a t th e sam e time
, wa s bus y with thoughts and plans. He would lead the people of
Partestrad a int o th e Vall e d'Aosta
, fo r Aost a wa s man y times larger than Partestrada and also much
closer to
Chamber y an d s o t o th e Gree n Coun t o f Savoy
. Ther e
Pard o woul d no t dar e follow
.
Then Damiano would go on to France, where he
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would write a poem about the Piedmont and Partestrada.
It would be called "The Sorrows of Exile," and it would bur n men'
s souls
. H
e coul d fee l i t withi n hi m now
, stirring like a chick in the egg. It shouldn't be a poem only, but a work of
music, like the ballades sung by the old trouveres, and Damiano would play his
lute as
Raphael had taught him—France was far more musically liberal than Italy—till
hearts bled for Partestrada as
Dante had made them do for Florence, with its confus-
ing lot of Guelphs and Ghibellines. Was not art, after all, the greatest
weapon of man?
Damiano considered, as his boot soles crunched dow n o n snow
. I t wa s great
, yes
, bu t tardy
, an d Dant e had never returned to Florence. Damiano sighed and shook his
head, for the first energy of the morning was gone and so was the warmth of
the wine. The snow was deepening as the road climbed; Macchiata cut into i t
wit h he r breastbon e a s sh e trotte d besid e him
, hold
-
ing her head up like a nervous horse. The risen sun glinted in the corner of
Damiano' s right eye.
Perhaps Germany was a better goal. In Germany there was at least one emperor,
and emperors can affor d t o b e generous
. Bu t Damian o wa s no t a fool
; h e knew what it meant to allow the ass's nose within the tent or to ask
help of a foreigner in settling a local grievance
. I t woul d b e n o grea t sor t o f fam e t o b e known as the man
who invited the northern wolf over the Alps.
I n Nurember g ther e wer e sai d t o b e man y scroll s written by
Mary the Jewess, and students of the great
Hermes Trismegistus himself, and in Nuremberg now dwelt the sage Nicolas, who
was called the prophet.
Though Damiano did not know what help the art of alchemy had to offer defeated
Partestrada, he would like very much to visit Nuremberg.
"Master," began Macchiata, as she leaned her shoul-
der against his calf.
"Uh. What? Macchiata, little dear, am I going too fast for you?"
"No, " sh e replied,wit h a dog'
s inabilit y t o recog
-
niz e wearines s unti l i t ha s throttle d her
. "Bu t I wa s thinking..
. I f I a m you r littl e dear
, an d we'l l neve r b e parted until somebody dies, then why do you send
me away all the time?"
"I don't!" cried Damiano, stung.
"Ye s yo u do
. Ever y sprin g an d ever y fall
, fo r tw o weeks."
"Oh.
" Damiano'
s eyebrow s lifte d an d hi s tangle d black hair fell over his eyes.
"That is necessary. It is not somethin g I wan t t o do
, bu t yo u ar e a..
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. femal e dog
, an d suc h hav e thei r time s whe n the y mus t b e alone.
"
"But I don't want to be alone. Ever," she said simply. "Nothing is different
then, except that I
feel... friendly, and then I hate most to be in a pen."
Damiano stared stolidly up the road. The wind ble w over hi s uncovere d
ears
, whic h ha d gon e ver y red
. "I
t i s th e thing s yo u say, " h e admitted
. "Durin g those times you are not yourself."
Beside him Macchiata gave a whuffle and a bound t o kee p up
. "Wha t d o I say
? I don'
t remembe r a thin g about it."
"I know. God be praised for that!" He marched on in a businesslik e manne r
and would discus s the subjec t no further.
Forest grew up around them. By midday they were in a dark hush of pines. Here
the air was still and smelled somehow ecclesiastical. They had seen ho one and
passed no one.
This was not surprising , since even in times of peace
, trave l betwee n Aost a an d th e sout h slowe d t o a trickl e
afte r snowfall
. Ther e wa s anothe r roa d ahead
, whic h crease d th e bas e o f th e hig h hill s fro m wes t t o
east, and which would intersect the North Road some te n mile s ahead
. Les s tha n a mil e alon g th e right-han d pat h o f tha t roa d
stoo d a villag e o f a doze n huts
. I t wa s calle d Sou s Pon t Sain t Martin
, whic h wa s a Frenc h name and longer than the village itself. Damiano
assumed that it was as deserted as Partestrada. But it would
shelte r hi m a t leas t a s wel l a s a cave
, an d ther e migh t be food. If the sky was clear, however, he would walk
throug h th e night
.
Contemplatin g a n all-nigh t journe y mad e th e youn g man's muscles
ache with weariness. It was now as near midda y a s n o matter
. An d wear y leg s o n num b fee t made the army of General Pardo seem
a more serious proble m tha n i t ha d afte r breakfast
. Certainl y h e couldn'
t trot off to Nuremberg or Avignon while Pardo ravaged th e hills
. Damian o gav e a large
, roun d sigh
.
H e ha d outdistance d al l hi s solitar y childhoo d ram
-
bles an hour ago and stood in a brilliant, wild land-
scap e unknow n t o him
. Damian o notice d a roc k stand
-
in g te n fee t fro m th e road
, sparklin g i n th e sunshin e wit h mic a o r ice
. H
e squatte d agains t it,wonderin g ho w man y traveler s i t ha d
sheltere d sinc e th e si x day s o f creation. Its cracked face was the
color of honey, and
Damian o leane d hi s chee k agains t it , half-expectin g i t to be
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warm. The snow swam before his eyes, as though mole s o r tunnelin g rabbit
s wer e disturbin g it s surface
.
He rummaged for the wine bottle.
"I hope you de-tuned your lute," said Raphael.
Damiano realized that what he had taken for snow wer e th e outstretche d
wing s o f th e angel
, wh o wa s sittin g motionles s o n a roc k no t fou r fee t away
. Raphael'
s rob e wa s white r tha n th e whit e groun d an d withou t ornament.
His hair shone as colorless as sunlight.
Damiano's grin spread slowly, because the skin at th e corner s o f hi s
mout h wa s cracked
. "Seraph
! O
spiri t o f fire
! Ho w d o yo u lik e th e snow?
"
Macchiata ploughed over from whatever private business she had been on.
"Raphael! You found us!"
"Yes
! Yes
, I foun d you!
" replie d Raphael
, i n tone s of enthusiasm that he reserved for the dog alone. He rubbed the
sides of her head till her ears snapped like leathe r whips
. Damian o fel t a sligh t pan g o f jealousy
.
Raphae l turne d bac k t o him
. " I lik e th e sno w very much, and the mountains. I think they have a
beautiful voice."
Damiano gazed at Raphael until his eyes smarted.
He was so glad to see him he could think of nothing to say, and his mind
filled with inconsequentials .
Ha d Raphae l ski n beneat h tha t lustrou s garment
, o r wa s h e n o mor e tha n fac e an d wings—a n illusio n worn so
that Damiano could understand him? And why
, sinc e angel s wer e immateria l an d sexless
, di d
Raphael seem to Damiano entirely male? All the paint-
er s gav e thei r angel s th e face s o f women
.
Ha d Raphae l seeme d a woman
, Damiano
, easil y swayed by such things, would not have been able to bea r it
. H
e woul d hav e mad e a foo l o f himself
, fo r certain , and perhap s sinne d in his heart . Perhaps , Damian o
reflected
, tha t wa s wh y Raphae l di d not ap
-
pea r so
, sinc e th e goo d Go d di d no t offe r a ma n temptations he could
not possibly resist.
Th e chisele d fac e tilte d sideways
, almos t lik e tha t o f a curiou s bird
, an d th e wing s swep t sno w int o th e air: snow that broke the
light like a thousand prisms.
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"Wh y ar e yo u lookin g a t m e lik e that?
" aske d Raphael
.
Damian o swallowed
; h e realize d hi s han d stil l clutched the neck of the wine bottle.
"I had forgotten ho w amazin g yo u are, Raphael
. Seein g yo u unde r th e sky, like this... is very beautiful."
The angel's face remained unchanged, as though the complimen t had gone throug
h him. "The blue sky is very beautiful, " he agreed , tilting his head upwards
.
"But then so it is in the rain, and the snow. "
Damiano's cold and nervous hands fumbled under the folds of the mantle and
found the pear-shape of the lute
. H
e brough t i t out
. "Yo u see
, Seraph
. I loosene d al l the strings, knowing the cold might have snapped the
neck."
Raphae l knel t i n th e sno w an d too k th e instrumen t in both his
hands. One by one, he adjusted the eight strings.
"Thi s i s a s loos e a s the y nee d t o be, " h e remarked
.
"Unles s yo u ar e goin g t o th e to p o f a mountain.
"
Damian o sighed
, thinkin g ho w muc h ther e wa s t o
explain . "Only as high as the summe r pastures , where th e peopl e o f
Partestrad a hav e fled
. Then..
. I don'
t know, Raphael. Perhaps France, or Germany, but not until... tell me, what
should I do for my city?"
Raphael gazed at Damiano until the young man fel t h e wer e standin g
alon e beneat h host s o f stars
. Ha d he known how, he would have laid open his soul to the angel, with the
history of his every thought , and let
Raphael judge him and decide his path. No matter the pain
, weariness
, o r worldl y shame
, Damian o believed
, h e woul d hav e don e Raphael'
s bidding
.
But he did not know how to bare his soul, and he wa s certai n tha t Raphae
l wa s no t abou t t o tel l hi m wha t to do with his life, so instead
Damiano dropped his eye s t o th e cor k an d th e gree n glas s o f
th e win e bottle
.
Consequentl y Raphael's words caught him by surprise.
"Pray, Damiano! Pray for the people of Partestrada , and pray for yourself;
for guidance. It may be you will need it." The angel spoke with a clear
intensity, and
Damian o flushe d a t hi s ow n omission
.
"O
f course
, Seraph
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. Sinc e yesterday..
. al l ha s bee n topsy-turvy, and I have forgotten. But aren't you my
guidance? "
Raphae l laughe d an d Damiano
, too
. I t alway s worke d that way. "No, Dami, I'm not here as a messenge r of
the Highest. It was your will that first called me and m y ow n wil l tha t
chos e t o come
. I a m no t you r guid e bu t you r friend.
"
Damian o bowe d hi s hea d t o follo w th e angel'
s advice, but immediately he raised his eyes again and sa w Raphae l sittin
g befor e him
, wing s folde d back
.
Macchiat a la y curle d o n th e angel'
s la p lik e a whit e piglet, slightly soiled. "Don't go," begged Damiano
.
"I'm afraid when I look up again, you'll be gone, and yo u jus t go t here.
"
Raphae l too k Damiano'
s han d an d hel d it .
The mortals ate while Raphael looked on. They didn't speak of Pardo or
Partestrad a or the horseme n
wh o eve n no w mus t b e combin g th e upland s fo r th e city'
s unfortunat e people
. I n fact
, later
, whe n trudgin g th e roa d tha t afternoon
, Damian o looke d bac k upo n thei r conversation
, an d i t seeme d the y ha d talke d abou t nothin g a t all
. Raphae l ha d turne d dow n Macchiata'
s invitation to walk along with them, saying he was not much of a walker.
Th e afternoo n cloude d up
, an d th e sno w tha t th e su n ha d softene d bega n t o freeze
. Blac k wall s o f ever
-
green s no w wer e no t suc h a n inspirin g sight
, fo r th e traveler s ha d see n nothin g els e sinc e morning
. Th e climb continued.
By the rime the shadows covered the road it had becom e slick
, an d Damian o bega n t o fea r fo r hi s lute
. I f h e fel l o n th e littl e instrument
, whic h wa s onl y th e siz e of a toddler's potbelly, that would be the
end of it.
He did fall, injuring his right hand but not the lute. As he was a witch, and
therefore left-handed , he thanke d Go d fo r smal l favors
, bu t th e fal l le t hi m kno w he could not go on through the night.
Th e su n ha d faile d whe n Damian o sa w a win k o f yellow light
at the top of the slope to the right of the road
. I n hi s stat e o f wearines s h e stare d dumbl y a t it .
"What could that be?" he mumbled to the world in general.
"It's sausage," answered Macchiata promptly. "And three people. Men. With an
oil lamp. And wine."
Damian o gape d i n amazement
. "Yo u learne d al l that by smelling?"
Macchiata wagged her tail, but her nose pointed lik e a lodeston e towar d
th e glimme r o f light
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. "M
y nos e get s bette r whe n I' m hungry
.
"Can we go say hello, Master?"
Damian o chuckle d a t he r greed y eagerness
, bu t h e didn't feel so different himself. It was the thought of fire
, however
, tha t dre w him
. H
e foun d himsel f shiverin g under his wool and fur. "They may be Pardo's
sol-
diers," he said uncertainly, but he stepped toward the light as he spoke.
"No
. No t soldiers, " answere d Macchiat a wit h au
-
thority. "They don't smell like soldiers."
Damiano didn't question her statement. He followed the dog up the slope ,
climbin g with his toes and one bruised hand, while his left hand dug the
staff in behind him.
H e cam e clos e enoug h t o recogniz e th e ston e hu t tha t marke
d th e meetin g o f th e Nort h Roa d an d th e west
, an d whic h ha d hel d a guar d i n hi s great
-
grandfather's day, before the house of Savoy had made th e lan d safe
. The n i t ha d becom e a traveler'
s shelter
.
Now, perhaps the new ruler of the Piedmont would ope n th e guardhous e
again
, a t leas t unti l Amadeu s V
I
drove him away.
Damian o steppe d closer
, brushin g sno w fro m hi s trousers as quietly as he could.
Ther e wer e tw o window s overlookin g th e Nort h
Road. One was dark, being stuffed against the cold wit h rag s an d scrap s
o f firewood
, alon g wit h a single
, soleles s leathe r boot
. Th e othe r windo w wa s smalle r an d ha d pane s o f cow'
s horn
. I t wa s throug h thi s window that light was pouring.
In the amber glow Damiano stood, gripping his staf f i n bot h hands
. "Mirabile
! Videamus, " h e whis
-
pered. "Let us see."
And he saw three men, as Macchiata had said. All o f the m wer e hi s age
, o r thereabouts
. The y wer e no t soldiers
; the y wor e clothe s o f fashion
, thoug h thes e were time-stained and not of the best. From their belts hun
g th e jeweled
, effet e dagger s o f th e youn g bravo
, yet all three had taken the clerical tonsure. Damiano smiled, hearing French
laced with Latin: the speech of students
. Damian o spok e a passabl e French
.
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Th e staf f throbbe d i n hi s hand—
a reminde r fro m his instincts to himself to be careful. These were not
three Poverelli of Francesco, to be sure, whatever their clerica l bent
. Sinc e th e Hol y Fathe r ha d move d t o
Avignon
, i t seeme d al l o f Provenc e ha d adopte d th e
styles of the Church, saints and sinners alike. And these fellows had been
drinking.
But still, they were students , and what else was
Damiano? The brotherhood of students was as close as that which existed in any
cloister, and more entertain-
ing besides. Damiano knocked his damaged knuckles agains t th e woode n
door
, whil e Macchiat a whine d i n her most placatory manner.
Wha t ha d bee n boisterou s conversatio n becam e silence
. "Qui?
" calle d a voice
, an d the n i n broke n
Italian, "Who there?"
"Naught but a traveling student," answered Damiano in Latin. "And his dog."
Mor e silenc e followed
, an d the n a scraping
. Th e door opened, revealing the scene Damiano's craft had shown him before.
Three men, a smoky hearth, and a tin lamp set on a table strewn with food.
Damiano blinked against the beauty of the sight.
"Enter then and be welcome," said the fellow who had opene d the door . He was
moonfaced , plump , and balding, despit e hi s youth
. Th e tw o other s regarde d
Damiano from their places at table. One was dark and square, the other
towheaded with a long face. This last mentioned student held a greasy spiced
sausage in his lap in a manner most proprietary.
"M
y nam e i s Damian o Delstrego, " Damian o said
, bowing
. "Thi s lad y i s m y do g Macchiata
. W
e than k yo u for your courtesy on this icy evening."
The dark youth rose, smiling slightly. The bow of the fellow at the door was a
marvel involving three separat e movement s o f th e foot
. "Signo r Dottor e
Delstrego
. Le t m e presen t ou r smal l company
. Thi s on e standing
, wit h th e shoulder s o f Hercules—h e i s Pau l
Breton
, an d h e i s a poet
. Th e blon d withou t manner s i s calle d Til l Eulenspiegel
. W
e ar e golliards
, th e impossi
-
bl e childre n o f Pierr e Abelar d himself.
"
"Till Eulenspiegel! " Damiano burst out, involuntarily .
Slyl y th e blon d looke d up
. "What'
s wron g wit h that?
" H
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e spok e a n egregiou s Italian
.
The first student stepped between them. "You see, Dottore, we believe that a
name chosen oneself or by those who know one is more meaningful than the one
chosen at birth. It is the custom of golliards to forego allegianc e t o
country
, town
, an d famil y fo r th e highes t fidelit y t o learnin g itself
. Therefor e Ja n Kar l i s Til l
Eulenspiegel, and world watch out.
"I myself," he concluded , "have the honor to carry th e nam e o f Pierr e
Paris
, becaus e tha t i s th e plac e I lik e best. "
A chai r wa s sough t fo r Damiano
, t o n o avail
. H
e who called himself Pierre Paris offered his own, but
Damian o chos e t o si t o n th e table
. Fro m hi s pac k h e too k th e remainde r o f hi s brea d an d
cheese
, pulle d of f portion s o f bot h fo r Macchiata
, an d pu t th e res t o n th e table. The dog wolfed what she was given
and retired t o th e spac e beneat h Eulenspiegel'
s chair
, wher e sh e la y consumin g th e arom a o f sausage
.
"Delstrego, " drawled the Dutchman . "Doesn't that mean 'of the witch'?"
"Yes it does," admitted Damiano. He had become impatien t waitin g fo r
someon e t o invit e hi m t o ea t an d so had begun unasked.
"I s i t also"—th e blon d ra n ou t o f Italia n an d switche d t o
French—"
a titl e self-chosen?
"
Damiano shook his head forcefully. "Definitely not.
It was my father's name and his father's before him for
I don't know how long." He continued in Latin, for he wa s quit e a t hom e
i n it , havin g th e advantag e o f bein g
Italian. "If I took a name to myself it would be Damiano
Alchemicus. "
"Not Damiano Musicus?" asked Pierre Paris, as wit h lightnin g spee d h e
whippe d th e lon g sausag e fro m Eulenspiegel'
s gras p an d cu t a sectio n fo r thei r guest. The blade of his
dagger he wiped on the hem of his black overshirt. "I was hoping we would hear
that lute you have cradled so carefully in the corner.
Damiano followed his glance to where the lute rested, wrapped in the white fur
of his mantle. "Per-
hap s later
, Signo r Clericale
, onc e it' s warm
. Bu t I' m no t very good." Half the thick slice of sausage disappeared
int o a we t mout h waitin g unde r th e table
. Th e othe r hal f Damian o hel d betwee n hi s fingers
, nibbling
.
"Good students, " he said, "for such I see you are—thoug h I had thought that
war and pestilenc e had ended the golliard's jolly times—I am a student also,
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both of science and spirit. Why do you travel weaponles s throug h a lan d
devastate d b y war?
"
Paris stared owlishly at Breton, who in turn looked towar d Eulenspiegel
, wh o kep t hi s eye s fixe d o n
Damiano. "Who would devastate the barren moun-
tains, and how would one be able to tell they had been devastated?" inquired
Paris, who in all matters seemed t o b e th e spokesma n o f th e three
.
Damiano felt a variety of envy for them, whose lives had not yet been touched
by the present troubles.
H e assume d tha t becaus e hi s trouble s wer e no t theirs
, they had no troubles . This suppositio n on his part was a huma n error
, certainly
, bu t i t coul d hav e bee n dye d a muc h deepe r hu e ha d
Damian o fel t contemp t an d alienation from the three because of their
fortune.
Instea d h e wante d t o hel p kee p the m saf e an d carefree, and to
that end he said, "Believe me, Signori
Clericale: we are little more than a day's travel from wha t wa s a thrivin
g cit y an d i s no w abandone d t o
Genera l Pardo'
s soldiery.
"
"Pardo?
" spok e u p Eulenspiegel
, wh o seeme d t o have a quick ear, though a slow tongue . "The condot -
tier e i n th e servic e o f th e pope
? H
e wa s a t Avigno n a few years ago."
Damian o peere d stricke n a t th e blon d a t th e othe r sid e o f
th e table
. H
e wa s jus t a t th e limi t o f Damiano'
s close sight, and Damiano could not be sure Eulenspiege l wa s joking
. "Yo u mean..
. I t coul d no t b e tha t th e Hol y
Father is sacking the towns of the Piedmont?"
Pari s brok e i n smoothly
. "I
t coul d be
, bu t I thin k i t isn't. The condottieri serve contracts, not men, and I
remembe r hearin g whe n I wa s a t th e papa l cour t las t
tha t Pardo'
s tim e wa s lapsed
, an d eithe r h e o r th e Hol y
Father did not renew.
"And
, m y dea r brothers
, wha t i s a condottier e without lands or employer, but a brigand?"
"They'r e al l robbers
, anyway, " sneere d Eulenspiegel
, glaring dourly into the distance. Damiano reconsidered his conception of
this man; there was doubtless sorrow in his past.
"Nonetheless
, I be g yo u t o beware
, Signori
. D o no t follow the road down from the hills or you may find yo u hav e
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walke d int o trouble
. An d i f yo u hea r th e sounds of many horses on the road, then leave
it quickly and hide where you may."
"Woul d i n an y case, " growle d Eulenspiegel
, whil e th e poe t jus t sighed
.
"Ah! I thank you, friend Delstrego," said Paris, placin g bot h th e
basket-covere d win e ju g an d a hus k o f bread in front of Damiano.
"I drink to your health, for you have cared for ours." He picked up Damiano's
gree n bottl e an d di d a s h e ha d promised
. "No w yo u must drink too, or the toast will be invalid."
Smiling sheepishly, Damiano drank their wine. To his surprise, it was as good
as his own. He complimented the m upo n it .
"Should be good," said Eulenspiegel , showing his teeth .
Paris cleared his throat. "I appreciate your advice, Signo r Dottor e
Delstrego
, an d believ e w e ar e al l grate
-
ful. Yet our path was decided for us before we left
France, and to veer from it would destroy the meaning of our journey.
"Le t m e tel l you
, frien d i n th e wilderness
, tha t w e three are retracing the steps of the great Petrarch from
Avignon to Milan, seeing every inch of the countryside abou t whic h h e
wrote
.
"Ah
, th e verse!
" crie d ou t Breton
, th e poet
. "Im
-
morta l verses
, wil d a s th e go d Pan!
"
Damian o started
. I t wa s a s thoug h a do g ha d talked—another dog, not Macchiata.
" I sa w him
, i n Milan, " venture d Damiano
. "H
e was very gracious, and let me copy four of his poems into a book. I dared
not ask for more, for I was sitting i n hi s offic e wher e th e windo w
looke d ou t ont o i l
Duomo, and he sat across from me, asking which parts
I liked
. I t wa s a grea t momen t fo r me
. Ye t I don'
t believe Petrarch rode from Avignon in the beginning of winter, did he?"
Th e poe t opene d hi s brow n eye s ver y round
. "H
e has spoken with you? The laureate himself. You sat in his house? "
Damiano shrugged in a self-deprecating manner.
"Only for an hour. I doubt he would remember my name."
"Delstreg o woul d b e har d t o forget, " remarke d th e blond
. "I'v e bee n lookin g a t that, " h e added
, pointin g a t th e staff
, whic h reste d lik e a bab y i n th e croo k o f
Damiano's left arm. "You use it just to walk?"
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Under the combined stares of four pairs of eyes the black wood hummed. Damiano
stroked it, embarrassed, as he was at any mention of his witchhood.
"No, although it is very useful and sturdy in that way. I use it as a focus
for my concentration, because otherwis e the—power—roam s fre e i n th e
bod y an d clouds the mind."
"You're a witch?" breathed Paris, and the room froze.
" A wizard, " contradicte d Damiano
, immediatel y won
-
derin g wh y o n eart h h e ha d sai d that
. Th e thre e stu
-
dents huddled like birds before the eyes of a snake, and Damiano blushed
harder.
"Domine Deus, my friends, there is no need to be afrai d o f m e fo r that
! I a m a schola r an d a Christian!
"
But still they sat, and they sat very still. In a moment
Damian o wa s sur e someon e woul d sa y "bu t th e devi l ca n quot
e Scripture, " a prover b tha t alway s mad e hi m wince. He groaned
deeply and rose from his chair, placin g hi s staf f b y th e wrappe d
lut e i n th e fa r corne r o f th e roo m fro m th e fire
.
"There, Signori Clericale. My power is there and I
am here. I cannot hurt you now even if I would. Is that enough?"
Til l Eulenspiege l relaxed
, wipin g th e swea t fro m his pale forehead. The poet sighed once more,
and
Pierre Paris reached for the green wine bottle, a concil-
iatory smile on his round face.
Th e staf f boomed a warning, alone an d helples s i n th e corner
, a s Pari s lifte d th e bottl e an d brough t i t dow n wit h forc
e o n Damiano'
s head
.
Chapter 4
Damiano awoke to cold and pain and a feeling of being stifled. This last was
due to Macchiata, who was lyin g o n to p o f him
, he r nos e anxiousl y dentin g hi s face. "Master, Master. Get up and
move!" she crooned.
"Or you'll die and freeze and leave me alone always!
"Please!" she cried, her voice like the neighing of a horse, in his ear. His
arms moved to placate her, to ward her off.
"Can'
t breathe, " Damian o gasped
, an d th e effor t o f thi s sen t wave s o f nause a throug h hi s
body
. Hi s eye s closed again.
"Master! "
Damian o turned
, bringin g hi s hand s unde r him
.
He remembere d the golliards and the bottle against his skull. His head rose
and his poor eyes peere d throug h th e littl e hut
, a t th e table
, wit h it s remain s o f brea d an d cheese
, th e hearth
, wher e th e fir e stil l blaze d (thank s be to God), the shape in the
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corner that must be his lute. That glint of silver along the floor meant his
staff was intact; had any of them tried to touch it, woe unto them
. Hi s mantl e la y upo n hi m wher e Macchiat a ha d dragge d it ,
off-cente r an d wit h th e linin g upwards
.
"Where are they?" he asked the dog, his voice as shak y a s tha t o f a n
ol d man
. H
e sa t u p an d wrappe d the mantle about him. Her response was a growl as
preternaturally ominous as the sound of an avalanche in the distance. Damiano
turned his head with difficul-
t y an d looke d a t Macchiata
, wh o stoo d stif f a s woo d an d spine y al l over
. Al l he r teet h showed
, a s yello w a s th e tushe s o f a boar
, an d i n he r eye s wa s a rag e h e ha d never seen before. He
began to shiver.
"The y ar e fa r away
, Master
. S o fa r I can'
t hea r the m or smell them. They will never hurt you again."
Throug h hi s haz e o f miser y h e trie d t o understand
.
"Did you... kill them, Macchiata? All three?"
"They were not dead when they ran down the hill an d dow n th e road
. Bu t ther e wa s onl y on e o f the m without a hole in him." The
ugly dog softened. She lifte d on e pa w u p t o Damiano'
s shoulde r an d licke d hi s eyes
, on e afte r th e other
.
"Go sit by the fire, Master. It will make you feel better."
Pulling his garment tighter, Damiano obeyed her, but first he fished across
the floor for the length of his staff. With this in hand, he sank gratefully
down on the ashy stones of the hearth. In passing he noted that the firewood
that the three "students " had been burning was composed of a splintered chair
and a heavy oak footstool, as well as half a shutter. He sighed: their
behavior was all of a piece. But why had he not noticed thi s las t night
? Macchiat a clambere d ont o hi s lap
.
"Master no more, dear one," he sighed. "Say rathe r I' m littl e Dami
, you r foolis h pet
. Imagin e wha t my father would have said, if he had seen me put my staff
aside in a room full of strangers." The grown witc h ha d trie d t o mak e
hi s so n careful
. I n Damiano'
s mind came the vision of his father snatching the black wood from the dozing
boy's hands and simultaneousl y giving him a cuff on the ear, while he
laughed, laughed, laughed..
. Th e memor y gav e hi m th e adde d warmt h o f shame
, bu t i t mad e hi s hea d ach e more
.
Macchiata snorted, piglike. "Of course you are my
Master
. Onl y yo u ar e to o trustin g fo r you r ow n good.
"
Damiano'
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s brow s dre w together
, whic h brough t lancin g pai n alon g hi s scalp
. Th e fire
, however
, wa s helping him.
"It was Pierre Paris's fear that caused him to strike me. Had he not known I
was a witch, it would not hav e happened.
"
"Yo u ar e wrong
, Master, " sai d Macchiata
, quickl y bu t diffidently
, fo r sh e wa s no t use d t o contradictin g
Damiano
. "I'
m sorry
, bu t it'
s true
. Th e on e wit h th e pale hair tried to stop that one. He said he'd be
sorry fo r it . The n th e on e wit h n o hai r o n hi s hea d aske
d what was the difference: a knife in the back at night or a wine bottle at
dinner?"
"The y wer e robbers
? The y mean t t o kil l m e i n m y sleep?
" aske d Damiano
, incredulous
. "Wha t els e di d they say?"
Macchiata's skinny tail slapped his leg: once, twice, the n rapidly
. "The y didn'
t hav e tim e t o sa y much
. I
was asleep, but the sound woke me up."
"Th e sound, " repeate d Damiano
. "Th e ech o o f th e blow resounding in my braincase. That's what woke
you up."
Sh e licke d hi s hand
. "Bu t I curse d the m fo r it , an d
I bi t them
. I bi t th e blac k on e o n th e thic k par t o f th e leg
, bu t o n th e blon d m y hol d slipped
, s o I mad e a bi g rip in his shirt, and bloodied where he would sit."
"So the one you missed altogether was the one who hit me with the wine
bottle," remarked Damiano, not meaning to denigrate her victory.
"Yes
, becaus e h e trie d t o bea t m e of f wit h you r staff . It bit
him. "
Damian o fel t th e blackwoo d beneat h hi s fingers
.
"Signo r Paris may neve r have use of that hand again, "
he said.
"Bot h hands
. Bu t i t wa s m y curse s tha t chase d the m ou t th e doo r
withou t thei r packs
. I go t th e word s fro m you r father.
" Macchiat a wrappe d he r tongu e aroun d
he r muzzle
, the n smile d til l he r bristl y muzzl e resem
-
ble d a cat'
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s face
.
Leanin g o n hi s staff
, Damian o ros e t o hi s feet
.
"Packs?
" h e murmured
, an d shuffle d of f t o see
. "An d curses? I only hope, Macchiata, that you didn't com-
promis e you r sou l wit h evi l wishes
. The y ar e very deadly."
"Hav e I a soul
, Master?
" Sh e aske d i n a ton e o f casual interest. "I never heard that
before."
There were two bundles under the table, besides hi s ow n sheepski n bag
. A
thir d huddle d agains t th e hearthstones. "Of course you have a soul,
Macchiata,"
he answered, and although he knew himself to be on shak y theologica l
ground
, stil l h e believe d tha t anyon e who liked Raphael as much as the dog
did, and who wa s s o like d i n return
, ha d t o hav e a soul
. "An d a grea t spirit
, besides...
.
"Now let's see what the three scholars have left us. "
Within the packs was an assortment of trash, along wit h a fe w object s o
f peculia r meanin g an d value
. Th e firs t sac k dumpe d o n th e tabl e offere d a lady'
s hairpi n in gold and pearls, along with three silver florins in a
needlepoin t pouch
. Th e secon d ba g hel d a doubl e handful of walnuts, together with a
bundle of faded letters written in a script that was not quite German.
Ou t o f th e fina l ba g droppe d a squaris h parce l wrappe d i n
line n an d tie d wit h twine
. Damian o undi d th e tin y kno t wit h a tin y loosin g spell
.
"
Domin g Deus!"
h e breathed
, a s a boo k i n vellum
, bound in both wood and leather, flapped onto the table
. "S
o the y weren'
t totall y false!
"
It was a volume of the poetry of Petrarch, copied in painful, schoolboy
script. The premier letter of each verse was illuminated in the old manner,
with awk-
war d car e an d muc h gol d paint
.
These items were heavy, and he did not really wan t t o b e reminde d o f
thei r forme r possessors
. Ye t
books were like children; they could not be abandoned to the snow. And he did
appreciate Petrarch.
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I n th e en d Damian o decide d t o tak e al l bu t th e clothing as
spoils of war.
Their fire, too, was his by right. And their food.
He felt almost well enough to care about that. His eyes scanne d th e table
.
"Wha t becam e o f th e sausage
, littl e dear?
Di d ou r friend the German carry it with him out into the snow?"
Macchiata's tail and ears stood up. She dashed to the corner and nuzzled under
Damiano's lute, backing out with something black and dirt-covered in her
mouth.
"No, he dropped it," she mumbled, placing an irregularly shaped piece of
greasy meat in his hand. "I
saved half for you."
I n th e firs t ligh t Damian o wok e onc e mor e an d spent a few
minutes playing his lute. He had a head-
ache and a spot of numbness on his scalp. Further, his eyes refused to focus
on the strings. Raphael did not appear, but then the angel would scarcely have
fit in the hut, and besides, Damiano had no time to spare.
He took a swig of the wine in the basket-jug , and for luck
, anothe r o f hi s father'
s tonic
. The n h e steppe d int o the cold.
After a half-mile's march the headache had grown t o fil l th e world, an d
th e light o f th e ne w su n o n th e snow pierced his eyes. Tears ran
along his cheeks, and even the dog had nothing cheerful to say. Damiano was no
t to o fa r fro m wishin g h e wer e dead
, bu t th e alterna
-
tive of every person in the winter wilderness—curlin g up in the snow and
sleeping—had no attraction.
"We shall be there today, and early," he muttered.
"Except for the weather , we might have reached the pastures by yesterday
nightfall." He watched for the cluster of huts that housed the shepherds of
the moun-
tain s an d a smal l numbe r o f hunter s whos e livelihood s kept
them in the height s all winter . The neares t real
village was Pont Saint Martin, on the North Road two miles from the spot where
Damiano had turned, which wa s th e reaso n thi s poo r assembl y wa s
know n a s Sou s
Pont Saint Martin. Damiano had been there only once, in July, when his father
had been called to treat the sheep for a bad flux.
Th e roa d ha d bee n swep t b y win d an d th e abra
-
sive
, froze n sno w o f th e nigh t before
. I n rar e spot s th e win d ha d com e agai n an d shave d th e
eart h bare
, leavin g onl y th e strange
, reverse d print s o f me n an d horses
, made of pressed snow and glistening white against the black earth. Who knew
how old these were?
Th e slope s droppe d awa y o n eithe r sid e o f th e road, and the
travelers came to a river: the Lys. It ran wide an d violent
, thoug h ic e cruste d eac h ban k lik e sheets of shattere d glass.
Acros s the river a stone bridg e led
. I t wa s wid e an d smooth
, wit h waist-hig h guardwalls on either side. It was the sort of
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craftsmanship th e countr y peopl e dismisse d a s Roma n work
, heavy
, useful, built to last. There was no evidence it was old
Roman, except in the fact that no Piedmontese was likely to take such trouble
on a mountain bridge. Ro-
man work was like the hills themselves : whether or not men could make such
things today, they were there for free and so not to be admired too much.
A s h e crosse d ove r th e spa n th e win d hi t hi m an d turne d
hi s hea d t o th e left
, fro m whenc e th e rive r flowed.
His left foot trod on his right, and then Damiano stoppe d stoc k still
. "Mothe r o f God
! Ca n i t be?
" h e crie d an d san k dow n o n hi s knee s i n th e we t snow
.
Ther e stoo d peak s ranke d agains t th e sky
: a n awe
-
some white phalanx, blinding bright from the teeth of thei r summit s t o
th e gree n cloak s tha t wrappe d thei r feet
, whic h wer e bande d wit h silve r rock
. The y wer e s o tal l the y crowde d th e sky
, an d the y gre w talle r a s the y seeme d t o rus h a t th e
kneelin g youth
. I n thei r silenc e were all the voices of an infinite, inhuman choir.
Two presences dominated. To the left sat the highest
peak in the Valle d'Aosta: Mont Emilius, whom the peasants called Grandfather.
Rugged and glistening, it had roots reachin g almos t to the road. To the
right, far awa y an d behin d a palisad e o f mountains
, ou t o f a shimmer of light rose a single white fang, sharp as the tooth
of a dog, and crooked at the tip, like a dog's tooth
, bu t unearthl y clean
. Damian o di d no t kno w i t wa s Mon t Cervin
: th e pea k calle d th e Matterhorn
.
As he stared, kneeling, he wept, knowing the beaut y h e sa w mus t b e
lik e tha t o f Raphael
, i f th e archangel were to fling aside his little human cloak and appea r
a s a flam e o f divin e love
. Thi s th e ange l woul d never do, of course, out of a concern for the
limits of man. The mountains , however , were less merciful .
Damiano's ecstasy bid fair to do him damage.
"Master! Get up! Please, your knees are getting soaked
. Master
! Damiano
. Wha t i s th e pain?
" Macchiat a dance d a circl e aroun d him
, nuzzlin g hi s hand s wit h her warm tongue and her cold nose.
"Little dear, I see a beauty fit to kill a man! Can't you see the... thrones
of the ages?"
"Thrones of who?" She prodded him to his feet.
"Of the...the mountains. Mont Emilius and an-
other. Doesn't their loveliness pierce you?"
She snorted. "I see nothing. The wall is too high.
But if piercing is what loveliness does to you, I want no part of it!
"Come, Damiano . You can't stop here, in the wind, and now wet besides. "
Docile, made meek by so much splendor, he al-
lowed her to lead him forward. In a few minutes the villag e o f Sou s Pon
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t Sain t Marti n peepe d ou t betwee n two hills. Damiano passed between
them into a natural rock shelter, where the wind swirled aimlessly, carrying
snow spray in a high spiral into the air.
The west side of each square hut was braced with a flying buttress of white.
The patch of ground blocked from the wind by each building was scattered with
bootprints, along with the prints of shod hooves. Many riders had been here
recently .
But were not here now. The village was desolate .
Silenc e rumble d i n Damiano'
s ears
. O
r wa s tha t
Macchiata
, growling
?
Damian o glance d down at the dog in surprise . Her hackle s wer e up
, he r squa t leg s braced
. Nervously
, he r eyes met his. "Let's go back to the road, " she suggested .
"Why
, Macchiata
? Her e i s shelter
, an d m y fee t ar e frozen. What's wrong, little dear? Do you smell
soldiers?"
"Yes
. No
. N
o soldier s now
. Jus t blood
. Froze n blood."
Damian o too k a war y ste p forward
. Macchiat a scrabbled in front of him and stood barring his way.
"No, Master. You are too sensitive; looking at moun-
tain s hurt s you
. Thi s wil l hur t yo u worse
!
"Let's go back to the road. Our people aren't here."
Damiano'
s eas y colo r ros e t o hi s cheeks
, an d h e gazed resentfully down at her. "Love of beauty is not th e sam e
thin g a s cowardice
, Macchiata
.
"Wasn'
t i t I wh o foun d m y fathe r perishin g i n torment
? An d hav e I no t grow n u p hearin g Fathe r
Antoni o remin d u s tha t al l fles h i s th e foo d o f worms
—
fles h o f bot h dog s an d men
, littl e one
? Dea d me n hol d no terror for me."
The dog droppe d her head and Damian o swept by.
In the circle formed by the huts was a little mead-
ow
, whic h i n th e summe r wa s browse d b y chicken s and the
occasional hobbled goat. Now it was swept by wind and ice and snow, with the
gray stubble of grass exposed where the wind had scraped most deep. In thi s
fiel d la y th e broke n bodie s o f thre e me n an d a n ol d
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woman, frozen clean and uncorrupt . The edges of their many wound s were fresh
and sharp: the color of good pork.
At Damiano's feet lay the severed head of one of the men: a young peasan t
with a reddish beard. The skin was blue and white and waxlike. The neck was
chopped neat. With the hollow windpip e arched through it and the spine
running through the back, the neck looked like a slice cut through a fish. Ice
crystals had grown from the edges of the empty veins. The head wore an
expression of slack bewilderment as it stared at the sky over Damiano' s
shoulder . One eye was open wide r tha n th e other
.
Damian o though t h e wa s doin g ver y wel l unti l h e tried to
move. The horrid field reeled, and only his staff hel d hi m t o hi s feet
.
H e shuffle d fro m on e bod y t o another
, mouthin g a n incoheren t prayer for the dead that was also a plea for
Christ to sustain him through this nausea. He dared no t loo k a t
Macchiata
.
The head was the most horrible , but the old wom-
an was the saddest , for she had been trample d and her fusty black skirt torn
off. Around each of the forms the snow was tinted a faded ruby, much like the
color of the stone at the tip of Damiano's staff.
H e raise d hi s eye s t o th e soun d o f rhythmi c lap
-
ping. A dog was licking at the bloody snow by the severe d head
. Fo r a terribl e momen t h e though t i t wa s
Macchiata.
It was not, of course. It was a shaggy herd dog, doubtles s belongin g t o
som e ma n o f th e village
. Per
-
haps the beast's master lay dead here before him.
Whatever
, i t coul d d o thes e poo r figure s n o hurt
.
Macchiat a notice d th e cu r a t th e sam e moment
.
With a bull bellow she flung herself upon the stranger, who offered no fight,
but tucked tail and fled.
"Come back, Macchiata," called Damiano, as the re d spo t tha t wa s al l
h e coul d se e o f he r bobbe d int o the distance behind a row of
huts. "There may be more o f them
. Com e back!
"
A human voice answered his with a cry shrill and weak. Damiano's hair
prickled. He stared around him.
There was nothing to be seen: an ox wagon, its tongu e burie d i n drifts
; a stac k o f brushwoo d fo r burn
-
ing; a pitchfork , woode n tines protrudin g from the
snow like bird claws ;
the imperturbabl e gray stones of the huts. No more. But the cry came again,
from across the expanse of wind. Damiano sprang toward it, plung-
ing knee deep. He leaped over a dimple in the snow, not knowing it was the
village well and twenty feet deep. The row of buildings greeted him with
silence.
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"Hello! " he cried . "Who' s there? "
"In here! " came the answe r from behin d a door.
He put his shoulde r to it.
Th e doo r sagge d in
, hangin g b y on e hinge
.
The darknes s within took his sight, and he gagged at the smell. "Speak!"
Damiano commanded , swaying in the doorway . "If there is a Christia n soul
within... "
"Here, " sh e replied
, an d h e sa w her
: th e pal e spo t o f a fac e i n th e corne r b y th e door
. Sh e wa s covere d i n blanket s and the skin of a cow. One hand held
the wraps under her chin. That and her face was all he could see. He knelt
beside her.
Damiano's eyes saw her young face waver as though seen through the steam of a
boiling pot. She was taut with agony. She stared at him. He pried the covers
from the grip of her hand, and he dared to pull them back.
Sh e wa s naked
. Wit h he r othe r han d sh e wa s holding—like a woman with an apron
full of peas—
Mother of God, it was her guts she was holding, spille d ou t o f th e ren
t i n he r bell y an d stickin g t o th e coars e woo l o f th e
blanket
.
"Lord have mercy," whispere d Damiano , letting her pull up the blanket s once
more. "Forgiv e me, Signora. " Somewher e a dog was howling .
"We're all dead here, " she said quite calmly .
"Ernesto
. Sofi a an d he r brother
. Me
. M
y littl e 'Lonso
.
Renaud
. W
e ar e onl y si x an d ha d nothing
, an d th e soldier s kille d u s all
. I a m th e last
, bu t I'
m dea d nonetheless
. Giv e m e water.
"
"Ahh?
" Damian o fel t abou t reflexivel y an d realize d he was still carryin
g his sheepski n bag. His cold hands
dug into it. "I hav e only wine, " he told her, and hear d his own voice
trembling . He held the bottl e to her lips.
Sh e dran k greedily
, an d Damian o trie d no t t o thin k o f th e re d win e tricklin
g ou t o f he r bell y below
. "Than k you," she gaspe d when the bottl e was empty . "It will do me no
good , but than k you anyway .
"Renau d threw a pitchfor k at the first soldier to stick his head betwee n
the guar d hills . The y cut his head off and kille d us all, and I don' t
even know who the y wer e o r fro m where
. I
t doe s no t matte r fro m where . I curse them . I curse the wome n who
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bore them and the man who sent them here . I curs e the plac e they came from
and the place they will go to.
" I curse...
" An d sh e stoppe d fo r breath
. Damian o coul d fee l th e curse s hangin g i n th e air
, lik e thunde r o n a still day. They stole the mutilate d woman' s
strength , and she flickered before his eyes. As his father had flickered
: a dyin g fir e o n th e tile s o f th e workroom
. Th e dog howled . Was it Macchiata ?
"No more , Signora, " he whispered , strokin g he r black hair back from her
face. "Pray instead. For peace.
For forgiveness. "
The woma n cried out in sudde n pain and rocke d back and forth on the straw
bed. "Forgiveness ? I have done nothing , not even to throw a pitchfor k at
the pig wh o tor e m e open
! An d I forgiv e n o one
. Leas t o f al l
God
, wh o le t thi s happen.
"
Damian o knew somethin g of healing , but he also knew that for deat h there
was no remedy . He taste d in hi s mout h th e sal t o f hi s ow n tear
s an d coul d thin k o f no way to help .
Excep t for a little charm , not a witch' s charm but a child's , to steal the
pain of boils and bruise d fingers .
H e too k th e dyin g woman'
s righ t han d i n hi s righ t hand and hugge d the black staff with the
left sid e of his body.
"Charm , char m
Cure the harm .
Tell the pain
B e gon e again.
"
Thi s h e repeate d ove r an d over
, wit h grea t con
-
centration
, til l h e fel t himsel f n o mor e tha n a blac k hollowness, like
the length of a flute, through which the invisible passed. He played the charm
like a tiny son g alon g th e lengt h o f hi s mind'
s body
, openin g certain passages to the power and stopping others.
With what small part of his mind was not involved in the spell casting he
prayed that this little charm might grow into one large enough to shroud the
pain of a deadly wound. Meanwhile, the moaning of the dog went on and on.
Her hand softened its grip on his. Damiano opened his eyes.
Th e woma n gaze d steadil y u p a t him
. He r breath
-
ing was easy. "The pain is gone," she said, and sighed .
"Bu t you..
. hav e a palsy
. You r han d shakes.
"
He shook his head. Exhaustion nearly toppled him onto the blood-soaked pallet.
The woman patted his hand.
"I see, you are a witch," she said. "Like the man wh o cam e whe n th e
shee p wer e sickening
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. H
e shoo k lik e tha t an d the n slep t a n hou r i n m y brother'
s bed.
"
"M
y father...
" bega n Damiano
, bu t sh e wasn'
t listening.
"If I were a witch, I would not be lying here with m y bowel s torn
. I f I wer e a witch
, I woul d hav e justice."
Struggling, she raised up on one elbow. "What righ t hav e yo u t o live?
" sh e aske d him
, he r voic e risin g shril l again
. He r imag e wavere d lik e su n o n water
.
"Give me justice."
Damian o caugh t he r a s sh e fel l back
. He r sligh t weigh t almos t overbalance d him
. H
e foun d himsel f shouting "Raphael! Raphael! I can't help her. Help me,
Seraph! Help me!"
And white wings filled the squalid hut.
Damian o too k th e archangel'
s perfec t fai r han d an d lai d i t upo n th e woman's
. Raphae l glance d down
, a distant pity in his eyes, then looked again at Damiano.
The woman's gaze had not moved. "Witch, give m e justice
, o r hav e m y curs e too.
" He r word s cam e faintly through dying lips.
"Raphael? " The angel merely shook his golden head. "Raphael , comfor t her,
give her peace. I cannot! "
"Peace
? I forgiv e n o one
, leas t o f al l God, " sh e stated. Her light flared and was gone.
Damian o covere d hi s fac e wit h on e hand
. H
e turne d away from the angel and barged into the light.
"I' m sorry
, Damiano
. Sh e coul d no t se e me.
"
Raphae l als o wavere d i n Damiano'
s sight
, throug h a haz e o f tears
. "Couldn'
t yo u hav e spoke n t o her
—
tol d he r somethin g o f God'
s goodness—i f no t t o sto p th e pai n a t leas t t o sweete n he
r bitte r heart
? Sh e ha s gone to judgment with a weight of curses on her back."
"... neither see me nor hear me. Dami! I could not touc h her
. An d i f I coul d have
, wha t woul d I dar e say?
"
Puzzle d by the angel' s words , Damian o blinke d his eyes clear. Vaguely he
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noticed that Raphael stood o n th e dimpl e i n th e sno w tha t h e
ha d leape d ove r i n his dash for the hut. The angel left no mark in the
snow
. Damian o walke d aroun d him
.
"Damiano, my dear friend. I am spirit and cannot die. Likewise I cannot
understand death. What comfort d o I hav e t o giv e a mortal
, wh o i s i n lov e wit h wha t seems to me a trial and a bondage? You
are earth itself tha t ha s bee n give n th e natur e o f th e Father
: Go d i n hi s most infinite humility.
" I am..
. onl y a musician
. Eve n less
, I a m onl y music. Your pain is so far beyond me..."
I shoul d hav e close d he r eyes
, Damian o thought
.
" I don'
t understan d wha t yo u ar e saying
, Seraph
.
I' m to o tired
. I'l l thin k late r o n you r words.
"
"Bu t d o no t forgiv e m e later
, Damiano
. I kno w I
have failed you. Give me your hand."
Raphae l shon e lik e ic e i n th e su n a s h e extende d
hi s hand
. Dul l fro m to o muc h crying
, Damian o squeeze d it. Then he turned again to face the crazy-doored hut.
"I f ther e i s failur e here
, i t i s mine
, n o doubt
. I' m goin g t o bur y the m now.
"
The bodies in the meadow were frozen stiff as wood. He dragged them over to
the body of the young woman
, no t forgettin g th e grisl y hea d o f Renaud
, wh o threw a pitchfork at a soldier and so destroyed six lives.
Six
? H
e ha d onl y four
. Ther e wer e tw o mor e t o find
. H
e raise d hi s hea d an d listene d t o th e dog'
s moaning. Was it Macchiata? He called her name.
Th e how l cu t of f abruptly
. "Master!
" cam e th e yi p from the slope behind the village. "Here! It's here."
H e force d hi s fee t t o move
.
Macchiata lay curled at the foot of a dead man. The thin howling escaped her
as though she had no will in th e matter
. "I
t won'
t ge t warm
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. The y thre w i t i n th e sno w an d i t won'
t ge t warm.
"
"He'
s dead
, Macchiata, " sai d Damiano
, wonderin g a t her
. "Lik e al l o f them
, kille d b y th e soldiers.
"
"Thi s on e too?
" Th e do g uncoile d an d steppe d back
, exposin g th e stiff
, blu e bod y o f a n infant
. "I
t isn'
t bloody or anything, and it's so little! Can't it be alive?"
•Damiano stared and blinked. "No," he answered, feelin g nothin g throug h
weariness
. "N
o i t can't.
" H
e picke d u p th e tin y corps e an d dragge d th e ma n b y on e
rag-wrappe d foot
.
When all the bodies lay in the fetid darkness, Damiano braced his staff on the
hard earth outside.
Using his horror and the last of his strength as tools, he shivered the stone
walls from top to bottom. The hut fel l int o rubble
, buryin g th e dea d beyon d th e reac h o f weasels and starving
dogs.
Raphael was gone. Damiano had not seen him depart. He had more to say to the
archangel, but it would have to wait. He turned back to the road.
Chapter 5
Th e roa d remaine d empt y an d th e countrysid e bare
, bu t thi s nee d no t hav e bee n du e t o wa r o r th e passag e
o f soldiers
. Onl y fiftee n year s previousl y th e pestilenc e had swept up from
the south, and within the space of a year the population of these hills had
been cut in half, and man y town s and village s disappeare d entirely .
Partestrad a ha d escape d th e Deat h entirely
, som e sai d throug h th e influenc e o f Guillerm o Delstrego
, whil e other s claime d i t wa s becaus e the y ha d locke d th e
gate s o f th e tow n an d poste d archer s t o sla y an y wh o trie
d t o get in.
Damiano
, wh o ha d bee n si x year s old
, di d no t remembe r muc h abou t i t excep t tha t i t ha d bee n
a hungr y time
. Bu t h e ha d grow n u p knowin g tha t th e worl d ha d bee n
better
, once
, an d tha t me n die d easily
.
Now he plodded through an empty landscape, an d humme d a sa d trouvere'
s tune
.
A t las t h e foun d footprints
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, o n th e pat h tha t snake d dow n fro m th e Wes t Roa d t o th
e mountai n meadows
.
Here, where time or some cataclys m had shattere d a rock wall so that it
looked like brickwork, was a small lap of ground protected from the wind. The
snow lay only inches deep, old and crusted. Were these the prints of the
refugees from Partestrada, or were these marks left by the pursuing soldiers?
Certain of the imprints were soft edged, either weeks old and sun softene d o
r lef t b y th e rag-wrappe d fee t o f th e peasantry
.
Damiano bent on one knee. Inches from the face of th e wal l wa s a sof t
prin t tha t seeme d t o overli e th e
clea n prin t o f a leathe r boot
. Tha t wa s a goo d sign
;
infantryme n di d no t wra p thei r fee t i n rags
.
"Wha t doe s you r nos e tel l you
, littl e dear?
" Damian o asked of the dog, who sat beside him, her thin-furred belly
steaming in the noon sun.
"It tells me that men have been by this way, and tha t th e blac k ma n i
s near.
" Sh e spok e withou t drop
-
ping her muzzle to the ground.
"The black man?" For a moment he wondered whethe r sh e mean t th e Devi l
himself
. Absently
, hi s finger s trace d th e metalwor k o n th e staff
, whic h ha d no t left his hand since his waking that morning. It, too,
spok e o f a visitor
, bu t no t a supernatura l one
. Hi s lip s tingled, along with the fine hairs inside his nostrils.
Damiano rose and strode forward along the path.
Where the rock wall ended, a white glare filled the path. Damiano stopped
still, for in the middle of the ligh t stoo d a figur e blac k a s nigh
t an d obscure d b y th e brilliance
. Somethin g sparkled
: a sword
.
"Who hides in the shadows?" spoke a voice Damiano recognized.
"Denezzi? Paolo Denezzi? It's I, Dami Delstrego.
I've been looking for you for two days. Is Carla..."
Damian o steppe d int o th e sun
, expectin g Denezz i t o give way for him, but the heavy figure stood like
the roc k wal l behind
.
"Delstrego, " echoed Denezzi, in tones of contempt .
" I shoul d hav e known.
" Th e swor d sli d int o it s sheath
.
Damiano had not expected such a greeting, but though his feelings were
wounded, he was in no mood fo r a n argument
. Damian o steppe d aroun d Denezzi
.
"For two days I have followed after... Why didn't you sto p an d tel l m e
yo u wer e evacuatin g th e city?
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"
Paolo Denezzi was a bull-faced man with a full beard and as dark as his sister
was fair. He snorted, looking more bull-lik e than ever. "I had though t it
was fairl y plain
, t o anyon e wh o looke d ou t hi s windo w i n the last week."
Reluctantly he met Damiano's look of reproach.
"We didn't leave you behin d on purpose , Owl-Eyes . It seeme d tha t yo u
lef t befor e us.
"
Damian o flushe d at the hated childhoo d nicknam e an d a t al l implie d
b y Denezzi'
s words
. I t wa s o n th e ti p of his tongue to tell Denezz i that Carla, at
least, had know n wher e h e was
, bu t discretio n curbe d him
.
"Wher e is..
. everybody
, Paolo
, an d ho w di d yo u evad e th e soldiers?
" Onl y a narro w pat h marre d th e white
: a pat h suc h a s a singl e walke r migh t make
, breaking the thigh-deep snow. But greasy smoke hung in the sky ahead.
"Wha t soldiers?
" Denezz i glare d a s Macchiata
, huffing and panting, squeezed between his legs and trotte d off
. "Pardo'
s men
? The y don'
t kno w wher e w e are. I made sure of that."
"H
e does
. The y do
. The y lef t th e da y I did
, bu t earlier."
Suspicion and confusion played a dangerous game o n Denezzi'
s face
. "Wha t d o yo u kno w o f this
, witch?
"
"Pard o tol d me
, an d h e tol d m e h e ha d sen t a party of soldiers after the
citizens. Not to slay, but to rob. He wants money to finance an attack on
Milan."
Damiano saw Denezzi's hand move and heard the terrible slick sound of steel.
He stood motionless, hold-
in g hi s staf f i n bot h hands
.
"It was not I who betrayed you. I've come to help. "
Silently he added, "Through cold and peril, you obdurat e blac k donkey.
"
Denezzi drew his sword, but let its tip drop into th e sno w betwee n them
. "Wha t wer e yo u doing
, shar
-
ing words with the general himself, eh? And who betrayed us, if indeed we have
been betrayed?"
Damiano paused for only a moment. Marco's deed could not be hidden, not after
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the gift of the vineyards.
"It was old Marco who told. He has been given the
Anuzzi property. I spoke to Pardo to discover his intentio n towar d th e
city.
"
Denezzi' s small eyes were lost in wrinkle s of doubt .
Fur of black martin rustled as he shrugged his huge shoulders . "If I could
believe you, Delstrego , I would b e sur e yo u ar e a fool
. Bu t a s i t is
, n o soldier s hav e bothered us." He turned on his heel. "You had better
go back the way you came." As Denezz i walked he slice d wit h hi s swor d
int o th e sno w o n eithe r side
.
Damian o too k on e ste p afte r th e man
, whe n h e heard Macchiata lumbering back along the path toward them.
"Master, I have found them," she called. "All the men, Master. "
I n a fur y o f irritation
, Denezz i raise d hi s swor d abov e th e dog
, wh o gape d upwar d i n stunne d surprise
.
"No, Paolo. You will not touch her!" The lean form spran g forward
. Paol o Denezzi fel t himsel f i n th e mid
-
dle of a cloud like a promise of thunder, which stole the warmt h fro m hi s
hear t an d th e ai r fro m hi s lungs
. Hi s han d slippe d o n th e leathe r sword-hilt
. Hi s ange r gre w a s hi s strengt h lessened
.
"What will you do, Owl-Eyes? Squinting in the sun, you can hardly see me."
Damian o wa s indee d almos t blind
. Hi s brow n eye s were sore from glare and from weeping, and at dis-
tance they had always failed him. Yet he knew where
Denezzi stood and how the sword hung in the air, as though that figure were
mapped within his brain, and he saw Macchiata inching backwards down the path,
though a wall of snow lay between dog and master.
"Whether I see you or not, Paolo, if you strike
Macchiat a you'r e a dea d man, " h e stated
. I n pur e fury
, h e wa s willin g t o commi t th e violenc e tha t Pardo'
s threats could not force from him.
Slowl y th e dar k ma n lowere d hi s sword
, eye s fixe d on Damiano . The dog was long since gone. "This is a sill y
quarrel, " h e grunted
, turnin g bac k alon g hi s foot
-
steps. "But may God curse you if you've betrayed us, witch."
Damiano followed without speaking.
I t wa s a shelte r throw n togethe r ou t o f brushwoo d
and brambles and waxed cloth, piled between a cliff ris e an d a n old
, dr y roc k wall
. Smok e funnelle d up
-
ward s throug h th e twig s an d dea d leaves
, an d th e fee t of men and horses had trample d the snow of the pasture.
Macchiat a nosed between Damiano' s legs, her bel-
l y t o th e groun d lik e a cat's
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. He r tai l thumpe d hopeful-
ly , bu t sh e kep t he r nos e o n Paol o Denezzi
.
Damian o approache d th e rud e shelter
, awar e h e wa s th e focu s o f dozen s o f eyes
. Covertly
, h e kicke d th e dog away. "Now would be the time for me to fall flat on
my face, you idiot," he hissed. She whined an abjec t apolog y an d leane d
harde r agains t hi s leg
.
Th e me n o f Partestrad a huddle d lik e rook s o n a tower. Over a
hundred men shared the ghost of warmth between the cliff face and the ancient
wall. They had strewn the snow with pine boughs and dead bracken , whic h the
y no w fe d bi t b y bi t t o damp
, unwillin g fires
.
Eve n i n th e ope n air
, th e smel l o f ho t woo l wa s overpowering .
Macchiat a ha d bee n exactly right
. The y wer e al l men
. Ever y fac e tha t met hi s grew
, o r wa s capabl e o f growing , a beard. The respons e to his greetin g
was a spiritles s mumble
, mor e war y tha n hostile
.
Belloc
, th e blacksmith
, an d tw o pot-bellie d bur
-
gher s edge d asid e fo r him
, an d Damian o san k dow n besid e th e mos t flourishin g o f th e
fires
. Hi s staf f reste d i n th e croo k o f hi s elbow
, bu t th e lut e h e wrappe d i n his mantle and set behind him. Heat
beat against his face
, poten t a s th e grac e o f God
.
"You really shouldn' t keep the fires going in the daytime, " h e remarked
, watchin g th e gra y smok e sai l ou t int o th e air
, roiling
, bendin g east
. "Yo u ar e visibl e from a distance."
Bello c raise d on e shagg y eyebrow
. "No t al l o f u s are as well clothed as you are, young Signor." He
stare d pointedl y a t th e ermine
.
Damian o flushed
. H
e ha d alway s like d th e black
-
smith
, wh o onc e ha d seale d hi s father'
s caldro n s o tha t
th e elde r Delstreg o ha d neve r know n tha t Dam i ha d allowe d i
t t o break
. Wit h guilt y hast e h e pulle d th e instrumen t fro m it s
wrapping
.
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"I don't need it." Belloc half smiled, looking away from the offering. "But
there's some that might."
Damiano flung the mantle onto the piled branches.
He didn't look to see what hand plucked it up.
"Besides, " continue d th e blacksmith
, an d h e sighed
, "no one is looking for us."
"Accordin g t o him
, ther e ar e soldier s o n ou r trail, "
said Denezzi, from behind a pile of embers that seemed t o b e hi s alone
. Al l face s turne d t o th e ne w arriva l ami d a sudde n silence
.
"Wher e ar e th e women?
" demande d Damiano
.
"And the old men and children? Surely there is no cave
, o r concealmen t nearby
, that...
"
"Th e wome n ar e i n Aosta, " answere d Belloc
, wit h a dou r satisfaction
. "Alon g wit h th e children
, th e lame
, and those men born under a lucky star. Also in Aosta are the money , the
carriages , most of the clothes and food...
"W
e sen t the m straigh t on
, whil e w e cam e t o thi s forsaken rock covered with frozen sheep dung
and hungry sheep lice."
"Why?
" Damian o looke d fro m on e uncomfortabl e fac e t o another
. "Wh y didn'
t yo u follo w the m t o Aosta?
"
Denezz i brok e th e silence
. "I
f w e abando n ou r homes
, Owl-Eyes
, w e wil l retur n t o fin d the m occu
-
pied." Other men grunted assent, but Belloc spoke again.
"Tha t wa s you r reasoning
, Signo r Denezzi
. Bu t I
left little I can't do without. My tools and my anvil have gone up the hills
in an oxcart. Still, it is important we hang together, if we're ever to be a
town again." His sighs were deep, as befitted the size of his ribcage.
Damian o wa s a t firs t heartene d b y th e new s tha t the most
delicate part of the city, at least, was safe. But then his mind began to turn
over Belloc's words.
"Signo r Belloc, " h e began
, slidin g hi s hand s
absentmindedly in and out of the flame. "Your news troubles me."
The blacksmith stared fixedly as orange flames licked Damiano' s fingers . "I
could use hands like that,"
he muttered . "I wouldn' t need the tongs. "
Shyly the youth pulled back. "It will burn me too,"
he admitted , "if I leave them there. "
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"The Devil takes care of his own."
Damian o swivele d a t Denezzi'
s remark
, bu t th e blac k bear d wa s cu t b y a tooth y smile
. "
I a m no t serious, Delstrego . All the world knows you're the first in line
at the communion rail."
"Listen to me, Belloc , Denezzi , all of you. I know there are soldiers after
you, for your money. The whole town is to be squeeze d dry. You especially ,
Paolo... "
Denezz i scowled
. "Wh y me?
"
"Because Marco told Pardo you were very wealthy."
The big man's cry was pitiful. "Aaii! No! Why did he say that! It's a lie!"
Belloc chuckled.
"Because he doesn't like you, Paolo. I can't think why not." The laughter that
greeted Damiano's sally raised the effective temperature inside the shelter.
Damiano continued . "If you haven't seen them by now
, i t mean s the y eithe r passe d alon g th e Wes t Roa d
unnoticed... "
"We've kept a sentry at the road," interjecte d
Belloc.
"That's how I found you," added Denezzi .
"Wors e an d worse.
" Damian o rubbe d hi s fac e wit h palm s ho t fro m th e flames
. "The n Pardo'
s me n mus t have turned back and headed north, either by mistake or intent
, and come upon the carriage s of the women. "
The shelter erupted in noise and movement . Half th e me n cursed
, whil e th e othe r hal f ros e t o thei r feet
, knocking snow-dampe d wood into the fires.
"Impossible, " roared Denezzi , then added in calmer tones
, "Whe n woul d the y hav e passe d th e for k i n th e road?"
"On horseback? Two days, perhaps. I know they stopped at Sous Pont Saint
Martin."
Cries, sobs, and gasps followe d one anothe r down the huddled line, as
Damiano's news was relayed.
"God..
. hel p us
. The y ma y hav e caugh t them, "
whispere d Belloc
, an d Denezz i stare d dumbl y int o th e fire
. "Perhap s the y wil l onl y tak e th e money.
"
"Wil l the y resist?
"
Th e blacksmit h di d no t understand
.
"Signor Belloc, this very morning I buried those wh o dwel t a t Sou s Pon
t Sain t Martin
. A
peasan t thre w a pitchfor k a t a soldier
, yo u see...
"
Muscle s tautene d i n th e blacksmith'
s massiv e jaws
.
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"Jesu
! Boy
, d o yo u com e t o kil l ou r hope?
"
"I've come to help, if I can," said Damiano.
Denezz i stood
, an d al l eye s looke d t o him
. Damian o fel t a ho t pan g o f env y towar d thi s man
, whos e strengt h an d brut e tempe r ha d wo n hi m mor e respec t
amon g his fellows than had Damiano' s selfless dedication .
"We'll have to take the chance he's right. I will lead a part y o f horseme
n bac k t o th e Nort h Road
.
"But tomorrow. There's little light left today." He glanced down at Damiano.
"For men's eyes, anyway."
"I n th e meantime
, i f yo u wan t t o hel p us
, the n find us food. Else we will have to draw lots to see whos e hors e i
s butchered.
"
Damiano glanced sharply at him. "What do you expec t o f me
: loave s an d fishes
? I hav e a ju g o f toni c i n my bag; it's the reason I missed the
evacuation , you know
. I wa s mindin g th e pot.
"
Despit e th e worr y i n hi s face
, Bello c grinned
. "Ah
, yes, that pot."
"What did you expect to eat," continued Damiano.
"Comin g ou t her e wit h littl e mor e tha n th e clothe s o n you r
backs.
"
Denezz i growled
, throwin g tinde r int o th e flames
.
"W
e expecte d t o g o home!—whe n Pard o ha d passe d through: perhaps a
week's time. And I expected the
shepherds to drive the flocks home as soon as they heard of the advancing
army.
"But they never showed, though I held up the marc h a da y an d a hal f
t o wait
. Probabl y the y ar e lon g since in Turin, and have sold the sheep as
their own."
"Give them the benefit of the doubt," grunted
Belloc. "They may have been overrun, and all our mutto n sittin g i n th e
bellie s o f th e southerners.
" Denezz i was not comforted.
"You gave the order to march?" mused Damiano, idly fingering the slack strings
of his lute. "Yourself, not the mayor, or the council?"
Denezzi gestured as though to brush away flies.
"I' m o n th e cit y council
. M
y opinion s ar e heard
. Be
-
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sides, most of the councilmen are not of military age;
the mayor himself went to Aosta with the women."
Damiano peered through the lacework of the ivory rose that ornamented the
lute's soundhole. Was there dampness within? "I have neither meat nor bread,
Paolo. Nor can witchcraft create them. You'll have to kill a horse, I'm
afraid."
"That will be a sore burden on some poor fellow,"
replied Denezzi. "And unnecessary . I think you can help us, Damiano."
"How? "
"You can call us meat from out of the hills."
The young witch's head snapped up in startlement, but Denezzi continued, "I
have seen you do it, when we were both boys, calling rabbits from the fields
and dogs from their masters' kennels. And my horse: I
remember how he threw me and ran to you, pushing his black nose into your
hand. Oh, yes, I won't forget that."
" I didn'
t as k hi m t o thro w you
, Paolo
. Tha t wa s hi s own idea." Damian o had his own memorie s of the episode,
foremost of which was the bloody lip Denezzi had given him in consequence of
the fall. This had occurred when Damiano had been nine and Denezzi thirteen.
The young witch furrowed his brow, trying to explai n a thin g tha t wa s
no t easil y pu t i n words
. "Yo u see
, Paolo
, I can..
. temp t th e beast s t o com e t o me
, fo r bread or a pat on the nose. But I can't force them. And i f I cal l
the m saying
, 'Com e t o m e an d b e slaughtered, '
well I think I'll be calling a long time."
"Just say come," suggested Denezzi. "I know how little you like the sight of
blood, Owl-Eyes, so you just pat the goat or whatever on the head, and we'll
do the rest."
Damiano dropped his head again. "That's betray-
al." He heard a man snicker on the other side of the fire.
Th e witc h groun d hi s teet h together
. "It'
s ver y hard to lie, Paolo, without using words."
Denezzi rustle d beneat h hi s blac k pelts
. "It'
s very hard to go hungry. It's either a wild beast or a horse, Owl-Eyes. You
can at least try."
H e coul d hav e pleade d wearines s a s a n excuse
; i n trut h h e wa s swimmin g wit h fatigue
. Bu t h e fel t eye s on him, and he had offered to help. What was more,
Damiano knew most every horse in Partestrada by its simple, unspoken name. He
rose from the fire.
He passed through a gap in the brush pile, and a chill hit him. "I'll need my
mantle back," he mumbled sullenly
. Ther e wa s n o respons e unti l h e turne d hi s blac k eye s int
o th e crowd
. The n th e fur-line d wra p wa s handed out.
"If I bring in a goat," he said to Denezzi, "you must give me time to get out
of it." The big man turned his face away .
Damiano trudged through crackling slush to the middle of the pasture. Shadows
were growing, striping th e fiel d wit h blue
. Tuckin g hi s mantl e unde r him
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, h e sat down on a hummocky stone. The shoe of his staff was braced between
his boots; he leaned his face against the staff's lowest silver band.
Fo r hal f a minut e hi s min d floate d free
. The n h e spoke a silent "Come," and unbidden to his mind
spran g th e imag e o f a sword
. H
e hear d i t snic k fre e o f th e scabbard
. B
y willpowe r h e burs t th e image
, onl y t o see it reform in the shape of a pitchfork, tines protrud-
ing through the snow.
H e wa s ver y tired
. H
e trie d again
, an d hi s cal l carried the odor of an abattoir, of a hut filled with
dying
. Mothe r o f God
! H
e didn'
t wan t t o d o this
. H
e wanted to sleep, here in the sun, if no better place offered.
In the emptiness of his mind he saw how lovely it woul d b e t o rest
. H
e remembere d th e honey-colore d rock where he had eaten and talked with
Raphael —
only yesterday. He felt the heat of the hearth, where a chai r wa s burning
. Ho w wasteful
, bu t ho w warm
.
Hi s min d wa s floode d wit h th e memor y o f thi s very pasture in
the green of summer, when his father would treat the sheep with tar poultices
and incanta-
tion. Grass up to his half-grown knees, except where the flocks had cropped
it. It had been cool then, in the mountains
, bu t pleasant
. Sheep'
s milk
. Nappin g a t midday
, surrounde d b y curious
, odorous
, half-grow n lambs.
Al l th e whil e Damian o dreamed
, hi s cal l contin
-
ued, rising into the air, growing, following the wind like smoke.
H e remembere d wakin g u p wit h nothin g t o d o al l day
, a conditio n h e ha d experience d a s recentl y a s a week ago. He
remembered the warm flood of sound
Raphae l pulle d ou t o f th e lute
. H
e remembere d Carla
, sewing as he read to her from the gilt-edged volume of
Aquinas
. (He r littl e bras s needl e caugh t th e sun
. Sh e made only the gentlest fun of Damiano's squint as he read the fine
script.) He remembered how quickly and quietly the days had passed before this
war.
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A shado w fel l acros s th e sunlight
, an d hi s drows y eyes opened. A face stared down at him: Sfengia, the
cheesemaker . The man' s eyes were wet with longing .
H e wa s no t alone
, fo r Damian o sa t a t th e cente r o f a circle of silent figures
that was even now increasing.
They came for the sunshine , for the summer , for the memorie s o f Augus t
an d th e dust y road s tha t cake d a boy's bare feet and legs. They
came at Damiano's call.
He felt their minds around him, open to his. There was Sfengia, afraid for his
three daughters, and Belloc, heav y an d mild
. Behin d the m all
, draw n bu t unwilling
, Damian o sense d th e brittl e presenc e o f Denezzi
.
The witch smiled wistfully. He had never com-
pelle d suc h rap t attention
. I t wa s ver y pleasan t t o swa y men'
s minds
. Le t Paol o equa l this
.
Suddenly Damiano knew how to fulfill his task. It wa s al l ver y easy
. H
e imagine d himsel f a n animal
, a hoofed beast: a sheep or a cow or maybe a goat. He allowed his dreams to
shift in consonance with his animal being, though the call continued .
Gree n grass
. Tha t wa s good
. Tal l dr y grass
, wit h grain spilling out of the head. Free water running . Sun.
No halter. No wire twitch against the tender lip.
Damiano touched the mind he had been seeking , the warm, wordless brute mind.
It was tame to him and unafraid
. I t answere d fro m ver y near
. Unsuspicious
, i t opene d t o hi m an d le t hi m in
. Hi s meado w vision s i t made its own, improving them in the process.
Salt. A
war m bac k t o res t one'
s hea d upon
. Sag e i n th e wind
.
The old stable, out of the wind, and the smell of mash in the pail.
Once more the sun stroked Damiano's face; this pastora l rhapsod y wa s
losin g hi m hi s huma n audience
.
But he scarcely noticed, for he was sharing the eyes of the cow that passed
down into the dell along the lee of a clif f face
, seekin g summe r jus t ahead
. I t wa s n o wil d beast
, bu t lonely
, lost
. It s udde r wa s shrunken
, an d it s dappled sides gaunt. It stopped and looked around.
Damiano saw the meadow and himself in the middle of it , motionles s o n th
e roc k lik e a dar k tre e stump
.
Summe r wa s calling
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. Hi s min d shoute d it . Grass
, crackling hay. The cow trotted forward.
She smelled man and stopped—curious, innocently wary.
When the first watcher beheld the spotted cow ambling down the hill toward
them, he hissed a warn-
ing. All the townsmen froze. Those who had swords pu t thei r hand s t o
th e hilt
. Bello c hefte d hi s blun t hammer.
Th e co w stopped
, he r convictio n failin g a s Damiano'
s did
. He r ear s revolved
, an d sh e peere d ove r he r shoul
-
der at strange movement. One dainty foot was raised.
"Take her," shouted someone , and a half-doze n swords caught the light.
Belloc raised his hammer.
Damian o sa w th e blo w descending
. "No!
" h e cried
, or tried to. "No! Let me..."
Th e co w fel l t o it s knees
, an d Paol o Denezz i opene d its brown and white spotted throat. It died
in the snow without a sound and was butchered where it lay, steaming i n th e
ai r lik e a kettl e o f soup
.
Carlo Belloc plunged his bloody hands into the sno w an d turne d awa y
fro m th e carcass
. H
e wa s mos t surprised to see young Damiano face down in the snow
; a splas h o f gol d an d scarlet
. Denezz i wa s lookin g down at him.
Th e blacksmit h hurrie d over
. "Wha t di d yo u d o t o him?
" h e snappe d a t Denezzi
.
"D
o t o him?
" Denezz i shoo k hi s head
. "
I di d nothing. I'd pick him up, but that bitch of his..."
Macchiata'
s ben t leg s straddle d he r lim p master
.
He r mout h wa s a rictu s o f hate
, drippin g slaver
. Bello c regarde d he r earnestly
, fro m unde r beetlin g brows
.
"You can talk, can't you dog? Tell us what's wrong with your master?"
Sh e licke d he r lips
, an d he r fur y wa s extinguished
.
" I don'
t know
. H
e fel l dow n whe n yo u hi t th e cow.
"
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Her nose burrowed through the hair at the back of
Damiano'
s neck
, t o assur e hersel f h e wa s stil l alive
.
"He's very sensitive," she added.
Denezz i bi t of f hi s laug h a t Belloc'
s warnin g glower
.
"Allo w u s t o pic k hi m u p an d carr y hi m t o th e fire
, puppy, " sai d Belloc
. "I
f h e ha s take n hurt
, w e wil l hel p him
. We'r e hi s friends.
"
The blacksmith lifted Damiano easily and set him ove r on e hug e shoulder
. Th e staf f la y wher e i t ha d fallen until Macchiata, seeing her
master laid gently before the fire, returned. Taking the brass foot in her
mouth, she dragged the stick to Damiano's side.
The men she passed got out of her way.
Time was a trickle of chilling blood. Red went brown. Brown went black. Memory
fell apart. Sense fel l apart
. H
e sa w nothing
, hear d nothing
, fel t nothing
, an d kne w nothin g excep t tha t h e sa w nothing
, hear d nothing
, an d fel t nothing
.
Hope fell apart.
Damiano' s eyes were open, starin g blindl y at the fire
. Whe n Bello c spok e t o him
, h e mad e n o answer
.
H e neithe r stirre d no r spak e th e nigh t through
, no r di d the smell of roasting beef rouse him. Macchiata lay by him
, equall y quiet
. She
, however
, at e he r fill
.
At daw n the light of the risin g sun stole his gaze from the fire. He propped
himself on his elbows, and
Macchiata uttered a whinny of glad relief. She smothered with kisses his dull
and unprotesting face.
"Eh
, boy
? Ar e yo u wit h u s again?
" murmure d
Belloc
, wh o ha d watche d hal f throug h th e nigh t an d finall y pitche
d hi s blanket s nex t t o th e trance d form
.
Damiano slowly turned his face to Belloc. "How long? " he whispered .
"Have you lain there mazed? All yesterday eve-
ning and night. It's dawn already, Dami Delstrego.
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Wher e hav e yo u been?
"
Th e answe r wa s halting
. " I hav e lai n trappe d i n the body of a dead beast. Dead. Knowing
myself dead.
"Was it only one night? I thought it was decades. I
though t m y tim e ha d passed
. I though t ther e woul d b e n o escap e unti l th e las t day
, an d judgment.
" Hi s eye s wer e stil l ver y wide
, brow n an d sof t lik e a cow's
, an d his face expressed nothing.
The blacksmit h sighed. "If you were trapped within
th e co w yesterday
, the n yo u spen t th e nigh t i n a hundred stomachs. I think you're
still not well, Damiano,"
said Belloc. "Stay here for today, while a party rides to
Aosta. There's plenty of firewood left, and I saved you some meat."
Damiano had started to rise, but at Belloc's last words his stomach rebelled.
He gagged but was empty as a dry bucket. "No," he panted. "I'm riding with you
. Yo u wil l nee d me
, shoul d yo u fin d wha t yo u ar e looking for. And I—I am beginning
to see what must be done
. I' m ridin g wit h you.
"
Chapter 6
The processio n wound down and east, past the aban-
doned village, where the ruins of one hut were already softene d wit h a
cloa k o f blow n snow
, bac k ove r th e rive r Lys
, an d towar d th e crossin g o f th e roads
. The y were a somber line of men, and they pushed their horses
, bu t the y wer e no t soldiers
.
Damiano rode one of Paolo Denezzi's geldings, with a leather strap for a
bridle and no saddle at all. It wa s a blac k horse
; al l o f Denezzi'
s fou r horse s wer e black. The witch reflected on what Denezzi had said
the previous afternoon—ho w hard it would be on some poor man to lose his
mount to the knife. And here was the rich man with one to ride, two for pack,
and an extra
. Damian o smile d grimly
.
The horse was nervous bearing him. Well it might be, for Damiano's mind was
filled with cold and weep-
in g blood
. Th e cal l tha t h e ha d begu n th e da y before could not be
utterly silenced.
Bored with the slow pace, he turned his horse's head once more to the
straggling tail of the company,
where men rode on cart horses and hinnies. There was eve n on e fellow
, Aloisi o b y name
, wh o sa t astraddl e a n ass, his bootless feet dragging in the dust. He
was a tanner by trade and carried neither sword nor spear.
But he had a long hide-splitter, razor sharp, and a young wife in the train to
Aosta.
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"Aloisio, can't it move any faster?" asked Damiano , looming over the man from
his seat on Denezzi's lean horse
. H
e ha d intende d hi s word s t o soun d warmer
.
Th e tanne r raise d hi s head
, war y bu t unafraid
.
"No, Signor Delstrego , it cannot. Not unless I get behind and push."
Damian o nodde d i n resignatio n an d trie d t o smile
.
Dryly his lips slid back from his teeth. He fell in place besid e Aloisio
, a t th e tai l o f th e line
, wher e h e coul d mak e sur e n o on e becam e lost
.
The tall peaks, crystalline now in the easterly sun, stood in the distanc e at
the right of the road. Damian o squinted and wondered what he had seen in
them, onl y th e da y before
. The y wer e unscalabl e stone
, a s they had always been, and they harbored neither food nor beauty.
Thinking about the peaks and his previous intoxi-
catio n le d hi m t o thin k abou t Macchiata
. H
e fel t agai n he r wet
, impertinen t nos e agains t th e pal m o f hi s han d an d hear d
agai n he r flutterin g worry
, lik e tha t o f a he n a s sh e prodde d hi m fro m hi s knee s
i n th e slush
. I n th e univers e o f as h i n whic h h e foun d himself
, th e littl e dog could spark a tiny flame of gladness.
Sh e scramble d a t th e prou d horse'
s feet
, potterin g int o ever y mar k an d bliste r o f th e sno w a t th
e sid e o f the road, pantin g very hard. A few days like this and sh e
woul d no t b e s o ridiculousl y fat
.
Damian o place d hi s han d o n th e horse'
s knott y head and without words suggested that it trot back to th e hea d
o f th e line
, t o Denezzi'
s side
. Th e anima l starte d an d plunge d a t th e contact
, almos t costin g
Damian o hi s seat
.
Very soon the crossroads came into view. Damiano
led his mount to the snowbank where his own trail fro m th e guardhous e
brok e ont o th e road
. H
e gav e th e reins into the hand s of his neares t neighbo r and leape d
down. His lean legs disappeared into the trail, stepping hig h an d
storklike
. Th e processio n slowe d t o a disor
-
derl y stop
.
H e emerge d fro m th e shelte r bearin g thre e sof t bags
. "Clothing, " h e said
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. "No t ver y good
. No t clean
.
But for any man who needs it. And for any man who needs a hair pin." He held
up the jeweled ornament.
Two dozen eyes stared uncomprehending, before he slippe d th e pi n bac k
int o hi s bel t pouch
. A
s h e climbe d onto the horse' s back Damian o rustle d like dry leave s o r
paper
, an d a fla t weigh t hun g forwar d insid e hi s woole n tunic
.
Th e Nort h Roa d wa s a stead y climb
, slic k a s well
-
stone
. Som e o f th e heav y steed s a t th e rea r o f th e line
, especiall y thos e withou t shoes
, ha d trouble
. Damian o noticed with dull amusement that Aloisio's ass was doin g ver y
wel l unde r th e ne w condition s an d wa s climbin g towar d th e
fron t o f th e company
.
Damian o turned to Belloc , who had ridden silentl y o n hi s gra y geldin
g sinc e breakin g camp
. " I learne d t o pla y th e lut e fro m a n angel, " h e said
. "A
n archangel
, t o b e exact
. N
o on e ca n se e hi m bu t me—an d Macchiata.
"
Bello c turne d o n hi m a slow
, suspiciou s eye
.
"Doesn'
t tha t soun d silly
, Signo r Belloc
? Unti l yes
-
terday , it seeme d quite natura l to me. My lesson s were, perhaps , the most
importan t thing s in the world . As important as the quest of alchemy.
Now..."
H e turne d hi s hea d i n a circle
, peerin g aroun d with eyes that could not fathom distance or endure the
sun. Belloc stared at him with a sort of stolid, mascu-
line pity. "Now it seems very irrelevant. Both the angel an d th e lute
. An d alchem y a s well
.
"It was spending the night in the dead body of a cow
. Tha t put s a differen t perspectiv e o n things
. I t make s on e se e lif e a s i t reall y is
, i n al l it s misery
. O
r possibl y it only make s one sick. "
"Sickness plays tricks on the mind," rumbled Belloc i n reply
, no t sur e whethe r b y sicknes s Damian o mean t seeing angels or
not caring to see them. "I told you you should have stayed back at the
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pasture."
"Eh? Why? We're not going back there, you know.
I f w e fin d n o on e o n th e roa d al l th e wa y t o Aosta
, there'll be nothing to do but stay in the city. Most of us, anyway. If we
catch up with Pardo's soldiers, then either they will kill us, or we will kill
them, or we will all kill each other. If it is we who survive, then we'd
better keep going—for Pardo's men have many friends, and Partestrada has none.
Unless the Green Count comes to avenge us. In the spring, of course."
Damiano's eyes shone dry like polished stone. His ski n wa s white
. Bello c shoo k hi s head
. "Whe n di d yo u eat last, boy?"
Damiano shrugged without interest.
Paolo Denezzi, who was riding a few feet in front o f th e two
, a s thoug h h e wer e a commande r an d th e others his lieutenants,
peered back over his shoulder.
After a weighty silence, he spoke. "We will go to
Aosta," he conceded. "Those with friends or family there may stay. Or those
with money to buy. The rest I
wil l lea d t o Donnaz
, wher e w e wil l prepar e ou r ow n vengeance."
Damiano felt a challenge rise up in him. When had these plans been adopted?
When he had shown up at th e cam p n o suc h ide a ha d existe d i n
th e men'
s minds
, an d he'
d hear d n o tal k since...
.
But then for many hours he had not been listen-
ing. And could he provide any better destination?
Denezzi at least had the good of the city in mind.
Besides, Damiano did not believe events would pas s s o smoothly
. A
troo p o f hardene d cavalr y di d no t disappea r int o th e hill s
forever
.
Belloc cleared his throat. "You have property in the town of Donnaz, Signor
Denezzi?"
Denezzi nodded, distrustful. "What of it?"
" I wa s wonderin g wher e yo u woul d pu t ou r home
-
les s neighbors.
"
"They will pay me back, " state d Denezzi . His thin mout h wa s dour
, an d hi s moustach e bristled
.
Suddenly Damiano could stand it no more: the interminable
, stragglin g march
, th e presenc e o f Denezzi
, even Belloc's taciturn kindness. He called Macchiata, orderin g he r t o
sta y b y th e blacksmit h unti l h e returned
, the n h e kicke d hi s moun t forward
.
"Wher e ar e yo u going
, Delstrego?
" demande d
Denezzi, rising in his saddle.
"Ahead," answere d the witch.
The dark man opene d his mout h as thoug h to forbi d him
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. H
e remaine d tha t wa y fo r a moment
, uncharacteristicall y indecisive. Finally he said, "If you brea k m y
horse'
s leg
, boy
, I wil l brea k you r head.
"
Damiano smiled thinly. "You're not even four years olde r tha n I am
, Paolo
. An d a s fo r breakin g m y head...
"
He swiveled front again, and the black horse sprang forwar d as thoug h
whipped .
Alon e wa s muc h better
. Hi s hea d wa s clear
, wit h tha t peculia r ringin g lightnes s tha t come s wit h fasting
.
The horse climbed energetically , in a dumb effort to leave its rider behind.
Damiano felt some pity for the beast
, bu t no t much
. Pit y wa s deserve d al l aroun d an d coul d b e sprea d muc h to
o thin
.
His tall staff passed under his belt and lay against the horse's flank like a
sword. Damiano secured it with hi s righ t hand
, s o i t woul d no t sla p wit h ever y iron
-
sho d step
.
In a short time he left the clatter and creak of the citizen s behind . Up
here the road woun d the shoulder s of a peak like epaulets and crossed two
great chasms, one on a bridge of rough wood, and the other on a splendi d
ston e arc h twelv e hundre d year s old
.
The North Road was deceptive , folding back upon itself, taking whatever path
or purchase it could, so tha t Damian o onc e foun d himsel f starin g
acros s a shee r
dro p n o wide r tha n a snowball'
s throw
, a t a lengt h o f snowy road he was not to touch for half-an-hour's
climb.
Soun d wa s deceptiv e too
, fo r no w h e hear d th e speech of men again, together with the blow
and whinny of horses. He looked below, but could see no sign of the ascending
company. He turned a corner and looked ahead.
It was the troops of General Pardo, displayed against th e smeare d whit e
cliff s lik e chessmen
. The y rod e i n order, tw o abreast.
There were fift y o f them, an d be
-
hind them lumbered five ungainly wagons. Damiano stared wide-eyed at the
wagons.
Four were heavy laden, covered in waxed linen, pulled by four oxen apiece. The
last wagon was open, and packed with... women. Damiano blinked and clutched at
his staff. He was sure they were women, wrapped in shawls and blankets, mostly
black. But these were not all the women of Partestrada, by no means. There
could not be more than twenty in that sad, paintless farm cart. What was this?
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Was Carla among these? He did not know whethe r to hope she was or to pray she
was not.
Damiano heard a stentorian cry. As he watched, so he was being watched.
Though he sat in hailing distance of Pardo's caval-
ry, a large loop of road lay between them. A single soldier broke from the
head of the line and drove his mount back against the direction of their
march, be-
twee n th e thir d wid e wago n an d th e empt y edg e o f th e
road. The beast was frightened; its legs splayed stiffly against the slick
road, and it backed against the wood of the wagon, its brown eyes rolling at
the sheer drop.
The horseman peered over at a figure gorgeously dresse d i n scarle t an d
gold
, it s hai r i n wil d blac k curl s tha t obscure d hal f it s face
. I t rod e a fin e hors e a s a her d boy will ride a cow: bareback,
sitting the withers, legs bent and feet gripping the beast's ribs.
Unaccountably, the soldier's neck prickled.
Damiano perceived less about the soldier because he could not see as well.
"You!" shouted the soldier. "You are to come here!"
Damiano barked a laugh. "Why?" he replied in more normal tones. "Very soon you
will all be over here."
The horsema n scowled . "What? I don't hear you.
Don't you hear me, man? Come here!"
Damiano didn't want to shout. He didn't want to talk to the fellow at all. He
turned his horse's head and starte d bac k dow n th e road
, no t darin g t o cante r hi m on the bend.
Anothe r cr y spli t th e air
, shar p an d shrill
: a wom
-
an'
s cry
. Damian o twiste d fro m th e wais t t o pee r be
-
hin d him
, an d a t tha t momen t somethin g hi t hi m o n th e breastbone
, wit h a blo w n o harde r tha n tha t o f a hard snowball, well
thrown.
Hi s shoc k sen t th e blac k geldin g skiddin g int o a gallo p tha
t quickl y pu t a wal l o f granit e betwee n Damian o and Pardo's
men. Damiano let the horse run while he blinked down at the shaft of the arrow
protruding from his clothing. Then with one hand he reined in the horse, while
the other very calmly worried the arrow-
head from the wood and leather cover of the works of
Petrarch. Further examination found that the arrow had penetrated quite half
of the vellum pages and left a clea n incisio n throug h a n entir e
packe t o f letter s writ
-
te n i n a n unknown
, Germani c tongue
.
"If I live," he murmured to the wind on his face, "thi s wil l b e somethin
g t o tal k about.
"
When Paolo Denezzi spied his black horse hurtling down the North Road toward
him, bearing its light burde n clingin g abou t it s neck
, h e curse d foully
. Bu t before he could gather his breath to release his roar of anger,
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Damiano had slid from the horse's back.
"Of f you r mounts, " h e crie d t o th e company
. "Ev
-
ery man on his own two feet and forward with me."
"No such thing!" bellowed Denezzi. Men paused,
one foot in the stirrup, as authority flew confused .
Denezzi, however, sprang down to confront the witch.
"What is this, Owl-Eyes?" Without thinking he grabbe d fo r th e chai n o
f Damiano'
s mantle
. Th e silve r head of the staff flashed across his knuckles, and he dre w
bac k a bleedin g hand
. "Don'
t touc h that, " snappe d
Damiano
. "I
f they'l l obe y you
, the n hel p m e sav e thei r lives
. Ge t th e horse s awa y fro m them.
"
Denezzi'
s fac e wa s win e purple
. H
e sucke d hi s damaged fingers. "Why? What's coming—the soldiers you
prophesied? "
"Yes, and either they will kill us all or terror will.
Of f you r horse s t o sav e you r lives, " h e repeated
, shoutin g at the top of his lungs.
"Asses too?" drawled the tanner Aloisio, but as he spok e h e lifte d hi s
weigh t o n hi s toe s an d allowe d hi s little beast to walk out from
under him. Ten men laughed, but fift y dismounted .
Belloc got down from his gray.
"The y ar e no t twent y minute s behin d me, " an
-
nounce d Damiano
. "The y can'
t mov e fast
, becaus e the y ar e leadin g wagons—o x wagons
, Belloc
, an d on e of them was once yours."
"Catarina?" gasped the blacksmith, but Damiano raise d hi s hand
. "Ther e ar e a fe w citizen s wit h them
, bu t I couldn'
t pic k the m ou t a t th e distance
.
"Listen
, m y friends
. I a m goin g u p there...
" an d he pointed along the sloppy road whence he'd come.
"T o concea l myself
, i f I can
. Whe n th e soldier s rid e by
, I
will... surprise them. Be ready to take back our wag-
ons
. An d b e read y t o run.
" H
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e turne d an d i n hal f a minut e ha d vanishe d fro m sight
.
"Do we do as he says?" asked Aloisio, standing behind Denezzi with the halter
of his ass in his hand.
"I' m afrai d youn g Signo r Delstreg o i s a littl e bit..
. dis
-
turbed. "
" I will
, anyway, " responde d Belloc
. " I can'
t spea k for any other man."
Denezz i suffere d n o suc h limitation
. "W
e will
. I f
thes e ghostl y soldier s o f hi s reall y exist..
. well
, h e seem s t o hav e a plan
. I f not
, I swea r I wil l bur y tha t foppis h simpleto n b y th e sid e o
f th e road.
" H
e strod e forward , droppin g the reins of his horse, trustin g some-
one would mind the beast. Aloisio wordlessl y did so.
Damian o huddle d behin d a hummoc k mad e fro m the roots of a tree and
the few hundred years' worth of soi l i t ha d collected
. H
e waite d t o hea r th e jingl e o f th e cavalr y harness
. Behin d hi m th e groun d droppe d abruptl y away, farther than he
could focus on.
He felt Macchiata beside him, worming her way into the scant cover.
"Macchiata, no!" he hissed. "Get ou t o f here
. Don'
t b e nea r me!
"
"Don'
t b e nea r you?
" sh e repeate d i n accent s trag
-
ic.
"Don' t be near you , Master?
How can you say that? I
have already been parted from you for hours today, and w e wer e neve r t o
b e parte d whil e w e bot h live
; yo u said so... "
Damian o wa s unmoved.
H
e crouche d clos e t o th e earth
, hi s eye s fixe d o n th e uppe r road
. "Yes
, littl e dear, and if you don't get out of here and down the road very fast,
one of us will not live much longer.
GO! "
Macchiata went.
Th e me n o f Partestrad a wer e assemble d a fe w hundre d fee t t o
Damiano'
s left
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Page 77
, i n a spo t visibl e fro m behind the trunk of the pine, but concealed
from the upper slope of the road. They milled about, swords and cleavers
dragging. They did not resemble soldiers, but at least their horses were
nowhere in sight.
Damian o saw the head of the column , with his swar t unifor m an d dul l
brass
, a t th e sam e tim e h e hear d th e rin g o f sho d hoove s o n
ice
. Th e captai n wa s the same who had spied Damian o and ordere d him to
stop. Damiano peered behind him, to see which of the men carried bows.
The captain passed before Damiano's earthy conceal-
ment
. H
e le d fift y men
: twent y swordsmen
, twent y spear, five archers, and five more to mind the booty.
They passed so near Damiano he might have swung his staff and brained one.
Instead he stood up, filled with grave excitement and a thrill of dread. The
nearest soldier leaped back in superstitious fear, to see Damiano appear as
though he'd floate d up the sheer cliff.
Damiano took his staff in both hands. Its ebony length filled his mind, and he
allowed his dark, invisi-
ble power to flow into the wood. With perverse satis-
factio n h e le t fre e th e deadl y refrai n tha t ha d stifle d i
n him since the cow went down.
"Come!" The terrible call rang against rock, out of hearing, impossible to
ignore. "Come! Come and be slaughtered! " it shrieked .
Every horse pitched in blind hysteria, and every man clapped his hands to his
ears.
The screams of the beasts were one with his, as
Damiano made them believe in death. Men, who al-
read y believed
, fel l fro m thei r saddle s an d la y i n th e mire.
In front of the women's wagon the oxen were thrashing, kicking the air
uselessly. One of the bullocks gored his yoke-mate's face, and the bellows of
the wounded animal punctuated the cacophony. The wom-
en themselve s were screaming . Damian o opened his eyes in time to see a
horse leap blindly over the edge.
It was all wreckage. No rider controlled his horse;
few sat mounted. As he watched, the oxen of the front goods wagon broke the
wooden brake lever and plunged from behind the company, careening forward,
tram-
pling men and horses alike. Tall, brightly painted wheels lef t track s
shinin g red
.
Th e me n o f Partestrad a stoo d plastere d t o th e inner clif f
wall;
Damiano could scarcely se e them.
Th e ox wagon swung wide at the bend. The outside wheel spu n i n emptiness
, the n th e wago n tipped
. Frenzie d bellows rose into shrieks that grew thin and keen, as though the
beasts were singing on their way to the ground.
Damiano contemplated the destruction. Men crawled on hands and knees, like
horses, their swords aban-
doned. A chestnut gelding lay flat on the ground before him, crying like a
man. A few soldiers had risen and stood propped against the face of rock. One
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held a bow
. Wit h clumsy
, clatterin g movement s th e arche r raise d it , pointin g i t a t
Damiano
.
Withou t haste
, indee d withou t enthusiasm
, Damian o propped his staff between the archer and himself. It dre w th e
arrow
, a s Damian o ha d mean t i t should
. Th e limbe r feathere d shaf t brok e i n pieces
.
Bu t th e arche r ha d no t acte d alone
. A
ma n staggere d forward
, leaning
, hi s hea d lowered
, a s thoug h h e breaste d th e wind
. I t wa s th e troops
' captai n onc e more
. Hi s bel t stil l carrie d a sword
, an d a s h e approache d th e hear t o f his terror he unsheathed it
and stood upright.
"So, " though t Damiano
, lookin g int o th e fac e o f the man before him, seeing the gray metal
unveiled.
He knew nothin g of fighting , with swords or with-
out. Even had he the strengt h to run, there was no-
where to go except to follow the oxen. And as it was his strength was used up,
along with all his caring.
"So, " sai d Damian o t o himself
, an d h e waite d fo r wha t woul d happen
.
Wha t happene d wa s tha t th e captai n swun g hi s swor d bac k ove
r on e shoulder
, aimin g fo r a decapitat
-
ing blow, and then Belloc's great hammer came down o n th e man'
s head
. Beneat h th e helme t o f leathe r an d iron, the captain's skull
splintered. Damiano looked away
, t o encounte r Belloc'
s squar e hea d an d ashe n face. The blacksmith's lips were gray with
horror, but h e wa s no t lookin g a t th e blood y rui n h e ha d
created
.
H e wa s starin g a t Damiano
. The n Damian o watche d the death of Pardo's captain with his strange
sight.
Light flickered green and golden over the still form, like rags soaked in oil
and burnt.
Then the fire departed and the man was gone.
Gone. Escaped. Not here in this ruined shape at all. Damiano blinked at this;
it was death and yet not
what he had thought he knew. It was cold and terrify-
ing, like a night of no stars, but it was not the mindful death he had known,
despair in rotting flesh. It was not what set him screaming. Damiano's hideous
call was cut off sharp .
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Belloc took a deep, shudderin g breath. "Boy," he gasped
, "ar e yo u Sata n himself
? O
r ho w i s i t yo u hav e no t burst
, doin g this?
"
Damian o hear d th e voice
, bu t no t th e words
. Hi s ears were ringing with silence. His gaze slid wearily from Belloc's
face to his black, brain-spattered hammer.
"Ah
! Th e hammer
. Yes
, Belloc
. Tha t wa s ver y fit
-
ting.
" H
e smile d a t Belloc
, o r h e trie d to
.
The citizens of Partestrada scrambled heavily up the road, their rude weapon s
in their red-fingere d hands
. The y fel l upo n th e daze d soldier s lik e me n threshin g wheat
. Damian o walke d towar d th e tw o remaining ox wagons, where one beast
hung dead in the traces. He did not look back at the carnage.
Th e wome n wer e stil l i n th e middl e wagon
: the y had been tied there. Damiano looked at faces he knew.
Old Signora Anuzzi was there, stuffed in a corner lik e a blac k sack
. An d Lidi e Polsetti
, an d Ver a Polsetti
, an d littl e Francoise
. An d Signor a Mellio
, th e wido w who looked after Father Antonio . And Bernice Roberto .
The y wer e al l cryin g a t once
, face s stripe d wit h tear s an d nose s slimy
. Damian o coul d hardl y blam e them
; h e had worke d this miser y himself , and thoug h he was no t tied
, h e fel t muc h th e sam e a s they
. Still
, h e coul d ge t n o sens e o f them
.
He hauled himself up and into the wagon, groan-
ing with effort. As he lay on the wooden boards, his eyes closed, he heard the
only voice that could have pleased him.
"Dami
! Damiano
, ar e yo u wounded
? Wer e yo u hi t by the arrow up above? Dami, speak to me?" He looke d u
p int o Carl a Denezzi'
s frozen
, wind-chappe d and fear-whitene d face.
"O Bella! Bellissima!," he whispered, and he smiled a t he r a s thoug h
th e tw o wer e alone
.
Wonderingly, the blond girl extended her bound wrists. She touched his breast
awkwardly, where the arrow had left its neat cut: a slice no longer than the
las t join t o f a finger
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. H
e too k he r han d i n his
, grimacin g at the ropes. An instant later, every binding in the
Wago n too k life
, an d lik e snakes
, wriggle d free
. Th e wago n tongu e droppe d t o th e roa d an d a doze n wom
-
en shrieked at sudden freedom and missing laces.
"Damiano!
" hisse d Carla
, wh o eithe r wor e n o lac
-
ings or did not care about them. "I prayed I would see you again, but I had
little hope. How did you get through
? I thin k th e Devi l himsel f ha s flow n ove r us
.
Could you feel him?"
"Eh?" Damiano turned his face away. Though a bare two minutes ago he had stood
between life and death, indifferent, Carla's presence had revealed his own
face to him again. The Devil himself? He was ashamed, not knowing quite why.
Meanwhile, murder was running like a flame all over the snowy mountain road.
Damiano didn't want to look upon that, either, so he regarded the rough wooden
boards.
"Th e children, " h e stuttered
. "Al l th e res t o f th e women and the old men. What happened to them?
Fathe r Antoni o ..
. Di d they...
"
"Everyone of them is in Aosta," spat Signora Aluzzi, wh o ha d alway s fel
t hersel f t o b e a clas s abov e an y mere artisans like the
Delstregos. "They went under a guard of soldiers, all very proper. As though
the poor scum were royalty! Only those of us who are worth something have been
tied up like pigs to market!"
"Th e soldiers..
. offere d n o violence?
" Damian o blinke d stupidl y fro m on e fac e t o another
.
Signora Aluzzi snorted. "We haven't been raped, if that's what you mean, you
young gutter rat!"
He scratche d his head in simple puzzlement .
"But..." He glanced again at Carla Denezzi. "They're
all being killed," he said, and then fell silent as though awaitin g
confirmatio n o f hi s words
. Sh e regarde d hi m soberly and silently , her hand resting lightly upon
his.
"Th e soldier s ar e al l bein g killed
, fo r reveng e o f thei r crime s agains t you
. An d i t i s I wh o hav e mad e tha t possible," he concluded .
"Go d b e praised!
" grunte d th e ol d signor a o f th e vineyards .
Carl a fel t Damian o start
. Sh e caugh t hi s stricke n glance and held it. It was only her perfect
understand -
ing at this moment that kept Damiano from being swep t away
, blow n int o tear s o r madness
.
The wagon tilted. Paolo Denezz i was climbin g aboard . "It is done," he
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announced , and he saw Damian o and Carla.
"Yo u don'
t touc h m y sister!
" h e roared
, throwin g hal f th e wome n bac k int o quakin g hysteria
. "Sh e i s a pure dove! And you... you, Delstrego, are a monster!"
"Paolo!" shouted Carla, in anger and indignation .
Bu t Damian o very slowl y dre w hi s han d back
. H
e sai d nothin g an d slunk ou t o f th e wagon
. H
e picked hi s wa y ami d th e graceles s figure s o n th e road
, whic h la y so still they might never have known life at all.
Chapter 7
Aosta was a larger and more prosperous town than
Partestrada, since it lay at the most pleasant dip in the onl y roa d
enterin g th e Piedmon t fro m th e north
. Damian o had often thought this an unfair advantage for a city that did not
have much else to recommend it. It shared wit h Partestrad a a rushin g
river
, whic h wa s name d i n the mountains the Evancon, though at the feet of
the
hills it changed its name along with its tempestuou s personality and was
called the Dora Baltea.
Much of the gold Damiano had brought out of the
Delstrego tower had gone to buy shelter for the poorer refugees, and even so
these would have to find work quickl y o r mov e on
. Ha d th e burgher s o f Aost a know n that this ill-timed influx of
business had left fifty sol-
diers and eight horses buried in the snow of the pas-
ses
, thei r welcom e woul d hav e bee n shor t indeed
. Th e
Vall e d'Aosta
, feelin g som e protectio n fro m it s moun
-
tains but not much, had no desire to involve itself in battle s tha t ough t
t o hav e bee n fough t b y Amadeu s himself.
A s i t was
, ther e wa s n o nee d fo r th e Aostan s t o know
. Genera l Pard o himsel f woul d b e slo w i n findin g out, for not
a man would return to him.
Still
, fin d ou t h e would
. No w tha t th e matte r o f th e citizens had been cleared up (or at
least Damiano felt n o furthe r responsibilit y fo r them)
, h e ha d tim e t o reflect.
It was strange to realize that he had no more virtue than Pardo , no more than
the soldier s who put a tiny hamle t t o th e swor d becaus e on e
peasan t showe d fight
.
Damiano had killed fifty—he did not allow the knives and hammers of
Partestrada credit for the blood—in revenge for that six. Or perhaps it was a
revenge for th e soldiers
' crime s agains t th e wome n o f Partestrada
—
a meaningles s reveng e fo r crime s tha t ha d neve r bee n
committed.
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Whatever—Damiano had not felt wicked in action.
He doubte d Genera l Pardo did, either. "Man is born in sin, and his nature is
evil." Father Antonio had an-
nounce d tha t fro m th e pulpit
, thoug h i t wa s no t a subject upon which the good priest had dwelt in
his leisure time. Never till now had Damiano thought about it.
Were the peasant woman's curses now satisfied?
Woul d sh e res t peacefully
, no w tha t he r murderer s were all dead?
And while he was asking questions, where was
Father Antonio, anyway? Damiano needed direction
(the sort of direction Raphael would never consent to give). And he needed it
immediately.
The dank common room of the inn where Damiano sat, though warm and crowded
with his companions, was sullen and quiet. Damiano rose from the crude table
of wooden slats, leaving behind him crumbs of bread, the wax rind of a cheese,
and an untouched length of sausage . A whine beneath the table prompte d him
to throw the meat to Macchiata.
Carl a wa s unreachable
, i n th e hous e o f friend s an d guarded by her villainous brother,
but Damiano could a t leas t g o lookin g fo r hi s frien d th e
priest
.
The basilica of San Sebastiano at Aosta was really just a small round church.
Damiano stood at the door, certai n h e woul d fin d th e pries t nearby
, bu t feelin g a stiff
, unreasonin g reluctanc e t o enter
. A
s h e stoo d undecided , Carl a Denezz i steppe d out.
"Damiano!" she gasped, and caught him by the hand. "Step in here, quick." He
let himself be dragged into shadows smelling of wood smoke and incense.
Lef t o f th e doo r wa s a baptismal
, separate d fro m the vestibule by a lacework of wood. As though this
offered concealment, she sat him down.
Sh e wa s wearin g a cream-colore d shawl
. He r fac e was clean and rosy, and the sight of it brought the past once
more to life for him: warm, filtered sun threading through the pales of the
loggia, and bright threads lying on a basket, neatly sorted, and ideas neatly
sorted, and laughter. Damiano wanted to tell her how glad he was to see her,
and how he had missed her, and sought her, and thought of her as he lay curled
in a black cave in the hills under snow, but the very clean-
ness and rosiness of her face stopped him. It made
Damiano shy.
" I shouldn't hav e m y staf f here, " h e murmured
.
"It isn' t right. "
Sh e ha d reache d ou t he r smal l hand
, meanin g t o la y th e stic k aside
, whe n sh e remembere d an d dre w back. "Ah! I forgot one mustn't touch
it."
Smiling with an odd sadness, Damiano took her han d an d touche d i t t o
th e ebon y wood
. "Signorina, "
he whispered, "nothing of mine will ever hurt you. I
promise that. You could put your hand on my beating heart
, an d i t woul d d o yo u n o harm.
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"
She chuckled at this fervid gallantry, wondering how such a deed could hurt
anyone but Damiano himself, but with a reawakened memory her hand went to the
breast of his tunic—to the hole. "Your beating heart," she echoed. "How is
it—by what mira-
cle, Damiano... "
"Th e miracl e o f a book.
" H e laughe d i n retur n an d slippe d ou t th e volum e t o sho w
her
. "Th e miracl e o f
Petrarch'
s poetry.
"
With a small cry of wonder, Carla took the book.
She gave his hand a tiny squeeze. "Oh, Damiano, I
thank God for that. When I saw the man raise his bow I
screamed aloud, for I knew by your colors it was you acros s th e gap
. I praye d tha t h e ha d no t hi t you
, bu t I
feared every moment we would pass your body in the snow."
"It must be that I owe my life to your prayers," he said sincerely. There was
a moment's happy silence.
Then Carla sighed. "Your soul and mine compre-
hend one another, dear Damiano. I wish you were my brothe r instea d o f
Paolo.
"
This
, althoug h i t denote d affection
, wa s no t th e sentiment Damiano wished to hear from Carla. He caught his
tongue for a moment, rehearsing words. Of course he would tell her how he
loved her, but how and to what end?
Shoul d h e say
, "Carla
, beloved
, I a m goin g t o
Provence where my music in your honor will make you famous. Wait for me"? Or
was it to be, "Carla, best beloved, I am going to Nuremberg, where my
alchemies in your honor will bring you glory. Wait for me"? It was
certain he could not say, "Carla, little dear, friend of my childhood, come
with me to Provence or Germany and starve. "
But it was Carla who spoke. "My brother is not please d wit h me
, ol d friend
. Yo u alon e i n th e world
, Damiano, have the soul to understand why I have applied to the convent La
Dolerosa at Bard."
Damiano gazed blankly at the pink marble chris-
tening bowl, lily-shape d and smoother than flower petal s i n th e fade d
light
. "Wh y yo u what
? Sa y again.
"
Carl a leane d forward.
He r hand s folde d togethe r o n he r lap
. " I hav e applied—an d bee n accepted—a t th e cloister of Our
Sorrowful Mother at Bard. I will enter on my birthday , next month . Paolo
would stop me if he could
, havin g plan s t o marr y m e t o a cousi n i n Donnaz
, but by law he cannot stand between me and the vows."
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Hi s ear s rang
. Th e font
, th e lecturn
, th e marbl e leapin g fish
, al l stoo d ou t i n impossibl e relief
. "Carla
?
Yo u ar e goin g int o th e cloister
? Yo u wil l becom e a nun?"
She nodded, slowly and fervently . "I will become one of the sisters of Saint
Clare. I will dedicate my work s an d prayer s t o th e poo r an d th e
suffering.
"
Somethin g i n Damiano'
s expressio n daunte d her
.
"Yo u .. . aren'
t happ y fo r me
, Dami?
"
"I will never see you again!" cried the youth, his voic e risin g t o a
wail
. Carl a pu t on e finge r ver y nea r hi s mouth, darting a glance
left and right.
"Hush
, Damiano
! M
y brothe r rarel y set s foo t i n a church, but... If he found us, he
would come at you like a bear—he is so furious."
Unabl e t o restrai n himself
, h e too k he r han d an d kisse d it . "Carla
, cam, m y dear
, m y Beatrice
. Don'
t leav e m e an d hid e yoursel f behin d ston e wall s forever
, or I will die!"
He r littl e chi n droppe d i n surprise
. "Wha t ar e yo u saying, Damiano? Am I going mad?"
"Please!" he implored. "When the soldiers marched int o th e city
, al l I though t abou t wa s you
, an d whe n I
knew that you were gone, I feared for you. I marched throug h th e col d an
d sno w an d wa s assaulte d b y thieves
. I spen t a nigh t o f deat h aliv e i n th e tor n carcass of a
dead cow, and then I sinned, killing men to sav e you..
.
"Mother of God, Carla, don't leave me! Let me serv e yo u instead
. Al l I have
. Al l I am
. Al l th e day s o f my life.... I will not touch you, if it is your will
that I
d o not
. Thoug h I hop e ferventl y tha t i s not you r will
!
Please
, i t mus t b e th e wil l o f Go d tha t I wan t you
, fo r I
could never want anything so much by myself!" His word s brok e of f i n a
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sob
.
Carla sat still. Damiano, suddenly abashed, released he r hand
. Slowl y sh e bega n t o shak e he r head
.
"Damiano . Where did this speech come from? In all the time I have known you,
our conversation has bee n o f Go d an d o f th e sciences
. Yo u introduce d m e t o th e philosopher s o f th e Church
, who m I migh t neve r have known. You read to me interminably— I mean at
length—fro m blesse d Hermes
, whos e nam e I coul d never find on the list of saints, and taught me
the elemental s an d ho w the y combine
, an d th e order s o f the angels.
"Bu t yo u neve r spok e t o m e o f love—worldl y love
.
I had thought you would scorn such a feeling!" Her eyes wandere d hidde n in
the darkness .
"Eh? God. Study. Love. Is there a difference among them?
" h e blurted
. Damian o n o longe r kne w quit e what he was saying . He shrugge d
spasmodically . "I
lov e you
, Carla
. I swea r t o Go d tha t I lov e you.
"
" I didn'
t kno w that, " sh e sai d simply
, shiftin g o n the stone seat.
"Perhaps because I didn't either. Please, Carla, believe it now. Pretend you
have always believed. Let it mak e a differenc e t o you r decision
. Can'
t you
?
"Can't you?" He stroked the air above her knee, not daring to touch her.
Her slow denial was inevitable and crushing. "No, my dear Damiano. I can't."
"Thi s i s a worl d o f muc h bitterness
; yo u hav e see n that as I have. Life is wracked with pain and cut short
b y wa r an d pestilence
. Th e wea k suffe r unde r th e strong, and the strong, like my poor,
fearsome Paolo, suffer under their own passions. Seeking after happi-
ness itself leads to sin and greater suffering. We were not put here to be
happy."
"That's good then," Damian o said, putting his elbow s o n hi s knee s an
d hi s hea d i n hi s hands
. "..
. be
-
caus e I certainl y a m not..
. happy.
"
Reluctantly
, knowin g sh e shouldn't
, Carl a stroke d
Damiano's black hair. "We who are allowed to see this, m y brother
, m y dea r brother
, brothe r o f m y soul..
. w e ar e no t give n th e choic e o f who m t o love—fo r w e mus
t act love toward all, even the most repellent—nor whom first to serve. It is
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God himself whom we must serve.
Bu t fo r th e rest
, i t i s a s yo u say—i t mus t b e wit h al l w e possess
, an d wit h al l w e are
.
"An d I a m calle d b y Hi m t o prayer.
" He r smoot h bro w frowne d momentarily
. " I believe d tha t yo u were
, also, Damiano. It is from you I have learned my les-
sons, and I brought with me to Aosta the big book of
Thoma s Aquina s yo u gav e me
, an d als o th e poem s o f
Brother Francis that we read aloud together and were so beautiful. Can't you
also feel your vocation?"
He lifted his head with a brief, choking laugh.
"Me
? A bastard
, yo u know
, canno t becom e a priest
, bu t even a bastard is more welcome than I. A witch is barre d fro m
religiou s life
: eve n fro m la y orders
. The y think we are not quite right, you know. Some say we are even damned."
Damiano's shoulders twitched, but he immediately straightened and wiped his
tunic sleeve on his face.
"Forgive me, Signorina. I am weary and... not pleased with myself. I will
offer you nothing more to sour your resolution
. I d o understan d it , thoug h it...
"
H e too k a dee p breat h an d starte d again
. "Believ e me
, Carla
, i f yo u wis h t o b e a siste r t o me
, I wil l b e a brother to you. If you disappear behind the stone walls
of La Dolerosa, and I never see you again, then I will still love you and be
glad to love you, for it is better to love than not."
Sh e stoo d besid e Damiano
, he r blon d hai r escap
-
ing the confines of her shawl. He turned stiffly, lest motion should make him
cry once more (which would be too many times in too few days). He strode out
of the baptismal and through the vestibule. At the arched doorway Damiano
winced and turned his face from the cold light of the sun.
Nigh t fel l earl y i n th e valle y now
, a t th e en d o f
November
. Aost a sa t i n shadow
, i n th e cuppe d hand s of the hills. The air was filled with wood
smoke.
Damian o ha d pai d a townsma n t o tak e hi m i n tha t night—him
and Macchiata. If he went within now, ther e woul d b e a fir e an d ho
t soup
, n o doubt
. (T
o stretch one's dinner to feed a stranger, one always made soup.) But instead
Damiano sat on a log in the meadow, where the banks of a frozen stream hid him
fro m th e wind
. H
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e ha d woun d hi s ermin e mantl e clos e around him, and his booted
feet were buried beneath the mass of a warm dog.
Th e sk y ha d faded
, lik e violet s presse d i n th e page s o f a book
. Th e ic e o f th e strea m wa s gray
.
"With all we possess. With all we are." She had throw n hi s word s bac k
a t him
, an d the y scalded
. Wha t
Damian o had, money and property , had been quickl y dispersed
. Wha t h e was
, seeme d nothin g wort h th e gift .
He shivered, and Macchiat a shifted on his boots.
Still, anything could be turned to use some way. A
chair that could not be sat on could be thrown on the fire. A man whom no one
needed, whose actions turned to harm, could serve a similar purpose. Damiano
ha d a sudden
, dreadfu l ide a tha t fi t hi s mood
. H
e ros e and started back toward the street.
A n hou r ha d passed
. Macchiata ha d bee n pu t t o
be d a t th e landlord'
s hearth
. Sh e ha d no t objected
.
"Raphael, " h e called
, sinkin g onc e mor e ont o th e lone
-
ly log .
"Raphael. Seraph. If you can spare a minute..."
The archange l sat himself gracefull y on the frozen water.
" I ca n spar e eternity, " sai d Raphael
. Hi s smil e wa s filled with that potent sweetness that man can appreci-
at e onl y fro m fa r away
. I t gav e Damian o unexpecte d pain, that smile, though he had seen it
so often before.
" I woul d like...
" H
e stopped
, no t knowin g wha t to say. "Raphael, sit with me awhile, because I may
never see you again."
The angel fluffe d his feathers, and his eyebrows ros e i n a gestur e a s
simpl e an d dignifie d a s tha t o f a n owl.
"Don't say 'never' to me, Dami!" Then Raphael' s smile returned. "It's a word
I cannot understand."
Reflectively the angel added, "—though I understand
'forever' quite well. The two words are very different in quality, I think."
Damiano did not reply but clutched his knees to his chest. Slowly Raphael
reached out a hand, and then a wing, taking the young man into his circle of
light.
"Shall I play for you, Damiano?" he asked, as minute s passed
.
"The lute is in the cabinetmaker's house, with
Macchiata.
" Damiano'
s voic e wa s phlegmy
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. H
e cleare d his throat.
"I have my own instrument," said the angel, diffidently .
Damiano's eyes flickered briefly with curiosity, but that brightness failed.
"Than k you
, Seraph
, bu t I can'
t affor d th e peac e such music would bring to me. There's something I
hav e t o do
, an d I mus t remai n stron g fo r it .
"Please sit beside me, Raphael, and don't ask me to talk."
To huddl e in the compas s of the angel's wings was
lik e sittin g o n th e dis k o f th e ful l moon
, excep t tha t th e moo n wa s bot h mor e gaud y an d mor e
tarnished
.
Damiano was no longer cold. "You must continue to believe, Raphael, even if it
becomes difficult.. . you mus t believ e tha t I lov e you.
"
Raphael'
s black-blu e gaz e wa s beyon d surpris e o r judgment.
Young Carla Denezzi walked the dark streets from the basilica to the inn,
chaperoned by the Signora
Anuzzi. They had passed the evening praying for the soul s o f th e dead
. Th e ol d signora'
s prayer s ha d bee n specifically for her nephew Georgio Anuzzi, the owner
o f th e vineyards
, wh o ha d refuse d t o abando n hi s holding s befor e th e influ x
o f soldier s an d wa s no w presumabl y amon g th e departed
. An y spiritua l benefi t tha t oversho t thi s targe t woul d
presumabl y g o towar d the souls of the two Partestradan men slain in the
battle of the road.
Carla's prayer s had been less exclusive . She had praye d fo r th e soul s
o f al l wh o la y dea d i n th e moun
-
tain snow. In fact, she had disbursed her prayers among some who were not dead
at all, but only unhappy.
Th e sk y wa s starless
, an d th e wome n picke d thei r way with worried care, fearing a fall
on the frozen mud o f th e street
. Signor a Anuzz i muttere d har d word s t o th e air
. A
t las t the y stoo d a t th e iron-boun d in n door
.
Carla looked along the street to its ending, and she spied an angel in the
fields beyond.
I t wa s whit e an d beautifu l an d unmistakabl y a n angel
, wit h hug e wing s folde d forwar d an d down
—
wing s lik e a girl'
s whit e woole n shawl
. I t sa t motionles s on the earth, praying . It must be praying , for
what else would an angel be doing alone at night, when many men were new dead?
"Signora
, look!
" sh e whispered
, pointin g int o th e darkness
. "D
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o yo u see?
"
"See? Child, I can scarcely see your finger, on a
night like this," the old woman snorted. Abruptly she turned away and went
through the door.
Carl a Denezz i ben t dow n o n he r knee s i n th e cold
.
With the angel for company, she uttered a silent prayer tha t al l me n an
d women
, liv e o r dead
, shoul d kno w peace.
Chapter 8
Th e nigh t wa s blac k wit h n o clippin g o f moon
. Damian o stood alone in cold that made his ears ring, and his breath
crackled against his face like a tiny fall of snow.
And he was afraid, though not of the cold. His staff stood braced before him,
unfelt by frozen hands, and he whispered words he did not remember learning—
unles s h e ha d hear d the m i n sleep
, fro m hi s father
.
With a prickle and thrill the young man intuited that hi s fathe r ha d
spoke n thes e word s a t leas t once
.
"Sator arepo tenet opera rotas.
Ades, Satan!"
h e pronounced, but at the concluding word
"Dominus"
he choked and the word went unsaid.
The omission was meaningless , for a sheet of blackness disassociated itself
from the night and flung
Damian o int o th e air—o r int o th e ground
. Th e youn g ma n coul d no t tel l th e difference
, fo r bot h ai r an d eart h had gone suddenl y imperviou s and
malevolent . His limbs were stiff in an uncleanly paralysis, and Damiano ha d
n o breat h t o scream
. H
e saile d throug h wind s tha t were eddies of pain.
This was hell, he thought, and he had not needed an interview with the Devil
to find it. He mouthed the words "O God!" not knowing what he said.
The darkness broke under an assault of noonday light. Damiano put his hand to
his face and in wonder
notice d tha t h e wa s stil l o n hi s feet
, tha t hi s blind
, sweepin g passag e ha d no t disarrange d th e fold s o f hi s
mantle.
Under his feet was rock, round and hollowed like a riverbed but colored
carnelian. Around him curled huge tines of the stuff, taller than his head. In
the distanc e rose a cliff wall, taller than the Grandfathe r itself, and
within it an enormous arched opening, like a window
. Beyon d that..
.
Wit h simple
, terribl e understanding
, Damian o real
-
ize d tha t th e arc h was a windo w an d th e clif f wal l was a wall
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, an d th e rounded
, flesh y roc k h e stoo d upon
, miles abov e the ground , was an open hand . He swiv-
ele d s o quickl y h e fel l down
, o n a pal m tha t wa s easil y as hard as river rock.
The face of Raphael leaned down over him, beauti-
ful
, pur e an d clean-chiseled
. I t wa s th e angel'
s face
, bu t i t wa s ho t an d ruddy
, mountainou s i n size
. "Mothe r o f
God!
" yelpe d Damian o i n terror
.
Th e fac e instantl y retreated
. "Woul d Fathe r Antoni o appreciat e suc h language?
" i t asked
. "Commo n polite
-
ness itself forbids..."
The voice that spoke these words , thoug h natural -
l y enormous
, wa s civilize d i n expressio n an d modulat
-
ed in tone. But still, there was something about it of th e dry
, abrasiv e soun d o f a shove l cuttin g throug h ashes
, an d i t wa s no t Raphael'
s voic e a t all
.
No r wa s th e fac e quit e a s muc h lik e tha t o f th e archange
l a s Damian o ha d firs t supposed
. Th e lea n cheekbones arched out below the eyes in more aggres-
sive fashion , perhap s mor e barbari c and perhap s also mor e interesting
. Raphael'
s hair
, thoug h fai r enough
, was reduced to a childish flaxen next to the gold that curled fastidiousl y
over this enormou s head. It was a gold that deserved to be minted in coin.
Then Damiano remembered that Lucifer, too, had begu n a s a n archangel
, an d Damian o kne w h e wa s i n the presence he had summoned . The
witch sat on the
Devil's palm, his staff across his thighs, toes pointed to th e unimaginabl e
ceiling
, an d h e continue d t o stare
.
The terrible eyes narrowed, as a man's eyes will narro w whe n h e trie s
t o focu s o n th e for m o f a n insec t he has captured. "Well. What
is the problem, my friend? Did you not expect that little voyage? Did you thin
k I woul d com e t o you
, whe n i t i s s o muc h easier
, and more fitting as well, to bring you to me?"
Damiano's ears were buzzing, and his head was filled with woolly numbness. He
dared not open his mouth, for he had no idea what sounds would come out of it.
Yet he spared a glance around him.
The view was endless, and the young man's vision wa s not
, bu t h e sa w enoug h t o convinc e hi m tha t h e was in a room of
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some sort. Four flat walls, chalky white, supported hangings indistinguishably
embroi-
dered in red. There was an enormou s expanse of polished, tile floor on which
stood a table the size of a cathedral, supporting a bowl filled with tawny
grapes.
Fou r window s looke d ou t i n fou r directions
, displayin g respective cloudy vistas of blue sea, green fields, ice-
boun d rock
, an d featureles s sand
. Thoug h thes e view s were incompatible, and for the most part
uninhabitable to man, as Damiano peered from one window to an-
other he felt a keen longing to be in any of them, flying through the sweet,
free air (flying? Why flying? Damiano had never in his life flown anywhere).
In freedom, true freedom, under sunlight or shadow, answerable to no one, not
even to...
"I t i s m y audienc e chamber
. A
pleasan t place
, i s i t not? Merely to sit in it and breathe the air calls forth the best
qualities in a man. And it is convenient to all place s an d times
. I to o hav e spen t man y hour s gazin g out at my dominions. "
Damiano nodded absently, thinking that the attrac-
tion was more out the windows than in the room itself, where the air smelled
flat, like a dead fire. He won-
dered if perhaps that was how Satan himself felt, and whether that was not the
reason he spent hours staring
out at the places where he was not. Also, if these vistas were like others the
youth had seen, then they were a cheat, for once one had labored toward them,
one invariably found one was still standing on soil that was simila r i n
look s an d fee l t o tha t o f home
, breathin g an d rebreathing the cloud of one's own breath. Damiano could
understand if Satan felt that frustration when he gaze d ou t hi s windows
, fo r th e grea t demon'
s breat h was particularly stale. In fact, for one brief instant he felt he
understood the Devil very well, but then that momen t passed
.
Satan cleare d his throat . "I think you requeste d an audience, Dami?"
Hearing his name spoken, Damiano shivered uncontrollably
. Delstreg o woul d no t hav e bee n s o ba d to hear, though any
evidence that the Devil knew one was unpleasant to the ears. To have Satan
call him by his Christian name would have been understandable, since most
everyone in Partestrada called him Damiano, having known him since a child.
But to be called Dami, as Carla and as Raphael called him Dami, by these lips
that were only too massive to be Raphael's, and in that scraped-ashen voice...
that was worse than having the
Devil reprimand him in Father Antonio's name.
Yet he planted his staff and climbed to his feet again. "I did," he answered,
his voice sounding unexpectedly steady. "If you are Satan, that is."
The fair brow shot up in a gesture distractingly familiar. "I am," whispered
the gray voice, "Lucifer, the ruler of the earth and of mankind. I heard you,
and since I try to be open and accessible to all my subjects, I
have helped you hither to me."
Damiano's gaze of confusion continued, and at last the huge face flushed. The
effect was like sunset on the mountains. "You speak of audacity! You act as
though yo u don'
t believ e I a m wh o I say!
" Finger s curle d around th e youn g man
, threatenin g t o shu t ou t th e light.
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Damiano recalled how Father Antonio had once
sai d tha t n o ma n i s a s offende d a t doub t a s i s th e
habitua l lia r wh o ha s fo r onc e tol d th e truth
. Thoug h he stood in a dread so thick as to be indistinguishable fro m
despair
, thi s smal l observatio n comforte d him
. " I
believ e you
, spirit
. I believ e yo u becaus e yo u loo k s o much like the archangel
Raphael, whose face I have seen and whom I know to be related to you. But
still that paradox astounds me, that you should look so muc h lik e a n
angel.
"
The once-highest of the archangels went redder tha n beets
, unti l hi s fac e ha d th e loo k o f flaye d flesh
.
Hi s finger s curle d aroun d th e tin y figur e o f gol d an d
scarle t unti l i t seeme d h e woul d crus h it .
Bu t Damian o stoo d braced
, an d th e hug e embrac e halted
, wit h a perfectl y manicure d thumbnai l restin g against the young
man's throat. "There was," admitted
Satan, "a litter of creatures spawned, with a superficial resemblance to me.
Imitation, no doubt. But I am by far the greatest."
Damian o nodded
, feelin g th e col d horn y nai l agains t hi s adam'
s apple
. " I wa s tol d yo u wer e greate r tha n they," he replied. "I only
brought it up to explain why I
wa s staring.
" H
e coughed
, backe d awa y fro m th e thumb
-
nail and felt the end of a hard finger between his shoulder blades.
Satan smiled, thereby destroying the last resem-
blanc e wit h Raphael
. "Who, " h e crooned
, "gav e yo u such good information ? One of my lieutenant s on the earth, I
presume. A murderer, or the pope at Avignon?"
Damian o glance d u p sharply
. "Raphae l tol d me
.
He said you were always the greatest of the angels."
Rude laughte r barked and boomed , till Damian o swaye d o n th e pal m o
f th e Devil'
s hand
, hi s ow n hand s ove r hi s ear s an d eyes
. "Humility!
" roare d th e red face. "I love it!" Then, with whip-crack speed, it was
sober. "And I am gratified to find a man without a n exaggerate d respec t
fo r tha t twitterin g crew.
"
Damian o stiffene d an d se t hi s jaw
. H
e ha d no t come to get into an argument with the Devil, like the
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on e he ha d bee n dragge d int o b y Genera l Pardo
, bu t h e wa s a n Italia n bor n an d coul d no t hea r hi s
frien d s o demeaned
. No t b y an y ma n o r devil
. "Powe r i s no t everything
, Grea t Lucifer, " h e stated
. " I don'
t thin k i t means anything, to Raphael. Not like music does. And thoug h h
e ma y b e les s powerfu l tha n yo u are
, h e i s stil l far above me."
Satan set his eyes on Damiano as a wolf might have set its teeth in his neck.
He could neither move nor look away.
"He is far above you, boy, because he has made you believe it. Be aware that
spirits are very subtle and the y sa y nothin g b y chance
.
" I hav e a certai n reputatio n i n tha t directio n my
-
self, Damiano, but I swear to you that I am forthrightness itself, compared
with the spirits who bow to the
Beginning."
"The Beginning? " echoed Damiano .
Satan sighed and his face knit into lines of pure philosophy
. "Al l things
, an d spirits
, cam e ou t o f th e
Beginning. Exploded from It, you might say. It had no choice in the matter and
would certainly have maintained us all as part of Itself, if It could have.
"But It could not, for freedom is as old as the
Beginning
, i f no t older
. Eve r sinc e al l o f us
, spirit s an d creatures alike, escaped and became ourselves, It has been
trying to cozen us into returning, so It can con-
sume us again. With that in mind It spread the tale that
It transubstantiate s into bread, to be consumed by man
, s o tha t ma n wil l fee l les s objectio n t o th e trut h that
It consumes man, like bread.
"To be dissolved into another! That is the antithe-
sis of freedom."
I t wa s Go d h e wa s talkin g about
, Damian o realized
.
"In fact, Damiano, though I am the lord of the eart h I a m als o th e on
e apostl e o f freedo m upo n th e earth
, an d thos e wh o serv e m e kno w th e gift s o f liberty
, fo r ther e i s nothin g I wil l den y a man
. I wil l no t even deny him the intellectua l pleasure derived from
bowin g a t th e alte r o f th e Beginning
, i f tha t i s hi s desire, though that Other does not extend such
courte-
sy to me.
"In fact I have many who worship me "in such part-tim e fashion
, som e o f the m worth y me n i n cardi
-
nal red. I..."
Damian o ha d los t th e threa d o f Satan'
s conversa
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-
tion, for he was still trying to understan d how freedo m coul d b e bot h
natura l an d a gift
. Perhap s hi s lac k o f attention was written in his face, for the Devil
stopped in midsentence.
"But here now. You didn't come all this way to discuss histories, or to tell
me that that fluttering limpid brothe r o f min e know s hi s place
. Wha t d o yo u wan t o f me
, Damian o Delstrego
? Wha t i s you r desire
, m y dea r brother witch?"
Damiano filled his lungs with dry air, more deadly than fumes of sulfur. "A
bargain," he announced.
"Of course. A bargain," echoed the red angel, and hi s smil e hel d a
languorou s ennui
. "Everyon e want s a bargai n fro m me
. You'
d thin k I wer e a tradesman
, instea d o f onl y th e invento r o f trade.
" H
e dandle d
Damiano gently between his fingers, knocking him to his knees.
"All men lust after my bargains, little friend, though some pursue them
harder. It seems to run in families, fo r yo u ar e no t th e firs t
Delstreg o wit h who m I hav e spoken... "
Damian o mad e n o reply
, thoug h th e bloo d i n hi s hear t congealed
. Stil l h e kne w bette r tha n t o trus t th e
Devil concerning his father. Raphael had said to have hope
, s o h e cas t hi s eye s dow n a t th e immaculat e ruddy palm.
"Bargains...
" Sata n ruminated
, an d h e sa t bac k i n his gilded throne, which was the only chair in
the room
. " I a m sempiternall y bore d wit h strikin g bargain s with mortals.
They never have anything interesting to ask
, o r anythin g worthwhil e t o give.
" H
e sighe d lik e a gal e i n a cave
.
"I think you want what I have to give," began
Damiano
, grimacin g a s h e spoke
, bu t th e Devi l cu t hi m off .
"That comes second, little witch. First is the matter of what you want. "
This was simple to say and not frightening. "I
wan t peace, " state d Damiano
.
Afte r a moment'
s pause
, Sata n grunted
. "Ther e ar e man y avenue s towar d tha t goal
, Damiano
. I coul d build you a castle in a green valley where no man has ever set
foot. Obedient demons would do your will and neve r sa y n o t o you
. Succubi
, too
. Unres t i s a produc t of your interaction with other mortals, believe
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me.
With no human company, you would be sure to have peace.
"Alternately, I could provide you with one hundred years on the oil of the
eastern poppy, with never a bad dream
. Tha t i s peace
, an d poetry
, too
. I recommen d i t ove r m y firs t proposal
.
"Then I could make you my vassal over all Europe, of course. That is a popular
request, since many men hav e com e t o th e realizatio n tha t powe r
i s freedo m an d freedo m i s happiness.
" Col d gra y eye s regarde d Damiano
, eyes much larger than platters. "And what is happi-
ness
, bu t peac e i n action
?
"Yo u woul d mak e a comica l emperor
, Damian o
Delstrego
. Yo u hav e a kin d heart.
"
Damiano frowned and sat back on his heels. He struck the shoe of his staf f
against the devil' s palm.
"No. No, Satanas, I want peace, not for me, but for all th e Piedmont
. On e hundre d year s withou t war.
"
Sata n peere d closel y a t th e tin y thin g i n hi s hand
.
"With you as duke, of course?" he drawled.
Damiano shook his head. "I can't... I mean I thank yo u fo r you r
confidenc e i n me
, bu t m y talent s don'
t b e i n tha t direction.
Onl y onc e hav e I bee n abl e t o unit e an d fir e men'
s minds
, an d tha t tim e I..
. No
, I don'
t want to pay that again. I am a man of the arts: an
alchemist, a musician , maybe a poet, too, though I
have not much experienc e in that, as yet."
At a thought his tongue thickened and he grew visibly paler. "Or at least
these were the things I had planne d to be." Then he flippe d his sleeve s and
hair back and began afresh.
"Wit h an y suitabl e ma n a s a duke
. O
r withou t a duke, as one grand republic with Partestrada as capital.
Or eight little, quiet republics, with Partestrada as the largest. "
"That is imp..." The Devil cleared his throat, and
Damiano seemed to see a cloud of ash spread from his well-molded lips into the
room. "Your love for your city doe s yo u credit
, Damiano
, bu t let'
s tal k concretely
. I
ca n giv e yo u Genera l Pardo'
s hea d o n a pike.
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"
Damiano had expected this offer. "That's no good.
Pard o alon e isn'
t th e problem
, fo r ther e wil l alway s b e another wolf to raven the fold. I want a
respite from wolves. I want peace and prosperity for the Piedmont."
"Before you said only peace, Damiano . That was ba d enough
, bu t no w you'v e adde d prosperity.
"
Damian o squinte d a t th e loomin g face
. " I mea n peace, but not the peace of devastatio n and pestilence , whe n
al l th e peopl e ar e dead
. I mea n a thrivin g peace.
"
"The head of Pardo plus the head of Paolo Denezzi. "
Damiano swallowed, abashed at how intimately the
Devil had read his worst desires.
"No," he replied weakly.
"... And I will burn down the convent of La Dolerosa at Bard before the month
is out," concluded Satan.
"Tha t wil l chang e man y things
, m y eage r youn g lover
, and you may return to your own tower with a beautiful bride. "
Damiano's eyes stung, and his cheeks flushed, though nowhere so red as those
on the elegant face of the Devil.
"No." He was scarcely audible. "Do nothing to touch her."
The angry trembling of the great hand ran through
Damiano and made his teeth vibrate.
"I find your bargaining to be rather of the take-it-
or-leave-i t variety , little witch, " Satan rasped , and he laid his hand
down on the table. Damiano stared, fasci-
nated, at the pond-size d shallow bowl that he had thought to be filled with
grapes. "You ask more from m e tha n an y ma n i n a handfu l o f
centuries, " snappe d the beautiful red mouth. "What on earth or in hell do
yo u hav e t o giv e i n return?
"
Damiano blinked three times and then was certain tha t th e object s i n
th e bow l wer e fres h huma n heads
.
This knowledge, rather than frightening him, gave him a certai n hopeles s
courage
. "Myself, " h e said
. "M
y life
.
My soul. You can have it now without waiting."
Th e nex t instan t foun d hi m tumblin g acros s th e polishe d woo d
surfac e o f th e table
, hi s staf f tanglin g with his legs.
"Your soul? Damiano , why don't you try selling m e thi s throne
, o r m y ow n lef t hand?
" A
s Sata n leane d ove r th e tabl e Damian o fel t th e woo d crea k
complain t and the air grow very hot. "Boy, don't you know what it means to be
born a witch?"
Damiano lay flat on his back with his eyes closed.
Pani c brushe d hi s face
. " I kno w n o ma n i s bor n damned, "
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h e hissed
. "Fathe r Antoni o ha s sai d it , an d m y hear t tells me it is
true!"
The deadly ire subside d into irony. "To be what they call damned is only to
be free and to declare you ar e free
, shakin g you r fis t a t brut e authority
. I wil l giv e a lot to free a man, Damiano, but you're right; I can't do
it alone. Each man chooses his own 'damnation.'
An d you"—th e fier y fac e turne d away—"chos e th e black path to my
door."
Damiano waited for flames to take him, but after ten seconds passed
uneventfully , he opened his eyes.
He lay under the rim of the pottery bowl, which was the color of dried blood.
One of the heads brim-
min g ove r th e edg e stare d dow n a t him
. Th e slac k
features were those of the captain of cavalry whom he had seen brained by the
butcher's hammer not one day ago
. Tha t spotte d thin g behin d it
: wa s tha t a cow'
s head
? Damian o close d hi s eye s again
. H
e becam e awar e the Devil was speaking.
"Yo u ar e a fool
, an d yo u hav e waste d m y time
, boy. But as you are a witch and a freethinker and so have some call on me, I
will be very generous. I
propose a bargain that will almost exactly suit your needs.
" I wil l arrang e wha t yo u cal l peac e fo r Partestrada
.
Not the entire Piedmont , mind you, and not for one hundre d years
, bu t jus t fo r th e live s o f th e presen t inhabitants
. Yo u wil l b e th e mayor—simpl y becaus e you are the only man who
will be able to understand you r pervers e motivation s i n thi s matter
. Partestrad a will happen to lie outside every path of conquest from
Italy, France, and the north. Harvests will be adequate.
No t ample
, perhaps
, bu t adequate
. N
o plagu e wil l touch the city. Is that not a good approximation of peace?"
Damian o gaze d u p fixedly
, a s thoug h engage d i n colloquy with the head of the dead captain.
"Possibly.
Wha t d o yo u wan t fo r it , i f m y sou l i s o f n o value?
"
Satan chewed his lower lip and peered out his souther n windo w a t endles
s sand
. "I?
" H
e spok e slowly
, dreaming
. "I , lik e you
, a m a n altruist
. I as k nothin g fo r myself . But the situatio n impose s its own
restraints .
"You are right, little witch, in supposin g that the town of Partestrada
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contains the seeds of greatness. Its locatio n o n th e Dor a Baltea
, thre e quarter s o f th e wa y between Turin and Aosta... its
salubrious climate, nurturin g grape s ye t i n th e shadow s o f th e
Alps..
.
"Bu t I tel l yo u tha t fift y year s o f unexceptiona l peac e wil
l kil l Partestrada
. Sh e wil l fad e an d mummify
, an d he r youn g me n depar t fo r Mila n an d Turin
, violen t cities of more promise."
Damian o sat up. "That isn't the way it has to be."
The Devil raised one eyebrow in the familiar ges-
ture of Raphael. "Let me finish, please. Not only will
Partestrada fade and be forgotten, Damiano, but you yourself
. Al l yo u hav e don e an d dreamed
. Th e alchemica l discoveries you are destined to make, the music that eve
n no w you r unfulfille d lov e i s awakenin g i n you r bosom, all
your wisdom, your easy gift of friendship, your very name and your family name
and your house an d th e plac e wher e you r hous e onc e stoo d an d
you r face...
"Al l wil l b e los t an d forgotten
. I n a centur y yo u will be a man who might never have existed from a
city wit h a forgotte n name.
"
Damian o pu t hi s hea d betwee n hi s knees
. "No!
"
he said, and repeated it stubbornly, his voice shaking in his throat . "No .
That' s not the onl y wa y to get peac e for my city."
The Devil seemed to shrug. "It's what I offer," he replied. "I can see no
other way. Greatness, in man or nation, is incompatibl e with that emptines s
that you cal l peace.
"
Damiano rose slowly to his feet, using the edge of th e bow l o f head s
fo r support
. "Yo u ca n see n o othe r way? Raphael can't see into the future. He says
no created being can..."
Harsh laughte r boome d out, along with the odor of a wet fire. "Raphael? My
little brother has a long histor y o f confusin g dar e no t wit h
cannot
!
"Believe me or doubt me, boy, but you came here t o bargain.
This i s m y offer , an d i f yo u were the.. .
th e sain t yo u see m t o be
, yo u woul d sna p i t up
. Eve n
Raphael couldn't fault such a bargain; it reeks of yielding resignation.
And humility. What do you say, little witch?
Will you take it?"
"No, " answere d Damiano
. "Th e mor e I tal k t o yo u th e mor e I believ e i n
Partestrada
. Deca y i s no t th e onl y way to peace!"
The Devil snorted in jovial contempt. "Fine words!
But you are a hypocrite, after all," he said. He smiled
as though he had just won a hand at cards. "Or a coward. Either way, you're no
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better than I thought!"
The n th e bitte r win d too k Damian o agai n an d flung him at the
wall.
Chapter 9
Damiano spent the next morning lying motionless on a pallet on the floor of
the cabinetmaker's house, Macchiat a curle d besid e him
. Whe n h e woke
, hi s inter
-
vie w wit h th e Devi l migh t hav e bee n a dream
, excep t tha t hi s knee s wer e bruise d fro m fallin g o n tha t
ston y re d han d an d hi s nostril s wer e cake d wit h ash
.
At intervals during the morning, the dog left
Damiano
, onl y t o retur n an d fin d he r maste r a s dul l a s before
. A
t las t sh e inserte d he r dam p nos e betwee n
Damiano'
s stubbl y chi n an d hi s neck
.
"Master, " sh e began
, he r voic e muffle d b y th e contact, "Master, are you sick?"
"No, little dear," he answered slowly. "I just want t o sto p th e su n fo
r a while.
" Then
, rememberin g Mac
-
chiata's literal mind, he amended his statement . "I
needed time to think."
The dog sat placidly beside him, her brown eyes a fe w inche s fro m his
. A
s h e watched
, a fle a crawle d ou t from behind her ear and disappeared among the
white hairs of Macchiata' s muzzle. "And did you think?" she asked
. " I mean
, ar e yo u don e thinking
? Wha t did yo u think?"
Wrestling with the heavy felt blanket, Damiano turne d ont o hi s back
. "
I think..
. there'
s go t t o b e anothe r way
. Fo r bot h m y cit y an d myself.
"
"I'm sure there is," said Macchiata staunchly, "if
you think so." And she scratched the side of her face with the stubby nails of
her back foot.
It didn't bother Damiano that the dog should ex-
pres s he r agreemen t wit h hi m withou t knowin g th e subject matter
of that agreement; he was as used to
Macchiata'
s loya l ignoranc e a s h e wa s t o Raphael'
s smile.
"
I need help," he continued , thoughtfull y glowerin g a t th e blac k beam
s o f th e ceiling
. " I nee d advice.
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"
"Certainly. " She sat, ears pricked, and waited.
Damian o ben t hi s hea d towar d her
, an d a snor t o f laughter escaped him. "I meant—and I hope you will no
t b e offended
, Macchiata—fro m someon e wise r tha n
I."
The dog grinne d lazily , and her tongu e slid out the side. "Not at all,
Master. I know I am only four years old
, wherea s yo u ar e on e an d twenty
. Bu t wher e ar e you to find one greater than you are—that I don't know."
Damiano' s grin matche d hers. The dog's ludicrou s flattery never failed to
amuse him, because he knew it was sincere . He sat up, throwin g the weight of
covers aside. Beneath the blankets he was wearing his ermine mantl e an d
nothin g els e a t all
. Limberl y h e twiste d right and left over the floorboards, fishing for
his tunic and trousers among the tangles of cloth.
"Unless it's Raphael, Master. He must be very wise
, becaus e h e neve r get s upset
. Perhap s h e i s eve n wise r tha n you.
"
"Perhaps," Damiano agreed, and his grin grew rueful. "But I know his advice in
any case; it is not of the world, as he is not, and unfortunately, our
difficulty is very worldly. I can't sit back and pray.
"Besides
, i f th e archange l discovere d wha t I di d las t night
, likel y h e woul d neve r spea k t o m e again.
"
"Las t nigh t whe n I wa s asleep
, Master
? Wha t di d yo u do? "
"I had a chat with the Devil, little dear. And he threw me out."
Macchiata thought. "Is the Devil wiser than you?
Did you go to him for advice? "
Damian o pulle d hi s trouser s up
, wonderin g ho w many of Macchiata's fleas were hiding in them, and how
many of his own. "I guess I did—go to him for advice
. Bu t tha t doesn'
t mea n I hav e t o tak e it.
"
H e knel t t o fol d th e blanket
. Hi s knee s wer e ver y sore. "You know, little dear, it feels good to
be thrown ou t b y th e Devil
. No t a s good
, perhaps
, a s bein g welcome d i n b y th e Fathe r himself
, bu t then
, afte r th e latter experience one is not usually walking the green earth.
I think I know what I shall do next."
"What we shall do next, you mean," replied
Macchiata
, standin g unconcernedl y i n th e middl e o f th e blanke t he r
maste r wa s attemptin g t o fold
.
"Wha t w e shal l do
, then
. W
e ar e goin g t o tak e a trip. A very pleasant trip into a beautiful
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land. Just the tw o o f us. "
Macchiata cocked her head to one side, and the tip o f he r tai l bega n t
o wag
. Slowl y th e wa g gaine d bot h speed and mass, until her body was
still only from the shoulder s forward
.
"To Provence, Master, as you said last week?"
Damiano threw the blanket into the corner and stood
. H
e thrus t hi s hea d ou t th e singl e smal l windo w th e roo m
possesse d an d too k a chestfu l o f clea n air
. "No
.
Las t wee k I wa s dreamin g childis h dreams
. I wa s dreamin g o f m y ow n happiness
. Bu t still
, wher e w e ar e goin g i s mor e beautifu l tha n Provence
. W
e ar e goin g t o Lombardy
, little dear. To find the witch my father said was the most powerful in all
the Italics: Saara the Fenwoman, whose dominion..." and then his tongue clove
to the roof of his mouth, as he remembered where last he had heard th e wor d
"dominion.
" "Whos e powe r i s ove r bot h sno w an d sunlight
. Sh e must hel p us
.
"—For I don't know anyone else to ask."
The parting with Carla Denezz i was hard. It seemed to Damiano he had never
known how he loved her until
sh e wa s los t t o him
. I f h e ha d bee n mor e forward..
. bu t the n h e ha d no t suspecte d ther e woul d b e a limi t t
o thei r time together, and feelings, like fruit, ripen slowly in the high
air.
Damiano bought the black gelding from Paolo Denezzi, wh o wa s mor e tha n
willin g t o hel p Damian o o n hi s way
.
Th e las t o f hi s coi n wa s spen t o n foo d an d warme r bedding
than even his closet at home had provided. Was
Genera l Pard o no w storin g his gar b i n th e Delstreg o wardrobe ?
It was quite possible , since the tower was nearly the best house in
Partestrada, and certainly the most defendable .
No w tha t Damian o stoppe d t o thin k abou t it , th e general would
be running quite a risk if he did plant himsel f i n Damiano'
s house
. A
ma n coul d com e t o harm, nosing about in the Delstrego tower, even
though Damiano had quenched the fires in the work-
room before leaving . There were still the chemicals , an d th e elemental s
. . .
Damian o entertaine d th e pos
-
sibilities . A proble m or two would be solved if Pardo explode d alon g wit
h a seale d retort
. Bu t i t wa s a n idle notion: there was nothing the witch could do at
thi s distanc e t o encourag e a n explosion
, an d besides
, he did not know for sure that Pardo was staying in his house.
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Damian o rod e bac k alon g th e roa d sout h ou t o f
Aosta. He rode bareback because that was most easy for him. Guillerm o
Delstreg o had never kept a horse ;
animals hadn't liked him, and he had returned the feeling.
Or perhap s it had happene d the other way around .
I n eithe r case
, Damian o ha d no t learne d t o rid e alon g with the other boys of
family in Partestrada . He had not learned most things along with the other
boys, but he had learned quite a few things by himself, and amon g the m wa
s barebac k riding
.
And the horse liked him much better, now that
Damiano's madness had burned itself out. The geld-
in g steppe d easil y dow n th e packe d surfac e o f th e
road
, wher e a war m da y ha d thawe d th e brow n ic e an d hollowed
it, making sheets brittle and thin like isin-
glass. Shod hooves ground the stuff into slush.
Macchiat a pattere d about
, behind
, before
, an d be
-
neath
, interferin g i n a hundre d way s wit h th e patien t steed's
walking. Occasionally the horse put its head to the ground or thrust its lippy
muzzle into a crack of the rock wall, in the forlorn hope of grass. Damiano
did not correct it because he had no rein on the animal, and also because he
had not the heart.
The y passe d th e spo t wher e Damian o ha d firs t been hailed by
Pardo's captain and then the bend in the road where Damiano had destroyed the
soldiers with his memories of a butchered cow. Finally they passed beside the
small crevasse where fifty-two men were buried beneath snow and branches. For
Damiano thi s journe y wa s anothe r for m o f th e station s o f th
e cross
. H
e sai d nothing
, no r di d Macchiata
, thoug h he r nos e ha d a long memor y o f it s own
.
Th e horse
, wh o ha d memor y bu t n o words
, rolle d its eyes, and the hide over its withers twitched.
A mil e sout h o f thi s point
, a s Damian o stoppe d t o tak e a pul l o f win e fro m th e ba g
a t hi s lef t sid e h e heard a quick clatter of hooves. With his heel he
prodded the horse to the side of the road and called
Macchiata to stand beneath. Then he pulled his staff out from his bedroll and
spoke the spell; it came easily, fo r h e wa s bot h reste d an d i n
practice
.
Whe n th e goather d passe d wit h hi s tin y flock
, h e did not notice the prints of shod hooves that led onto the smooth snow
of the shoulder of the road and then stopped abruptly. The goats were more
observant. They stare d wit h thei r craz y yello w eyes
, pupil s rectangula r a s mone y boxes
, an d th e witc h didn'
t kno w whethe r the y coul d se e hi m o r whethe r the y kne w h e
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wa s ther e by other means.
Whe n almos t al l ha d passed
, on e weatherwor n buck halted before the horse, examined them sagaciously
and urinated into his own beard. Macchiata growled at the insult. The goat
presented its horns.
"Don'
t ge t involved, " hisse d Damian o helplessl y from above. At that
moment the goatherd stalked over, an d wit h hi s suppl e leathe r whip
, sen t hi s charg e bawlin g u p th e road
.
"Well, " sai d Damiano
, whe n the y wer e alon e again
.
"It might have been soldiers."
By midafternoo n Damiano had passed the fork in th e roa d wher e th e
ston e hu t stoo d abandone d an d empty
, passe d b y th e shoulde r hill s tha t conceale d th e dead village
of Sous Pont Saint Martin, and left behind th e footpat h wher e th e bone
s an d ra w hid e o f a co w ha d bee n tosse d t o ro t i n th e
firs t thaw
. Thu s al l th e tragic historie s of this past week were behind him.
Th e sk y wa s streake d wit h fair y cloud s o f ic e tha t
scattered the sunlight. He felt warm under his furs, warm and sleepy. "Let's
start again, little dear," he murmure d t o Macchiata
. "N
o mor e o f th e Devil
. I wen t wron g somewhere—
I don'
t kno w where
, exactly
, an d I
hav e n o on e t o ask
, bu t i t doesn'
t matter
. Mayb e Saar a can tell me, eh? She's been round awhile and must hav e see
n muc h o f life
, travelin g fro m th e Fenlan d dow n t o Italy.
"
He waited for an answer, because Macchiata al-
way s replie d t o hi s questions
, eve n th e rhetorica l ones
.
After a few seconds of silence, he looked around, then leaned over to peer
under the horse' s belly.
"Macchiata?"
Whe n wa s th e las t tim e h e ha d hear d fro m th e dog? Sighing,
Damiano slid to the ground.
To the left of the road rose hills, more rounded than the peak s visibl e from
the crossroads , pockete d with green-blac k growth s of pine. To his right
the land hollowed out, and standing water had turned to sheets of ice. He
squinted at the bright white road behind him.
A tiny speck of russet was bobbling in the dis-
tance. It became recognizable, and Damiano relaxed, leaning one arm over the
black horse's back. As Macchiata galloped she rolled like a small but
heavy-laden ship, an d he r tongu e lolle d i n desperat e manner
.
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"Why didn't you tell me you couldn't keep up?"
aske d Damiano
. Macchiat a looke d u p a t him
, pulle d i n her tongue, and then all four of her bandy legs gave at once.
As she hit the packed snow of the road her jaws clashe d resoundingly
. He r inadequat e littl e tai l la y fla t out behind.
She was hot as a bed warmer when Damiano scoope d he r up
. "That'
s terrible
, Macchiata
. You r prid e migh t hav e gotte n yo u lost
! No w li e ther e a minut e an d don't move." As he spoke he deposited
her across the withers of the horse, where she lay as limply as the goatskin
of wine. Damiano leaped up next to her.
"Thi s poo r horse, " h e began
, a s h e clucke d th e gelding to a walk. "Two riders, two bags, a
bedroll, a wineskin, my staff, and the lute besides. It's lucky for hi m
neithe r o f u s weigh s to o much!
"
The dog only groaned.
"Do you wonder," asked Damiano , when a few minutes had passed, "why I should
care about Partestrada so much? To go running hither and thither, fighting
battles in the snow?"
"No," answered Macchiata, and she clambered precariousl y t o he r fee t o
n th e horse'
s back
, he r blun t nails digging in for grip. Damiano had barely time to grab her
middle before the twitch of the black hide sent her slipping. He sat her on
her tail before him, one arm holdin g he r aroun d th e middle
. He r bac k leg s lolle d i n the air.
"No
, Master
. Partestrad a i s ou r home.
"
"But some might question whether she is worth it.
After all, Partestrada isn't the largest city in the area, and she hasn't
produce d any great poets or philoso-
phers—yet. "
"Partestrad a is our home," repeated the dog, as though there was nothing more
to be said.
But Damiano was not listening. "I think... it may b e th e frui t vendor s
tha t mak e i t s o special
. Th e wa y the y pus h thei r van s dow n th e alley s bawling
, 'rubies
, rubies, red rubies' when all the world knows they have only apples for sale.
Or it may be the way the sun seem s t o rol l alon g th e cres t o f th
e mountain s a t mid
-
winter
, an d th e daw n an d twiligh t color s las t hal f th e day.
"Of course, it could be our wool, because the shee p ge t t o sta y coo l
bot h winte r an d summe r an d ye t get enough to eat. We all get enough
to eat, as a matter of fact, unlike cities like Florence, where bread might as
wel l b e wrappe d i n gol d leaf
, fo r wha t i t costs
, an d I' m tol d a ma n ma y hav e a hous e o f marbl e an d ye t
ea t bread laced with sawdust and bran.
"O
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r i t ma y b e th e fac t tha t w e mak e ou r ow n wine
, thoug h frankly
, Macchiata
, i t isn'
t goo d wine—no t mad e fro m th e grape s the y us e i n th e
south.
" H
e slappe d th e gurglin g sac k smartly
.
"And then again, little dear, though they make fun o f u s Piedmontes e
becaus e w e ar e s o mixe d u p be
-
twee n Franc e an d th e Italics
, I thin k thi s mixednes s makes us flexible. No one is as proud as an
illiterate
Tuscan peasant, though he has naught to be proud of except a field of sunbaked
clay! A man with a Lombard fathe r an d a Rhenis h mother-in-la w mus t
develo p a sense of humor—to survive.
"But all in all, I think it is the vendors."
"I'm mixed," introjected Macchiata. "My mother is a ratter and my father... I
don't know, exactly."
"Certainly
! An d se e ho w fortunat e yo u ar e i n that
?
Strong, enduring, and, though you are not the largest do g i n th e
Piedmont
, fierc e enoug h t o pu t thre e highwayme n t o flight.
" H
e squeeze d Macchiat a til l he r breat h squeake d ou t he r nose
.
The n Damiano'
s dar k eye s gre w sombe r an d ear
-
nest
. "Thoug h I kno w tha t th e highes t lov e ask s noth
-
ing, still I would like.. .little dear, I would like Partestrada t o kno w m
e befor e I die
. T o kno w ho w I hav e cared.
"
"W
e know.
" Macchiat a squirme d aroun d t o lic k he r master's bony hand. "All
your friends know."
Damiano flinched, for he had just been reflecting that, although he was very
friendly, he had not many friends.
By the early dusk they had reached a region of upland hills similar to those
of home. Grass and wild corn stood exposed in sodden patches, and the steady
north wind had bent the stalks of the corn until they trailed the ground like
willow. Here the road widened.
Damiano spied a shape trudging through the distant, soggy fields, bent almost
double beneath a load of faggots
. Whethe r thi s wa s ma n o r woma n o r chil d h e could not tell,
and he did not hail the creature, for it was enough to know there were people
in the world wh o ha d nothin g t o d o wit h war
.
"The road tends south," he remarked to the dog, wh o sa t awkwardl y an d
stiffl y befor e him
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. "We'v e climbe d almos t ou t o f th e snow.
"
Macchiata snuffed. "There are too many moun-
tains, Master. And they are too high."
Damian o laughed
. "W
e barel y touche d them
, littl e dear
. Th e Alp s continu e northward
, fa r beyon d th e most distant peaks we could see, where burghers perch
their houses in valleys higher than the tops of our hills, an d the y spea k
no t onl y Frenc h an d Italian
, bu t Ger
-
man as well. In the west the mountains continue into
France , while in the east... "
"I' m tired, " sai d Macchiata
.
H e hugge d he r i n quic k contrition
. "I'
m sorry
, Macchiata. Both you and the horse deserve a rest. But I
wanted to leave memories behind.
"And we've done so, for I don't know where we ar e a t all
. Let'
s fin d som e brus h ou t o f th e win d an d make a real camp; it'll
be our first!"
Damiano snarled pine boughs into the living branche s o f a berr y bush
, an d ove r thi s h e flun g a length of smelly oilcloth. He wove more
of the slender,
resinou s evergree n a s a ma t ove r th e half-froze n earth
.
He gathered a tinder of dry oats and sparked it be-
twee n hi s cuppe d hands
. Th e fir e h e nurture d wa s more suitable for a harvest bonfire than
for the night's cam p o f a singl e traveler
, bu t Macchiat a appreciate d it , and even the black horse sidled in
toward the warmth.
H e picke d throug h hi s sizabl e stor e o f cheese
, bread, dried meat, fruit, and fish. He could afford to be choosy. He picked
out an apple, pink and withered like an old woman' s cheek, a hard Romano ,
and a strip of salted pork. He shredded a bite of the pork and found himsel f
controllin g hi s stomac h wit h effort
.
"Gah
! I can'
t ea t flesh
! I shouldn'
t eve n try.
" H
e flung the entire strip to Macchiata, who looked quite sorr y fo r hi m a
s sh e gulpe d it .
"Monks survive without it," mumbled Damiano.
"Or they are supposed to. And after all, how is my life different from a
monk's? I have no money, no home, no family... and no mistress."
"Yo u hav e me.
" Th e dog'
s tai l punctuate d he r statement.
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He r maste r blinked
. "True
, Macchiata
, an d that'
s quit e a bit
. Remin d m e agai n i f I forget.
" H
e divide d the cheese in two.
After dinner, Damiano took out his lute and exam-
ine d i t b y firelight
. Th e finis h ha d gon e milk y ove r th e inlay of the back, but that
always happened in the dampness
. A
goo d dr y da y woul d cur e it
. Al l th e string s wer e sound
. H
e plucke d a sa d melod y h e ha d mad e u p himsel f a yea r since
.
H e wa s ou t o f practic e an d hi s finger s stumbled
.
"This won't do," he said to the basking dog. "It is a musician' s duty to find
time daily for his instrument. "
"You'v e bee n busy.
" Macchiat a yawned
, alread y hal f asleep
.
"I'm alway s busy, " answere d Damiano . "That' s no excuse." And he practiced
the modes till his own yawn s screwe d hi s eye s shut
.
Th e weathe r i n an d aroun d th e Alp s i s unpredict
-
able
, an d i t tend s towar d smal l pocket s o f virulence
. I n the middle of the night the sky assaulte d the traveler s with hail
that spat in the fire and drove the gelding whinnying out of sleep.
"Dominus Deus!"
grumbled the witch. "One thing afte r another!
" H
e hadn'
t th e hear t t o resis t a s th e horse bent its legs and hunkered into
the lean-to, though neither horse nor shelter had been constructe d with such
an end in mind.
Soon the hail turned to sleet, and the fire died of the insult. The framework
of branches and cloth lost its mooring and fell on the horse's back, which
Damiano didn't mind as long as the beast didn't move, but the corne r o f
Damiano'
s mantl e wa s soaked
.
"After last night we must be very good friends, eh, Festilligambe?" Damiano
said to the horse, fixing it with soft brown eyes much like its own.
(Festilligambe mean s sticklegs i n Italian.
) " I thin k I fel t ever y on e o f thos e bi g fee t o f your s
agains t m y back
. An d wit h th e grass you've been grabbing by the road, your digestion i
s non e to o good
! S o yo u ge t u s t o th e vale s o f Lombard y th e quickes t wa
y yo u know.
" Th e geldin g nodde d a s though it were about to speak.
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An d give n enoug h tim e alon e wit h Damiano
, i t migh t have
. Bu t Lombard y coul d no t b e fa r away
, fo r th e traveler s wer e enterin g mor e populou s country
, leaving the realm of white winter behind.
Tha t swat h o f broke n soi l t o th e left
, fo r instance
, lying on the slope of a hill like a tossed blanket. It had known recent
tillage. And unless Damiano's eyes were failing him (a distinct possibility),
ahead of them, at a hum p o f th e windin g road
, wa s a house
.
I t wa s a house
, bu t i t wa s th e meres t hovel
, wit h a thatched roof rotted black in places and walls built of mu d a s
muc h a s stone
. Tw o toddlin g childre n peepe d out the door at the passage of the
magnificent stranger and his dog. They were scantily clad for the weather,
and one was barefoot . Damian o brought Festilligamb e to a halt and regarded
them with the attention he reserved for small wild things. There was a stir in
the darknes s o f th e hut
, an d a gir l appeare d behin d th e children
. Tawny-haire d an d plum p sh e was
, wit h a fac e as round and innocent as a dirty flower. Her dress was
patched gray wool, and it was pulled off one shoulder.
In her arms she held an infant that she was nursing from one bare, ample
breast.
Though women had to nurse their children and did it how and as they might,
still Damiano sat abashed before so much revealed femininity. This girl had
hair like Carla's. And these blue eyes that stared shyly into hi s wer e th
e eye s o f a Ma y bunny
: th e eye s o f a child
.
She was much younger than he.
Before the silence had time to become unbearable, Damiano heard Macchiata
growl. Startled, he glanced around to see a lean figure running full tilt
across the bare field toward him. The girl noticed at the same time an d too
k a singl e ste p bac k int o th e hut
. Th e childre n scampered right and left and were gone.
The peasant was only as tall as Damian o but much wider. He wore nothing but
his long woolen shirt and the rags on his feet. He, too, was very young, but
he wore at his belt a knife with a blade as long as a man's forearm. He placed
himself between the black horse and the door and, still panting from exertion,
looked
Damiano up and down.
"The Monsignor e desires? " he asked , in a patoi s so thick even Damiano had
trouble understanding.
"Eh? Well," replied the witch from horseback, "we request of the other
Monsignor e to tell us if we will find a town up ahead."
"W
e ar e no t a n hou r fro m Sa n Gabriele, " answere d the peasant
reluctantly. Then, as Damiano moved to go , h e added
, "Th e Monsignor e doe s no t wea r a sword?
"
Damiano turned and glowered at the man. "No. I
have no need for one. My pure heart protects me." He clucked the horse to a
canter, thinkin g with some
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satisfaction that his virginity must not be perceptible to th e casua l
observer
.
San Gabriele . That was a good sign. Though Gabriel was not Raphael, he was
still an angel.
"I didn't know that," said Macchiata , huffing along a t hi s lef t side
, "—tha t yo u don'
t nee d a swor d be
-
caus e you r pur e hear t protect s you
. I though t yo u didn'
t carr y on e becaus e i t go t i n th e wa y o f you r staff.
"
The rider sighed. "That was a joke, Macchiata. The real reason I don't wear a
sword is that if I wore one, I
woul d eventuall y hav e t o us e it . Tha t i s th e wa y wit h
weapons
. Besides
, m y bi g flute
, here, " h e said
, pattin g th e stic k o f blac k wood
, "i s a hundre d time s mor e useful."
The surly peasant hadn't lied; they were approaching habitation
. Mor e shed s an d hovel s spran g u p amon g th e roug h an d
borderles s fields
. O
n thei r lef t the y passed the rickety structure of an irrigation pump, an
affair of spokes and buckets abandoned for the winter.
Next they overtook a goat cart, drawn by a rotund nanny and filled with
baskets of squawking geese.
Damiano gave the gawky lad who led the boat a pleasant salute.
Macchiat a snorte d an d snuffle d i n pleasan t anticipa
-
tion, and soon Damiano's nose, which was more acute than that of an ordinary
man (though not of canine quality), picked up the odors of dung and garlic.
Th e tow n o f Sa n Gabriel e ha d bee n buil t i n a dr y scoo p i
n th e hills
, fort y fee t abov e th e highway
. Th e rutted road that led into town was littered with wains, carts
, an d barrows
; th e oxe n tha t ha d pulle d th e wain s wandered hobbled in the
ploughed fields at either side of the road, still keeping to their pairs. With
an outsize thrill Damiano realized that it was market day in San
Gabriele. He dismounte d and led Festilligamb e up the incline
, on e han d holdin g t o th e gelding'
s gloss y mane
.
The village boasted two strong gateposts of stone, bu t thes e supporte d n
o gates
, no r wer e the y flanke d b y
walls of any sort. Indeed, to the left of the left-hand pos t gre w a n oa
k o f enormou s widt h an d therefor e age
. Thi s seeme d t o indicat e tha t th e wall s o f Sa n
Gabriel e ha d falle n centurie s before
, i f the y ha d eve r bee n built
. Damian o passe d beneat h th e bare
, gnarle d arms of the tree.
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Her e wa s lif e again
. Stall s flanke d th e stree t fa r beyon d th e confine s o f th e
tow n proper
, displayin g woolen s an d wickerwor k an d brillian t drie d peppers
.
The first man he saw wore homespun, and the second a rob e o f otter
. Seve n bleatin g ewe s wer e drive n dow n the main street, dodging
past a man in motley who balanced a wine bottle on his nose.
Damiano hadn't known that he was starving for th e sigh t o f bright-dye d
bolt s o f clot h an d pile d winte r marrows, for the chatter of
well-to-do peasants and the howls of the beggars. Macchiata , too, whined with
an indefinabl e longin g an d thumpe d he r tai l agains t he r master'
s leg.
"Wai t a bit
, littl e dear, " whispere d th e youn g man
, and he led the horse off the path and over the stubble of the field. "I know
the air is intoxicating, but we can't hav e nobl e Festilligamb e her e
eatin g th e apple s of f som e fellow'
s cart.
"
The hoed field was bordered with a paling of popla r trees
. Damian o marche d towar d them
, th e hors e stepping carefully behind. Beside the gray trunks he stoppe d
an d delve d int o hi s pack
.
"Here," he said, dropping his still-folded oilcloth to the ground. On the
square he spilled a quantity of oats
. "Ca n I trus t yo u t o sta y her e an d no t ge t int o troubl e
unti l I return?
"
The eyes, ears, nose, and tail of the beast replied in unison that he could
not. Damiano sighed.
"Then, as I have nothin g for a tether, it's a bindin g spell," he announced.
"And that will probably frighten you into hysterics . As well as tiring me
unnecessarily. "
The tall horse conceded. It lipped Damiano's hair.
"Good then. Trust is best. And, Macchiata—will you guard this gear until I
return from the fair?"
Macchiata stared at him, stricken. Her head sank and her wormy tail crawled
between her legs. "Oh, well," Damiano said. "All right, then. I'll carry it."
Piec e b y piec e h e flun g ove r hi s bac k th e saddle
-
bags
, th e wineskin
, th e sac k o f food
, an d th e lute
.
Under each arm he stuffed a roll of blankets, out from one of which poked the
silver head of his staff. Thus encumbered
, Damian o staggere d bac k acros s th e fiel d and into the town of San
Gabriele.
A marke t i s n o fu n fo r a penniles s man
. Damian o discovere d thi s wit h surprise
, fo r h e wa s unuse d t o bein g penniless
.
There was blown glassware, both clear and in colors
, som e o f i t flawles s an d rounde d perfec t fo r alchemical use.
Damiano was considering buying a lovely open tube, long as one's arm and thin
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as a soap bubble
, whe n h e realize d h e coul d no t pa y fo r it , coul d not
transpor t it, and had no home in which to keep it.
And there was a hat of golden marten that nearly matched the Delstrego colors.
As Damiano hadn't a hat, he felt he rather deserved this one.
Bu t wors t o f al l wer e th e pastries
, dye d gol d wit h saffron, blue with heliotrope, purple with amaranth, or
green with parsley. There were little ones in the shapes of fish, and large
ones square like castles. Some were fille d wit h hone y an d som e wit h
quails
. Th e odo r o f butte r bubblin g throug h whea t nearl y drov e
Damian o t o hi s bruise d knees
. Macchiata
, who m h e ha d con
-
trolled by prisoning her between his legs, whimpered wit h a n agonize d
longing
. H
e shooe d he r away
.
"I' m sorry
, littl e dear
, bu t w e hav e n o money.
"
She licked her hairy lips. "Maybe the man will give u s som e anyway
, becaus e we'r e hungry.
"
Damiano snorted . "Not likely. Besides , we're not reall y hungry
. W
e at e no t fou r hour s ago—chees e an d bread. We just want what
smells good." The dog whimpered agreement.
The y passe d a juggler
, wh o ha d a chai r teeterin g upo n hi s ca p o f bells
, an d si x zucchini s describin g a comple x orbi t betwee n th e
pole s o f hi s hands
. Damian o regarde d th e ma n wit h respect
, especiall y whe n h e notice d th e woode n bow l i n fron t o f
th e performer
, half-fille d wit h copper
.
Damian o leane d agains t th e white
, war m wal l o f a stable
. "W
e don'
t belon g here, " h e whispere d t o th e dog. "We can't eat, drink, or
sleep at the inn, presum-
ing there is one in this little place. We should just be on our way. "
"Oh
, no
, Master, " Macchiat a crooned
. "I'
m tired
, and Festelligamb e is tired, and in all this crowd some-
on e wil l surel y dro p something
.
"I'l l shar e i t al l wit h you
, n o matte r ho w bi g o r little," she concluded. Smiling ruefully,
Damiano slung off his burdens and rested them against the wall.
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"And Damiano's tired, too," he admitted. "Though he shouldn't be, with a long
journey yet to go." He slid down the white stucco, squatting on his heels.
"Still, I'd be willing to scrabble with you for the tail of one of those
little wheate n fishes, even if it had droppe d on the ground. "
A shadow fell upon Damiano, and he found him-
self peering up at an urchin of indeterminate age and with the fair coloring
of most of Northern Italy, topped by fox-colored hair. Damiano greeted him
with a friendly flash of teeth.
Th e bo y hesitate d i n response
. Possibl y h e wa s decidin g whethe r t o us e th e familia r o r
th e polit e o n this well-dressed stranger who was hunkering against the
wall.
"Di d tha t do g talk?
" th e bo y inquire d suspiciously
.
Damiano nodded. "But she rarely talks to strangers."
The child was wearin g a grow n man's woole n shirt, which hung so long over
his legs he was covered a s closel y a s a woman
. H
e sa t dow n tw o fee t fro m
Macchiata and subjected her to scrutiny. The ugly white do g returne d th e
favor
, an d he r nec k hair s bristled
.
" T'sokay
, dog, " sai d th e boy
, scowlin g fiercely
. " I
like you."
Macchiata's anger subsided into confusion. She licke d he r already-we t
nose
.
"What'
r yo u doin g here
, mister
? Yo u don'
t liv e i n
Sa n Gabriele
, an d yo u aren'
t sellin g o r buyin g anything.
"
Damiano regarded the ragged boy more closely.
"Ho w d o yo u kno w I' m no t sellin g o r buying?
"
The youngster produced a true Italian shrug: one that used the eyebrows as
much as the shoulders. "I
been watching you. I know you don't buy anything, an d yo u don'
t hav e anythin g anybody'
d wan t t o buy
.
So I guess you're just sitting there wishin g you had two sou s t o scrap e
together.
"
His amusement at the boy's perception sparked both
Damiano'
s smil e an d hi s confidence
. "Yo u ar e quit e right
, m y youn g observer
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. Actually
, I a m o f a sanguine temperament, so I was trying to think of a scheme
by which I could make two sous to scrape together, or more exactly, to buy a
buttered wheaten fish."
The child thumped his wiry buttocks on the ground nex t t o Damiano
. "I'v e bee n there, " h e said
, noddin g sagely. "I've been there. Why not have the dog talk?
She don't have to quote Dante, or anything. Just to hav e he r answe r woul
d brin g i n rea l silver.
"
Macchiat a wilte d visibly
. Sh e hi d he r nos e behin d her master's heel. He stroked her side.
"Macchiata is many things," he stated. "She is a ratter
, a n alchemist'
s assistant
, a grea t traveler
, an d th e friend of angels. You might not believe it to look at her, but
she saved my life not a week ago, vanquishing thre e brigand s wh o wer e
ben t o n murder
! Bu t whatev
-
er she is, she is not a public performer."
Th e bo y listene d t o thi s paea n wit h hi s hea d cocked
, as though to say whether he believed or not was his own business. "But you,
mister, are a man of quality, by your clothes and also by the way you talk.
Surely
you have something the people want—if not a golden ring
, the n a t leas t a rar e skil l o r two.
"
Damiano'
s glanc e sli d fro m th e soile d smal l fac e t o the road. "I have
no gold rings, unfortunately. But I do hav e certai n abilities
. I ca n assa y gold—wit h th e prope r equipment
. An d I ca n trea t illnes s i n me n an d animals
—
bu t again
, no t withou t medicines
. I ca n clea r th e evi l from bad wells and open locks that are stuck
and fin d los t jewelr y an d cows"—Damiano'
s voic e caugh t unexpectedly—"and cows.
"I can do many things , little friend . But I am used t o havin g client s
com e t o m y hous e an d reques t m e t o do them. I have never
learned to... promote myself."
H e watche d th e scor n o n th e boy'
s fac e tur n t o outright disbelief. "I speak the truth, philosopher.
Watch—I can make myself disappear." Damiano nudged hi s lef t han d int o
th e bedrol l unti l hi s finger s touche d th e sho e o f hi s staff
. I n a moment
, h e wa s no t there
.
I n anothe r moment
, h e was
. "Stop
! M
y frien d an d adviser! Don't go; I promise I won't do it again." The boy
froze two steps into his flight. "You can disappear!
You'r e a witch!
"
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Mildly, Damiano admitted to it. "Yes, I am a witch, amon g othe r things
. Bu t I' m no t a street-corne r sorcer
-
er. I live d in Partestrad a in a decen t towe r my grandfa -
ther built. There was occupation there, and it kept me comfortable . But
Partestrada—o r perhap s you have heard? "
The boy nodde d and spat into the street . "Ha s changed hands. Thank Gabriele
that his town is too small and too high in the hills to interest Pardo and his
free company."
Damian o peere d bleakl y dow n th e street
, wit h it s babble and smell. "You can never be certain of that. But a s I
wa s saying
, I don'
t bre w love-charms
, an d I don'
t engage in cursing. What effects I can produce tend to terrif y people
, rathe r tha n amus e them
. Ye t thi s littl e lad y an d mysel f hav e a stron g desir e fo r
ho t pastries
.
What shall I do?"
The n Damiano'
s eye s narrowed
. "Perhaps
, wit h effort, I could float six zucchini s in the air and pretend to be
juggling them, but that smacks of..."
"What's this?" the youngster interrupted casually, knockin g on e knuckl e
agains t th e gloss y rounde d bac k o f th e lute
. "Ca n yo u pla y it?
"
"The lute," said Damiano, stunned by the obvi-
ous. "Yes. I can play it. But I've never played for money
. I don'
t kno w i f I can.
"
The boy shrugged again. "The people here aren't ver y critical
. Bu t then
, neithe r ar e the y ver y generous
.
You can only try."
Damian o too k th e instrumen t ont o hi s la p an d tuned it. "Music
for money," he murmured. "If you kne w m y teacher
, philosopher...
"
Th e littl e liuto wa s true-tone d an d clear
. Th e bo y leaned forward at the first notes. "Maybe I do. I know al l th
e musician s wh o com e through
. An d th e acrobats
, too
. What'
s hi s name?
"
"Raphael," answered Damiano shortly, for he was engage d i n saltin g th e
melod y wit h counterpoint
, an d he was not used to talking and playing together.
"Nope. Don't know him."
Chapter 10
Th e fingerboar d wa s col d an d slic k beneat h hi s finger s as his
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Page 115
hand spidered its way through the melodies. He was not so out of practice as
he had thought, and the familiar patterns came to him like old friends greeted
in a strang e place
.
The pale winter sun seemed warm to a man who had spent the last week trudging
through snow. He stretche d hi s leg s i n fron t o f him
, i n th e hop e tha t hi s
boot s migh t dry
. Marketer s passe d by
, thei r fee t smack
-
ing through patches of mud. A matron of middle years stepped over Damiano' s
legs; her skirts dragge d agains t his knees.
"Pinc h tha t thing!
" crie d th e redhea d o f Sa n Gabriele
, with the authority of a musical expert. "Let the whole tow n hea r it!
"
Damian o wa s n o performer
, o r h e ha d no t though t h e was
, bu t h e wa s wel l taught
. H
e pinche d th e littl e lute
, an d a t leas t a reasonabl e portio n o f th e tow n could hear.
All the old tunes—th e simple, conservativ e airs and dances that would not
have offended even dirty Marco—he played them all and he played them again.
"Louder!" cried his single listener. Damiano smiled thinly.
"Thi s i s a lute
, no t a bagpipe, " h e grumbled
, bu t h e obeyed
. Whe n h e glance d up
, th e ragamuffi n chil d was dancing a gavotte. No one had ever danced to
his musi c before—no t even
Macchiata
. Hi s ow n boote d toes were tapping together.
"Where's your hat?" A tall young woman loomed over him.
Re d hair
, a colo r no t to o rar e i n th e mor e norther n
Italics
, seeme d t o ru n i n Sa n Gabriele
, fo r thi s on e ha d hai r lik e coppe r wir e tha t hun g i n
spira l curl s dow n he r back
. He r gree n dres s stretche d tautl y ove r he r bosom
, and the curve of her hips was emphasized by a belt of amber, ending in a
tiny crucifix that swayed back and forth in front of Damiano's eyes. "How do
you expect to make money without putting a hat out in front of you?"
Damiano stared at the crucifix, enthralled by its terribly inappropriate
motions. "If I put out a hat, Signorina, " h e sai d haltingly
, "wil l yo u dro p a coi n i n it?"
Sh e giggle d a s thoug h h e ha d sai d somethin g witty
. "I'
m a poo r woman
, Signore
. B
y you r appear
-
ance, you ought to be dropping your coins into my bowl instead!"
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Damiano's face flushed, and even the palms of his hands turned pink. But
though his fingers stumbled, h e di d no t los e th e beat
. "Fortun e i s fickle
, beautifu l lady, and yesterday's velvet purse hangs empty. For-
tun e i s als o jealou s o f beauty
, an d sh e use s tim e a s he r claw.
" H
e cam e dow n har d o n th e las t downbea t o f th e danc e an d
dampe d al l th e strings
. Hi s dar k eye s flashe d as he glanced up at the wanton. "Take care,
Signorina."
Sh e steppe d back
, swaying
, fo r rea l wi t wa s a n articl e sh e wa s no t use d to
, especiall y o n s o seriou s a subject
.
Ye t sh e lifte d he r chi n disdainfully
.
"Seminarians do not usually play the lute on street corners, black eyes."
Damian o shrugged
. "I'
m n o mor e a seminaria n than you are a nun, bold lady with eyes of
green."
Those green eyes dragged a smile from him, almost against his will.
She smirked at the wall over his head. "Then you'r e ver y littl e o f th
e seminaria n indeed, " sh e sai d airily.
Th e urchin
, wh o ha d stoo d unnoticed
, followin g this conversation, now strode forward. "Enough! Enough,
Evienne—yo u ge t i n th e wa y o f payin g customers
. Thi s man has a living to make, and he's not your sort of fello w a t all
. G
o you r way...
" An d h e pu t on e grubb y han d unceremoniousl y agains t th e
smal l o f he r bac k and attempted to propel her along the street. With a
scowl she slapped his hand away. "You touch me, Gaspare
, an d yo u wil l b e floatin g i n a wel l befor e morning!"
The youngster showed his teeth to her belliger-
ence
. "Yes
? You'l l sta b m e wit h you r hairpi n whil e I
sleep
, maybe
? Bu t tha t woul d d o yo u n o good
, no r m e either. And this gentleman would still not be your sort of fello
w at all!"
Then he continued in more civilized tones. "Be reasonable, Evienne. Would you
like me to get in
between you and your work? To walk beside you when you are so beautifully
displaying your wares, as though
I wer e a jealou s lover...
"
"You
, Gaspare
? Everyon e i n thi s stinkin g villag e know s bette r tha n that!
" Wit h a tos s o f he r hea d an d a final wild swing of the
crucifix, Evienne stalked away.
Damian o watche d he r progres s alon g th e stree t an d the n stare
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d wit h n o grea t gratitud e a t th e dirt y fac e o f his
deliverer.
Th e bo y mad e a flat
, emphati c gestur e o f th e hand
.
"That one's no good, " he stated . "No good at all.
You'll get nothing from her."
"I didn't want anything from her," Damiano answered quietly, hoping it was the
truth.
Gaspare'
s eye s narrowed
. " I mean
, sh e won'
t eve n sleep with you; she's that mercenary. She goes from tow n t o tow n
o n marke t days
, becaus e Sa n Gabriele'
s to o smal l t o suppor t a full-tim e whore.
"
Damiano'
s ear s wer e pricklin g lik e sunburn
. "Still
, she was correct in what she said." He leaned sideways and shoved one hand
into a leather pack, where he rummage d blindly
. "W
e nee d a hat
. O
r this...
" an d h e pulle d ou t th e woode n sou p bow l tha t wa s bot h
plat e an d cu p fo r hi s travels
. A
s h e se t i t befor e hi m h e stare d dow n a t hi s boots
, fo r h e wa s prou d an d ha d never before had to ask for money.
He played the old pieces through one more time, listening to young Gaspare
spin and cavort before him, i n th e step s o f th e bransl e an d th e
lasciviou s saraband
.
Damiano's right hand was becoming looser minute by minute
. Th e movemen t fel t sur e an d practiced
, an d th e sun above was yellow. Damiano swept into the French music—the
music of contrasting lines.
The thump and patter of feet was stilled, but the musician didn't raise his
head. He was lost in the intricacies of the many-parted music, and the rhythms
wer e leadin g hi m a s the y neve r ha d before
. A
s h e playe d h e mumble d an d hisse d t o himself
, wordles s encouragement
. Bu t h e wa s beyon d th e nee d fo r en
-
couragement now, and if Gaspare called out to him, Damian o di d no t hear
.
Raphael—Raphae l shoul d hea r thi s on e day
, fo r i t was the fruit of all his teaching. But no—place d before hi s
angeli c teacher
, Damian o kne w h e woul d stamme r and halt once more, whispering the
strings as timidly as a young girl. The difference was that here no one kne w
hi m a s Damiano
, th e goo d bo y wh o wa s learnin g t o pla y th e lute
. No r a s Delstrego
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, th e witc h wh o kille d fift y me n with terror.
Here h e was—he wa s whateve r he showed the people he was.
Redheaded
, dirt y Gaspar e wa s kneelin g i n fron t o f him
, slac k jawed
. "B
y Gabriel e himself!
" th e bo y exclaimed
. "Wha t gam e wer e yo u pullin g o n me
, askin g ho w you'r e t o ear n you r bread
? Th e ne w music!
"
"Ah? You have heard contrapuntal music up here i n Sa n Gabriele
? I t doesn'
t offen d men'
s ears?
"
Gaspar e flun g ove r th e marke t a loo k o f rip e scorn
.
"Here
? I haven'
t spen t m y whol e lif e here, m y friend
.
Bu t ho w ca n ear s tha t hea r nothin g sweete r tha n th e bleatin
g o f goat s b e offende d b y wha t come s ou t o f th e lute
? Pla y on!
"
Damian o raise d hi s han d t o obey
, whe n a glea m against the black wood of the bowl caught his eye.
"Where did these come from," he asked stupidly, nudging th e tw o spli t
pennie s wit h hi s forefinger
. "Di d yo u pu t the m in
, Gaspare?
"
Th e boy'
s gree n ey e wa s coldl y tolerant
. "I
f I ha d money, would I be dancing my hams off on the street?
That came during your last song. Leave it sit; maybe it will breed."
Th e afternoo n floate d o n river s o f tune
. Intoxicate d b y hi s ow n succes s a s a lutenist
, Damian o bega n t o sing. He had never before sung in public, or even for
hi s teacher
, ye t Macchiat a ha d bee n righ t i n sayin g h e had a good voice.
The bottom of the entertainer's bowl turned brick red, lined with coppers
tarnished by long residence in sweaty , peasan t hands. The glance s he spared
toward it
wer e fille d wit h a n astonishe d pride
, a s thoug h th e poor handful was the price of a kingdom. Damiano
discovered that he garnered more money by his sing-
ing than by his lute playing , thoug h singin g was by far th e easie r o f
th e two
. H
e san g til l h e wa s hoarse
.
His throat burned. He broke a treble string. The su n wa s westerly
, an d Damian o rubbe d hi s fac e i n hi s hands.
"Enough, " h e croaked
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.
"More than enough," sighed Gaspare, and he leaned against the warm wall,
elbowing Macchiata aside. The boy's face had been washed by sweat. "The market
is don e fo r th e day
. Let'
s divid e u p th e wealth!
"
Wit h a sl y gri n Damian o picke d ou t o f th e bow l fou r rudd y
coins
. "Thi s shoul d b e enough, " h e mum
-
bled, and stood on legs stiff from disuse. "I'll be right back, " h e said
, an d darte d away
.
T o th e youn g man'
s immens e an d endles s disappointment, the pastry stall on the next
corner, whic h ha d fille d th e surroundin g ai r wit h temptation
, wa s gone
. Nothin g remaine d bu t posthole s an d th e print s o f th e tow n
dog s tha t ha d scoure d awa y th e las t crumbs.
"The baker quits early," said Gaspare, coming up behind Damiano , "becaus e he
has to get up every morning in the middle of the night."
"You knew that?" asked Damiano wearily. "But I
tol d yo u I wa s tryin g t o ge t mone y for...
"
Gaspare slapped Damiano's shoulder in comradely fashion
, a gestur e tha t require d hi m t o stan d o n tiptoe
.
" I forgot
. Yo u ge t carrie d away
, dancing
. Bu t neve r mind that, my friend. What we have here"—he jingled a worn but
serviceable leather pouch—"wil l buy us bot h dinne r a t an y hous e i n
th e town.
"
Sa n Gabriel e appeare d tire d an d empt y a s th e brigh t stall s
wer e folde d awa y an d tie d int o bundles
, an d th e unsol d produc e packe d agai n t o rid e th e o x wains
home. Damiano led his new colleague back to the stable wall where Macchiata
was guarding his gear.
" I alway s marvel, " h e commented
, "a t ho w quickl y a market can disappear and become just an ordinary
town again." He lowere d himsel f onto the imprin t in th e dust
, shape d lik e a n upside-dow n heart
, tha t showe d where he had spent the afternoon . The sun crawled sideway s
alon g th e sid e street
, s o lo w tha t building s blocked it. Soon the saw-blad e of the
mountain s would cut it through. Damiano pulled free his mantle, intending to
wear it, but he noticed Gaspare shivering in his sweat. He threw the fur over
the boy's bony frame.
"Here, " grunte d Damiano
, offhand
. "Sav e you r money. I'll show you something that will surprise you."
He dug into his store of food and came up with half a romano
, a loaf
, a piec e o f salt-pork
, an d a leather y withere d trout
. Th e chees e h e divide d int o thre e piece s and the pork into two.
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The hard bread he used as trenchers .
"We'r e no t poor, " h e admitted
, wavin g t o includ e th e dog
. "Merel y penniless
. An d w e wante d ho t pas
-
try, Macchiata and I. Well, so what? Here's to a full stomach
, a ful l pocket
, an d a wonderfu l afternoon!
"
Damian o fille d hi s mout h wit h roug h re d wine
, afte r which he deposited the sloshing bag on Gaspare's lap, wher e i t
sa t an d wiggle d lik e a puppy
.
Gaspare asked no questions; he drank. And he ate
Damiano'
s simpl e foo d wit h appetite
. Bu t whe n h e wa s finished, or at least had slowed down, he spilled
the coins in the dust of the street and divided the pile in two
. H
e ha d a practice d ey e fo r th e valu e o f liras
, broken florins, francs, pfennigs , and weights of lead, an d hi s divisio
n wa s eminentl y fair
. "Yo u ow e m e two, " h e sai d whe n h e wa s done
. "Yo u too k fou r copper s ou t o f th e bow l fo r cake s an d
yo u stil l hav e them. "
Damiano blushed. "Those four coins are all I want,"
h e insisted
. "Fo r memory'
s sake.
"
Gaspar e sho t hi m a glanc e o f disgus t an d spa t o n the wall.
"Do you really want to insult me that bad? Or ar e yo u merel y a n
innocen t fro m birth
?
"Besides—i f yo u leav e th e pil e wit h me
, I'l l hav e t o share with Evienne , unless she has had better luck.
Which I doubt."
"With E-Evienne? The whore?" Damiano stuttered.
"D
o yo u mean...
" an d hi s voic e traile d off
, fo r h e could think of no delicate way to phrase his question .
Th e bo y seeme d hardl y ol d enoug h t o emplo y he r services , and
far too hungry to spend his little bit of money in that manner.
" I mea n sh e i s m y sister
, an d th e onl y famil y I
have, may Gabriele pray for me!" As the boy spoke he wa s droppin g hi s
harves t int o th e leathe r bag
.
"Bu t yo u sai d sh e wa s worthless.
"
Gaspare peered at Damiano from under a ragged re d brow
. "Sh e is, " h e stated
. "Sh e can'
t make a decen t whor e n o matte r ho w lon g she'
s a t it
. Yo u sa w he r today
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, wastin g tim e wit h a musicia n whil e th e tow n i s ful l o f
fa t peasant s wit h ful l pockets
. Evienn e i s lik e m e in that way—we are too civilized for our own
good."
Th e bo y obviousl y enjoye d Damiano'
s discomfi
-
ture
. " I thin k mayb e yo u ar e on e o f God'
s innocents
, my friend. What's your name, eh? When you are famous
, I wan t t o b e abl e t o sa y I dance d wit h you.
"
Damiano chuckled, opened his mouth, and then close d i t again
. "I
f I tel l yo u m y name
, Gaspare
, I ma y never be able to play the lute for you again."
Gaspare'
s breat h hisse d in
. " I though t so
. Yo u pla y by magic!"
"No
. No t magic
. Jus t huma n nature
. Yo u see
, I
don't usually play the lute so... spiritedly. But today I
forgo t myself
. I f I tel l yo u m y name
, i t wil l remind me.
"
Th e bo y burs t ou t laughing
, an d th e scarle t cloa k slippe d t o th e ground
. Damian o fel t a sill y smil e stretch
-
in g ove r hi s face
. H
e droppe d hi s eye s t o hi s knees
, which were propped in front of him. "Just call me
Festilligambe," he mumbled.
"Festilligambe ! Is that your nickname , musician ?
It's hardly elegant."
Damiano shook his head. "That's my horse's nick-
name. And he's really a rather elegant horse; I gave hi m tha t nam e afte
r a storm
, whe n h e trie d t o craw l int o be d wit h m e an d i t fel t
lik e sleepin g o n a pil e o f sticks.
"An d speakin g o f Festilligambe—
Dominu s Deus!
I
left him in the field with the oxen, all this time ago. I'd bette r go.
" Damian o ros e an d bega n th e tas k o f pilin g his gear once more
on his back. Gaspare helped him.
"I' m no t use d t o havin g a horse, " Damian o added
. " I
never should have left him alone so long."
"No. You'll be lucky if he's still there," the boy agreed. "I hope you at
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least tied him well."
Damian o shoo k hi s hea d abstractedly
, whil e h e peered about him to see what he had forgotten. "No. I
don'
t ow n a rope
, an d anywa y I' m bette r a t untyin g things... "
H e turne d the n an d stare d ful l a t Gaspare, a s though he were
trying to memorize the freckled, peaked face
. "Ges u b e wit h you, " h e said
. "Ges u an d th e
Virgin
. I hop e w e mee t again.
"
Gaspar e glared
, a s thoug h partin g itsel f wer e a n insult. "Wher e are you going ,
musician ? Don't you nee d a dancer
, maybe
, an d a ma n t o pas s th e hat?
"
Damiano blinked, startled, and almost overbalance d beneat h hi s heav y
burdens
. "I'
m goin g t o th e lake s o f
Lombardy
, Gaspare, " h e said
, "wher e th e witc h Saar a dwells
. I won'
t hav e tim e t o pla y th e lut e o n m y journey
, excep t aroun d th e fir e a t night
, an d there'l l b e n o on e to hear me at all."
Th e urchin'
s scow l gre w mor e fierce
. "Why
? Yo u could make a name for yourself with that lute, and it wouldn't be
Festilligambe. "
Damiano shrugged, and his gear rattled in sympa-
thy
. H
e too k a ste p backward
, awa y fro m Gaspare'
s disappointment. "I'm doing it to save my city," he explaine d in a whisper .
"If I could do that by playing th e lute
, thing s woul d b e muc h better
, but...
" H
e
shrugged again, noisily, and turned away from the boy an d th e stree t
corne r i n Sa n Gabriele
.
A t hi s fee t Macchiat a spoke
, breakin g a silenc e tha t ha d laste d al l th e afternoon
. "H
e get s upse t ver y easi
-
ly," she remarked. "I thought maybe he was going to hi t you
. Then
, o f course
, I woul d hav e bitte n him.
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" Sh e sighe d an d trotte d on
.
"You must understand, little dear, that he is poor.
And being poor is one continuou s disappointment .
"Bu t even i f h e i s poor
, Macchiata
, ou r Gaspar e i s never mean. He is generous and fair, and a lover of the
arts, besides—which is a quality that runs in his family."
At the top of the path sloping south from the village
, Damian o stoppe d t o drin k i n th e sigh t o f th e quiet, tended
fields, where the colors were already growing dim. As a man of his time, he
found a greater beaut y i n tille d soi l tha n i n wil d grass
, an d h e favore d orchards over forests. But then, in his travels he had
see n fa r mor e wil d tha n tende d land
, an d h e kne w how hard it was to break the earth with a hoe.
Perhap s h e woul d se t hi s cam p wher e h e ha d lef t the
gelding: by the paling of live poplars to the right of th e road
. Th e weathe r promise d t o b e fair—thoug h
Alpin e weathe r wa s notoriousl y faithles s regardin g it s promises .
It only remaine d now to see whethe r
Festelligamb e ha d als o prove d faithless
.
Damian o peere d ahea d a s h e clambere d ove r th e roughly broken
soil. He touched his staff to sharpen his visio n an d coul d se e wha t
migh t b e th e dar k outlin e o f th e hors e agains t th e trees
, silhouette d agains t th e settin g sun
. Bu t i f i t wa s th e horse
, i t possesse d ligh t spots that were bouncing about in most unhorselike
fashion.
The n th e witch'
s visio n cleare d (th e moo n wa s waxing), and at the same moment
Macchiata started a grow l i n he r bell y tha t threatene d t o shak e
th e earth
.
Damiano stared, and understood, and finally broke out laughing
. H
e steppe d steadil y forwar d towar d th e pop
-
lar fence. "Don't get upset, Macchiata. This is really quite funny," he said.
The black outline was indeed Festilligambe , while the white shape bouncing
upon it was not part of the hors e a t all
, bu t a frustrate d huma n rider
, i n shirtsleeves
, who had tied a crude rope bridle upon the anima l and was now bounding in
his seat while his heels kicked, hi s bon y hand s slapped
, an d i n othe r way s h e trie d t o encourag e th e hors e t o
move
.
Th e blac k gelding
, however
, stoo d wit h it s leg s braced against the earth as though it planned
never to move again. Its little ears were laid back as flat as a cat's
, an d it s liqui d eye s wer e rimme d wit h white
.
"Di d I doub t you
, nobl e steed?
" whispere d Damiano
, as with one hand he held Macchiata by the scruff, lest sh e interfer e wit
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h th e comedy
. H
e crouche d t o th e earth and let his packs slide off his back. At that
moment the man on the horse raised his head a fraction.
Damiano choked on his own breath, and his eyes widene d as thoug h he had see
n a ghos t (or mor e correctly, as though an ordinary man had seen a ghost).
Fo r i n tha t fai r an d somewha t sulle n se t o f feature s h e
recognize d a ma n h e ha d though t neve r t o se e again
:
the uncommunicativ e golliard, Jan Karl. And the thief had not seen him.
Thi s wa s to o wonderful
. Quietl y Damian o ben t and took his staff in his hands, whispering the
words o f th e spel l tha t wa s almos t hi s favorite
, becomin g invisible to prolong the wonder of the moment. Then h e steppe d
confidentl y forward
.
Ja n Karl—o r Til l Eulenspiegel
, a s h e seeme d t o cal l himself—was no danger to a wary man, let
alone one wit h th e power s o f Damiano
. Hi s thin
, soile d student'
s shirt hung on his starve d shoulder s as on a hange r of wood
. Hi s lan k fai r hai r wa s brow n wit h dir t an d la y plastered
against his face, which had been touched by tha t shad e o f gray-purpl e
tha t indicate d to o muc h ex
-
posure to the cold. A rag wrappe d two finger s of the thief's left hand;
Damiano suspected frostbite. He re-
membere d the golliard' s frantic flight into the night, sans coat or mantle.
He remembered the bundle of letters he still car-
ried in his pack, arrow-pierced and written in a strange tongue
. An d Damian o ha d no t forgotte n wha t Macchiat a ha d said
: thi s thief
, a t least
, ha d no t wante d t o kil l him
.
A s h e stoo d i n though t besid e th e tablea u o f obdurat e hors
e an d ineffectua l rider
, th e hors e becam e awar e o f him
. Festilligambe'
s cavernou s nostril s twitche d an d hi s ear s revolve d lik e mil l
wheels
. Macchiata
, wh o leane d invisibl y agains t he r invisibl e master'
s calf
, gav e an answering whuff. With an audible snap, Damiano broke the spell.
The horse bucked in shock, and Jan Karl toppled from its bare back to the
ground. A totally impossible figure loomed over the golliard, outlined black
as Satan agains t th e ligh t o f th e settin g sun
. I t growle d lik e a dog, or somewhere a dog was growling, and the young
blond'
s misadventure s ha d mad e hi m ver y sensitiv e t o tha t sound
.
"Lieber
Gott!
Spar e me!
" h e waile d i n a mixture of German and French, covering his face with
hi s discolore d hands
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. "I
t i s al l to o much!
" h e adde d i n bastar d Italian
.
Damian o peere d dow n a t hi s falle n enem y fro m under a corrugate
d brow. He sighed , feeling an inap-
propriate stab of pity for the fellow and feeling ridicu-
lou s besides
. Eve n th e les s forgivin g do g forgo t t o growl, running her
tongue over her bristly lips and plopping her backside onto the broken soil.
Damiano cleared his throat. "You didn't do as much," he said, in tone s tha t
wer e mean t t o soun d menacin g an d cam e out more querulous, "to
spare an innocent stranger wh o though t t o b e you r friend.
"
A t th e soun d o f Damiano'
s voic e th e northerne r raise d u p o n hi s elbows
, hi s purpl e visag e palin g t o one of white terror. "No. You're dead!
Donner und
Pfannkuchen!
Do me no harm—it wasn't I who killed you. It was that damned Frenchman, and I
only met
him in Chamonix... " The blond began to cry, in great, hysterical sobs.
Damian o shifte d fro m foo t t o foot
. " I know, " h e began lamely, but his words went unheard. He started
again
, louder
.
"I know it wasn't you who killed... I mean tried to kill me. I'm not dead, you
know, " he added . "Ghost s don't generally look like this. But that's no
thanks to you. "
Karl's face went blank, then wary. "Not dead?
The n wh y ar e yo u hauntin g me?
"
Damiano snorted. "I'm not haunting you. That's m y hors e you'r e tryin g
t o steal.
"
Wit h a groa n an d a thump
, Ja n Kar l fel l bac k against th e earth.
"Donner und...
Blast m e now .
Ge t i t ove r with.
"
Seein g th e scarecro w figur e lyin g there
, lim p an d theatrical before him, Damiano couldn't hold back his grin. But
he turned his attention to Festilligambe the hono r o f whos e wor d ha d
create d thi s situation
. "You'r e a goo d fellow
, Festilligambe, " h e whispere d int o th e tin y blac k ear
. "N
o nee d t o sta y plante d an y longer
. G
o shak e you r heel s i n th e field s a bit
, an d the n we'l l eat.
"
Th e geldin g mad e a stif f boun d int o th e air
, a s thoug h th e string s tha t ha d hel d hi m ha d snapped
. A
s h e descende d hi s teet h clicke d playfull y int o th e coron a o
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f Damiano'
s hair
, an d the n h e wa s off
, barrelin g acros s th e empt y field
, sendin g spray s o f dir t behin d him .
"Eh! Watch you don't catch a leg in a hole!" Damiano shouted after him, then
he turned back to his captive, whom he half expected to find gone—whom he half
hoped t o fin d gone
.
Th e golliar d la y a s h e ha d before
, passiv e an d shiverin g o n th e ground
: th e ver y pictur e o f oppres
-
sion
. Macchiat a la y nex t t o him
, he r tai l waggin g i n quie t satisfaction
. "Wh..
. wha t ar e yo u goin g t o d o with me?" Karl blurted. Damiano
regarded the man irritably.
"Well, since you won' t run away . Or can't, " he amended
, sparin g a glanc e a t th e dog
, " I gues s we'l l hav e t o d o something
. Le t m e se e you r hand.
"
Karl did not oblige. "Are you going to cut it off?"
"That may not be necessary. " Damian o pulled the bandaged member from the
blond's side; Karl had little strengt h t o resis t him
. "A
t leas t no t al l o f it.
" A
s h e unwound the rag, the prisoner stiffened and cried out.
The inner layers of cloth were blackene d with dry blood.
The little finger was dead, the ring finger gone to the second knuckle. The
hand itself was swollen and veine d wit h re d an d blac k lik e a smal
l map
. Damian o swallowed
, swep t throug h onc e mor e b y hi s ungov
-
ernable pity. He took a deep breath and spoke as harshl y a s h e could
. "Thi s wa s goin g t o kil l you
, man
.
Didn'
t yo u know?
"
Karl'
s water-blu e eye s widened
. "Bu t i t doesn'
t hur t much
, lik e i t use d to
. Wit h al l th e miserabl e thing s tha t hav e happene d i n th e
pas t te n days
, I haven'
t ha d time to... "
"Eh?" Damiano interrupted, staring gently into the distance
, a t nothing
. "It'
s bee n a har d wee k fo r you
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, has it? Well, things run in cycles, like the moon. And th e moo n i s
increasing
. Wai t her e an d don'
t move, " h e commanded, rising to his feet, "while I set up camp.
This place is as good as any, as long as the husband-
man doesn' t show up brandishin g a pitchfork. " Damian o picke d hi s
long-legge d wa y ove r th e hummock s o f soi l t o hi s pil e o f
gear
. H
e returne d burdene d an d thre w a blanke t down
.
"Here, " h e said
. "Wra p yoursel f i n thi s an d sto p shaking." When the wondering
Karl had done so, Damian o plunke d the wineski n on top of him. "Start
drinkin g now
, yo u skinn y Swissman
. You'r e goin g t o need it later. "
Pickin g u p th e leathe r sac k wit h hi s righ t hand
, Kar l obeyed
, askin g n o questions
. Afte r tw o o r thre e good swigs he stopped to gasp air, his nose
prickling
with the fumes of alcohol. "I'm Dutch," he announced.
"No t Swiss
. An d I' m a lon g wa y fro m home.
"
Damiano paused in the process of driving a stake of poplar into the ground. He
leaned his hammer-rock agains t th e but t o f th e stak e an d cocke d
a n intereste d eye at Karl. "That's true," he admitted. "I know very littl e
abou t tha t country
, excep t tha t i t i s wet
. Bu t wit h tw o rottin g finger s yo u woul d neve r hav e returne
d t o the Low Countries. Nor would you have ever read another letter from
your dear old mother."
"My mother died when I was born," said Karl, and he took another drink, or
series of drinks.
Damiano shrugged as he pounded. "Sweetheart , then. Whosever letters you keep
in a bundle in your pack." Seeing the dawnin g of slow understandin g on
Karl's face, Damiano chuckled and dove into his sad-
dlebag
, fro m whic h h e pulle d th e faded
, pierce d bun
-
dl e o f letters
. H
e tosse d the m ont o th e blond'
s lap
.
"They've shared my dangers with me, Herr
Eulenspiegel . That's an arrow hole throug h the middle , which ought also to
have pierced my chest."
"Thi s save d you?
" murmure d Karl
, examinin g hi s little bundle with an intensity that was already half
drunken.
"No
, no t exactly
. I t wa s a volum e o f Petrarc h tha t save d me
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, fo r i t wa s boun d i n wood
. I ow e that
, too
, t o ou r convivia l firs t meeting
, fo r I foun d i t i n th e sac k o f on e o f you r friend s whe
n I wok e th e nex t morning
. I t was a bad morning, that...." Damiano finished the stake with an
extra-hard thump of the stone.
"Fo r m e too, " admitte d Karl
, who m win e wa s makin g mor e garrulous
. " I los t m y finger s whe n th e sun came up, because I lay down in
the snow. They say you should never do that, no matter how tired you are."
Damiano nodded. "Look on the bright side, Jan.
A t leas t we'r e stil l alive
. Bot h o f us
. Wha t abou t th e other two?"
Karl'
s bro w furrowe d stupidly
. "Yo u know
, I neve r
saw them again. All I know is that I turned right at the crossroads." He
swigged once more. The wineskin, though very large, was beginning to appear
flabby.
Damiano looked with approval. With the night's work that was in store for him,
he hoped the blond would pass out.
"They might have continued up to Aosta," reflected
Damiano . "But when I came there a day later, I didn't see them. And
Macchiata's nose is good...."
"The y probabl y wen t bac k west
, th e wa y we'
d come, " suggeste d Karl
. "T
o Provence
. Tha t make s mos t sense. This is a terrible country!"
Whil e Damian o mad e a comfortabl e camp
, Kar l talked. He talked a lot. The volume of his monologue mor e tha n
mad e u p fo r hi s taciturnit y o n th e nigh t o f their first
acquaintance. He related to Damiano the story of his youth on the fishing
boats at Amsterdam: he had been a poor boy but brimming with scholastic
promise.
He told how he had at length journeyed to Avignon, to study Church history
where the pope sat. But knowl-
edg e di d no t com e fo r free
, no r di d brea d o r th e necessar y roof
. Th e Dutc h la d ha d born e thre e year s o f privation and had
reached no other heights than to be elected king of the pre-Lenten fete, when
all went topsy-turvy for a week and the clerks ruled the roost. It was after
that that he realized he had neither the right nationality nor the right
friends to gain advancement in
Innocent'
s church
.
"Nor the right temperament," Damiano added silently, looking critically at the
figure wrapped in the roug h blanket
.
Karl didn't notice his host's sharp glance, as he explained how, in great
bitterness and with very little money
, h e ha d se t ou t eas t t o tr y hi s fortune s i n ol d
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Rome itself. In the pass he had met the youth Pierre
Paris, who m h e ha d know n slightl y a t th e university
, and the Breton who claimed to love Petrarch. Paris had devised the story
that the three of them were retracing
th e poet'
s journe y t o Milan
, thoug h i t wa s a sill y tale
, and the reality was that both of the others were thieves.
Damiano'
s hand s wer e ful l o f tinder
. H
e chuckle d a s h e sparke d th e evening'
s fire
. "Bot h o f th e others?
"
h e echoed
, an d turne d hi s hea d t o Karl
.
The blond Dutchman nodded solemnly, closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful,
childlike sleep.
Leaving the dog to guard both camp and patient, Damian o returne d t o Sa n
Gabriele
, wher e withou t meet
-
in g eithe r Gaspar e o r Evienne
, h e fille d th e empt y win e bag at the village well. As he trudged
back down the hill he could feel the chill of the deeply shadowed earth risin
g u p throug h hi s boots
, an d hi s littl e campfir e winked at him like the eye of a friend.
He was glad he had eaten before this necessity arose
; h e woul d no t wan t t o ea t later
. A
s h e approache d th e ligh t h e smelle d th e alarmin g odo r o f
burnin g hair
.
H e dashe d th e las t fe w yard s int o camp
, th e win e ba g leaping in his arms like a live thing, only to find a
picture of unbroke n peace .
Macchiata lay spread-eagled over the remaining bedroll
, tw o paw s o n eithe r side
, a s thoug h sh e wer e ridin g a log
. He r dream y gaz e wa s fixe d o n he r charge
, Karl. The gelding quietly stood close by the fire, lean-
ing into the warmth.
"Festilligambe," cried Damiano indignantly. "Get awa y fro m there
! You'r e burnin g you r tail!
" H
e droppe d the bag on the ground by Macchiata and darted around th e campfir
e t o wher e th e bi g anima l wa s no w examin
-
ing its disfigured tail with calm wonder.
Damiano grabbed a handful of mane and pulled th e blac k hea d around
. Fixin g a n ea r i n eac h hand
, h e glared at it.
"You," he pronounced , "are a most unhorselik e horse." The gelding swished a
tail that was reduced to hal f it s forme r splendor
.
"I f yo u catc h o n fire
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, wha t a m I t o do
? Ther e isn'
t enoug h wate r i n th e entir e wel l t o pu t ou t a horse!
" I n response—perhap s i n apology—Festilligamb e raise d hi s
muzzl e an d lippe d Damian o o n th e nose
. I t wasn'
t pleasant to see the yellow, boxlike teeth so near to one's face; Damiano
turned away.
He had brought nothing resembling a medicinal dressing in his pack, and early
winter was not the season to gather herbs. Nonetheless , Karl's fingers woul d
hav e t o com e off
, an d Damiano'
s fathe r ha d been known to resort to hot packs and lye soap when nothing
else was available. The young witch filled his onl y po t wit h wate r an
d se t i t int o th e fire
. Int o th e wate r wen t on e o f hi s tw o line n undershirts
, tor n int o strips. He pulled a bundle of folded cloth out from the bottom
of his pack and carefully unwrapped a little knife.
It was not terribly strong or sharp, because it was intended more for
witchcraft than surgery, and its blade was silver. The handle was crystal, and
was cut with all the phases of the moon, the full moon sitting at the top,
like a tiny sword's pommel.
Fo r a fe w moment s h e di d n o mor e tha n t o knee l o n th e
blanke t b y Karl
, th e knif e restin g i n hi s palm
, while his mind settled. He had never done such an operation without an
effective sleeping draught for the patient, without compresses, clean linen,
and few a men to hold the sufferer still should the narcotic fail.
He would have to be very sure.
Wit h hi s righ t hand—th e han d tha t neve r touche d the knife—he
reached out and yanked a tuft of dry grasses. These he sprinkled over Karl's
emaciated limbs, whil e h e whispere d a spel l o f binding
. Th e gra y strand s clung like so many fine ropes, but as they did so his
visio n blurre d a bi t an d hi s fee t fel l aslee p beneat h him
.
Binding was a very expensive spell.
Nex t h e consecrate d bot h th e knif e an d hi s hand s t o th e
comin g task
. Th e silve r blad e briefl y gre w to o ho t t o touch
. H
e twiste d th e knif e i n hi s finger s til l i t had cooled.
H e lifte d Karl'
s gangrenou s han d an d secure d i t between his knees. The sleeper
didn't move. With the
bright blade, no longer than a beech leaf, Damiano pierced the living skin
beneath the suppuration that ha d bee n Karl'
s littl e finger
. H
e cu t aroun d th e knuckl e joint.
A little spell to staunch the bleeding. Another to stir the breeze (this job
didn't smell too good). Pray
Go d thi s poo r sinne r didn'
t wake
. Th e tendo n an d cartilage broke with small popping sounds, like sticks
crackling in a fire. The blade was speckled with crim-
son, and thick, unhealthy blood ran down the white ar m an d ont o Damiano'
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s knees
. Th e finge r bon e pulle d free and gleaming out of its socket.
The ring finger he took off at the big joint, but after a glance at the flesh
exposed, Damiano shook his head an d cu t again
, removin g th e whol e o f tha t finge r a s well.
When he was done, he regarded the raw wound gratefully. It was simple and
clean and would be easy to wrap. He had left a fold of skin hanging on both
the top and bottom of the hand, to wrap over the exposed bon e an d flesh
. Late r tha t ski n woul d probabl y fal l way
, to be replaced by knotted scar tissue, but for now it would close the wound.
Bu t befor e h e close d i t Damian o hel d Karl'
s han d ou t fro m th e blanke t an d free d th e bloo d t o flow
. Th e oozin g becam e a fountai n tha t spurte d wit h Karl'
s heartbeat
. H
e hear d Macchiat a whin e fro m he r perc h o n th e bedroll
; th e smel l o f huma n bloo d upse t her
.
After allowing the hand to bleed for half a minute, Damiano pinched the wrist
tightly and reapplied the spell .
The water by now was bubbling and hissing. With th e blad e o f th e knif
e Damian o fishe d int o th e po t an d skewered a length of linen. When
he offered the cloth t o th e nigh t air
, a phanto m o f whit e stea m coile d u p fro m it
. "That'
s no t wha t ghost s loo k like
, either, "
muttered the witch, and while the cloth was still hot enoug h to redde n skin,
he slappe d it over Jan's blood y hand.
The n Damian o looke d awa y fro m hi s surgery
, awa y fro m th e steamin g ra g an d th e thre e blackene d stump s
o n th e groun d wit h th e shaf t o f whit e bon e protruding
.
He let his eyes rest on the fire for a moment, then raised the m t o th e
earl y stars
.
The sky was a field of radiant indigo. The breeze, growin g colde r minut e
b y minute
, seeme d t o swee p directly down from that eternal, unchangin g expanse.
In actuality the air flowed down from the Alps, of course
, bu t tha t wa s muc h th e same
. H
e le t th e nigh t clos e hi s eyes
.
"I would really rather not be involve d in this," he whispere d aloud
. "H
e ma y stil l die
.
"And there are others I would rather share my campfire with than this sullen,
craven Dutchman." He longe d suddenl y fo r th e presenc e o f Raphael
, s o muc h lik e th e nigh t sk y himself
. I t wa s o n hi s lip s t o cal l ou t t o th e angel
, t o be g hi m no t fo r a lesso n bu t fo r a fe w minute s
inconsequentia l cha t b y th e fire
. Bu t h e remem
-
bered the dying woma n in Sous Pont Saint Martin .
Raphae l wa s no t permitte d t o pla y a par t i n a mortal'
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s trial or death, and here was poor, sly Jan Karl, his torn han d scaldin g
unde r ho t rags
. H
e coul d wak e a t an y moment , and it would be awkward , for he would
wake screaming.
Besides, there was still the matter of his interview with the Devil. Could the
archangel know what had passed betwee n Damian o and Raphael' s own, wicke d
brother? If so, he had not come by to ask for an explanation.
A t leas t hal f th e reaso n Damian o di d no t cal l
Raphae l wa s tha t h e feare d discoverin g th e archange l would no
longer come.
I t wa s a wear y night
, fo r Damian o ha d t o kee p changin g th e ho t packs
. An d i t wa s a col d one
, fo r Kar l began to shiver uncontrollably and had to have both blankets
. Befor e i t go t to o late
, Damian o rose
, wen t into town and pounded on doors until he found a
householder who would sell him more wine, at a terribl y inflate d price
. H
e dran k non e o f i t himself
, fo r h e ha d t o sta y awake
, bu t when
, towar d morning
, Kar l awoke (not screaming but weeping without pause), he force d i t dow
n th e man'
s throat
.
Wit h sunrise
, Kar l became quiet
. Damian o induce d hi m t o ea t a piec e o f wine-soake d bread
, an d the n another. He watched his patient with red and grainy eyes,
thinking that it was odd to save a man's life and still not like him. "I can't
stay with you, Jan," he said dully. "I'm on an errand that's very urgent to
me."
Karl's face registered all the surprise his weakness allowed . "I didn't think
you were going to. Why should you?"
Damiano sighed. He knew all the reasons he should remain: the wound was fresh,
certain to bleed and apt to go sour, Karl was hungry and unable to work, even
shoul d an y peasan t tak e hi m on
, an d he
, Damiano
, had begun the job... But he set his jaw and peered over at the houses of the
village, which were white and black with sunrise .
"I don't even know why you did this," added the
Dutchman, as he stared fascinated at wet pinkish cloth that had taken the
place of two fingers on his hand.
"I t wa s necessary, " sai d Damian o shortly
, withou t looking around. "It's not the sort of thing I do for fun."
"Necessary for me, maybe," answered Karl with a sick little laugh. "But not
for you. You didn't have to ten d me
, fee d me
, cove r me...
"
Damiano pulled up his knees, covered them with his folded arms and rested his
chin on top. He was a long time answering .
"It's difficult—to learn to do a thing that not many peopl e ca n do
, lik e amputatin g fingers
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, an d the n t o se e a nee d fo r i t an d no t t o d o it . Yo
u see
? An d the n i t i s difficul t t o spen d th e tim e an d effor t
o n a ma n an d the m le t hi m di e fo r wan t o f somethin g
simple
.
"But I can't afford any more—time, that is. The worl d i s ful l o f
distractions
, an d I mus t ge t t o Lombard y
before the snows creep any lower. I'll leave you one of those blankets and
some coppers I made in San Gabriele.
Also the pot; if you neglect that wound, you'll certainly die after all."
Damiano's brow furrowed fiercely as an ide a occurre d t o him
. A
n ide a h e distrusted
. "Some
-
thing more, Jan. There is a boy in San Gabriele named
Gaspare
. H
e ha s re d hair
, an d h e come s abou t t o m y shoulder. He's just a street urchin,
but he has a genius for making the best of things. He may be able to figure ou
t somethin g yo u ca n d o t o ear n you r brea d whil e yo u
recover and to help you on your way to Rome. He has a sister.
, though
, that...
"
Damiano glanced over at Karl's wary eyes and starved torso. He chuckled to
himself. "Never mind the sister. But, my dear cleric, I promise you that if
you mistreat this boy, or betray him in any way, you will know what a curse
is."
Kar l wa s silen t whil e Damian o ros e an d bega n t o break camp.
His watery blue eyes followed Damiano reflectively
. Finall y h e spoke
. "You'r e a ver y goo d man, "
he said. "Like the Samaritan, in Luke."
Damiano spun around with a face full of anger and hurt. "Don't say such a
thing. I am nothing like a good man
. I' m only..
. a mozzerella!
"
Karl blinked in confusion. A short laugh burst out o f hi s throat
. " A mozzarella
? That'
s a cheese?
"
"That'
s a n Italia n expression
. I t means...
" Damian o wave d hi s hand s i n a gestur e tha t explaine d nothing
.
"A good man follows the commandments. I, on the other hand, am merely
softhearted. I cannot bear to eat cow s an d pigs
.
"—But
I
killed fift y me n with witchcraft,"
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h e added , an d h e slippe d hi s pack s ove r Festilligambe'
s elegan t back.
Karl made no answer.
Chapte r 11
Th e roa d slippe d east
; i t rolle d u p an d down
. Damian o rode through a silence of trees. In a birch-covered valle y th e
sk y abov e hi m wa s filigree d wit h bar e branches
.
Dead leaves, sodden after the autumn' s rains, padded the horse's hooves like
cloth wrappings . The sun and the trees wove a pattern of warm lace over
Damiano's head. He nodde d sleepil y with every step, as did
Festilligambe. Macchiata had nothing to say; she spent the day in her nose .
The road tilted upward an hour before sunset. In th e distanc e Damian o
coul d mak e ou t th e crow n o f th e hill, with another , steepe r
rise behind it, black with pine. He decided it was better to rest now and take
the climb fresh in the morning .
He brushed the dried sweat from the horse's flanks with a boar-bristl e brush
that was also Macchiata' s brush and his own. The gelding' s mane was tangled
and its tail a sorry sight. Before sunset Damiano gathered wood and made a
small fire, thoug h withou t a pot he had no way to cook on it. When he wrappe
d himsel f for the night in blanket and mantle, the day's silence was still
unbroken .
Wh o wa s Saara
, tha t h e shoul d b e seekin g he r across two Italics in early
winter? Damiano knew very little about her, but that little was more than most
Piedmontes e knew, or most Lombards , for that matter.
He knew what his father had told him, long ago.
Sh e ha d com e ou t o f th e fa r nort h country
, th e
Fenland
, i n hi s father'
s youth
, flyin g fro m wa r int o
exile. Of the war, Damiano knew nothing. The exact place of her exile he also
did not know, though Guillermo
Delstrego had described it as a green hill, round as an egg, set among the
lakes of Lombardy. It was also
Delstrago who had told his son that Saara the Fenwoman was the most powerful
witch in all the Italics, perhaps in all Europe. That was not an admission he
would hav e mad e easily
.
In fact, Saara the Fenwoman (or Finn) was just abou t th e onl y othe r
practicin g witc h whos e nam e
Guillerm o Delstreg o le t pas s hi s lips
: probabl y becaus e she dwelt too far away to be competition. He had painte
d hi s so n quit e a colorfu l sketc h o f Saara
, wit h her braids and sing-song magic, and the birds all doing her bidding.
Being sentimental as he was, Damiano had added his own pigment s to the
picture , believin g th e Fenwoma n t o b e beautifu l a s wel l a s
wise
, an d merr y an d virtuou s besides—o r sometime s onl y merry
.
Damian o le t th e geldin g ambl e o n whil e h e sa t o n it s broa
d bac k an d idl y plucke d hi s lute
. Fo r a wee k they had traveled east: the young man in his ermine and
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tangled hair, the elegant black horse, the ugly white dog. Work and time had
hardened the muscles of the horse's back, but they had equally hardened the
rider.
Damiano had always been lean, though, and lean and lazy or lean and tough, he
looked much the same.
On Macchiata the difference was striking. She looked ever y inc h th e
fighte r now
, o r th e ratte r a t least
, an d the bunched muscles of her thighs rippled beneath her short hair. The
fat she had lost made her triangular head appear larger and heavier than ever.
She spoke less, following her master's lead, but she was in trim to follow the
horse all day.
Damiano's fingers spattered notes up the lute's neck
. Th e trebl e strin g squeale d lik e a pig
. Th e littl e daisy-peta l ears of the horse reversed , and it shook its
head.
"Eh
, Festilligambe
: You'v e becom e th e critic?
" mum
-
ble d Damiano
. "Well
, le t m e tel l you
, horse
. Yo u ar e n o authorit y o n music
; yo u can'
t kee p time
. An d i f I coul d warm my hands up well, you would really hear
something. "
He raised his head and looked about him with a sigh. It was cold here, even
south of the mountains .
The forest of ash and oak was bare. But it was not drear to him, for he had
the eyes of his father, and the moon was near the full. In the corner of his
eye, beside th e road
, h e sa w a sti r o f th e eart h tha t mean t a mous e wa s
burrowing
, an d a gra y glea m marke d th e winte r nes t o f a roc k dove
. Tha t splas h o f orang e beneat h a falle n lo g wa s neithe r
leave s no r lichen s bu t a fox
.
Damian o di d no t tel l Macchiata
.
The trees were sleeping, and their limbs creaked like the snoring of old men.
Damiano imitated the sound
, drummin g hi s bas s cours e wit h tw o finger s o f hi s lef t
hand
, o n th e neck
.
"I f I ha d m y way, " h e mused
, "I'
d trave l lik e thi s from town to town on market days—to perdition with th
e highe r knowledge
. I' d rathe r mak e musi c tha n b e wise."
Macchiat a snorted , and a powder of dry leaves sho t int o th e air
. "I'
d rathe r chas e rabbit s tha n b e wise, " sh e said
.
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"But you never catch them," countered her master.
"Doesn'
t tha t frustrat e you
, littl e dear?
"
Macchiata whuffled, sat down, and scratched the matte r over
. "Becaus e I don'
t catc h this rabbit, " sh e said, "or that rabbit, doesn't mean I will
never catch any rabbit. "
Damian o ha d n o answe r fo r this
. H
e returne d t o his own subject. "I really would like to find another
market. Porto was a disappointment: all day playing for onl y a tankar d o
f beer
. An d ou r supplie s ar e gettin g lighter. I notice that every time I
pick up the saddlebags.
W e mus t fin d Saar a soon.
"
The doe turned to Damiano with a glance full of
anxiety
. "Supplies
, Master
? Yo u mea n food?
" Damian o nodded.
"How soon, Master? How many days is soon?"
Damiano frowned . "Just... soon,"
he replied.
Ludica was not holding a market , but it seemed to b e a muc h large r tow
n tha n Port o o r Sa n Gabriel
.
Perhap s it was larger than Partestrada . Leadin g Festil-
ligambe down a cobbled street between buildings of stone, Damiano was
impressed.
Ludic a supporte d no t on e bu t tw o inn s an d a stable
. Damian o lef t th e geldin g there
, t o enjo y fo r on e night its fill of grain and mash. If he could not
pay the kee p b y morning
, h e coul d surel y redee m hi s hors e with a linen undershirt .
The first inn was dim and empty. An old woman in th e doorwa y regarde d hi
m wit h n o grea t welcome
.
Damiano did not go in.
The second inn was called The Jolly Pilgrim. Its commo n roo m smelle d lik
e th e cor k o f a win e bottle
.
Th e innkeepe r wa s fat
, an d hi s blac k brow s wer e th e onl y hai r o n hi s head
. H
e spok e staccato
, wit h a shar p lilt, and by this Damiano knew he was in Lombardy at last
. Damian o offere d t o pla y an d sin g i n exchang e fo r dinner
and a bed, but after two minutes of bargaining he found he had promised also
to cut wood for the fire and instead of a bed would get only the left side of
the hearth.
Still
, i t wa s goo d t o si t i n a room
, fo r a change
, an d to be warm, front and back. When the room filled up—wit h drinkers
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, travelers
, an d smoke—i t fel t eve n better to play the bransle and the saraband
so that the me n stampe d thei r feet
. Ha d h e drun k al l th e win e tha t was bought for him, he would
not have been able to se e th e strings
, le t alon e pluc k them
, an d on e joll y pilgrim, a wool merchant who loved the vintage so muc h
hi s cheek s ha d turne d purple
, gav e Damian o a broke n silve r florin
.
Best of all was to eat someone else's cooking—
cabbage and carrots and fresh pork in gravy, over a slic e o f blac k brea
d a s thic k a s a man'
s wrist
. An d thoug h Damian o couldn'
t ea t th e por k Macchiat a wa s willing
, an d ther e wa s plent y o f foo d fo r both
.
Th e woo l merchan t calle d hi m Frenchi e an d laughe d a t th e wa
y Damian o slurre d hi s words
. Sinc e th e bes t o f th e ne w musi c wa s French
, Damian o di d no t tak e offense or correct the man. Besides, it was not
good sense for a Piedmontese to strut himself in Lombardy, wher e the y wh o
canno t swi m ar e a s prou d o f thei r lake s a s th e ma n o f
Turi n i s prou d o f th e mountain s h e cannot even see.
I n th e mornin g h e sough t ou t th e landlor d an d asked what that
worthy knew of a woman named
Saara.
The black eyebrows in the pink face gave the man's skepticis m a n eloquen t
frame
. H
e stare d an d h e sighe d an d h e beckone d Damian o t o follo w
him
.
Th e yar d o f Th e Joll y Pilgri m wa s duste d wit h snow
, an d dr y flake s lik e tal c wavere d throug h th e air
.
Winte r ha d followe d Damian o int o Lombardy
. Th e bal d landlor d thre w th e hoo d o f hi s tuni c ove r hi s
head
. Th e stea m o f hi s breat h obscure d hi s feature s a s h e
pointe d u p an d beyon d th e tow n t o wher e si x hill s stoo d
clustered together, as if for warmth.
"Se e th e Sisters?
" aske d th e Lombard
. Hi s voic e was sharp and harsh in Damiano's ears. "Which of them is
different?"
Damiano squinted and peered, leaning on his staff.
"Tw o o f the m ar e taller, " h e said
. "Almos t mountains
.
One of them is round topped and has no snow on the sout h side
. Wha t differenc e d o yo u mean?
"
The landlor d stuck his hands up his sleeves . "Doesn' t it seem the least bit
strange to you, boy, that one hill amon g many
, ha s n o sno w o n it ? An d i t neve r does
.
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That'
s th e hil l o f Saara
, an d she'
s a witch
. Th e ma n i s ill-advise d who makes that climb."
Damiano didn't take his eyes from the high hills, where many hawks were flying
circles in the gray air.
H e smile d a t hi s fortune
. Fo r her e h e wa s i n Lombardy
, not knowing when he had left the Piedmont, and chance or aid had dropped his
desire into his lap. "I
don't know if that's the result of witchcraft, benefactor.
Notic e tha t th e gree n hil l i s protecte d fro m th e nort h win
d b y bot h th e talle r hills
. I t woul d b e th e warmest
, and the last to collect snow."
The fat Lombard took one step away from Damiano.
H e rumble d hi s throa t an d spa t int o th e whit e powder
.
"Believ e wha t yo u want
, youn g Frenchman
, bu t w e wh o liv e her e kno w what'
s wha t i n ou r ow n backyards
.
Witchcraft is real under the sun or moon, no matter wha t yo u writ e i n
Lati n i n you r books.
"
Damiano' s eyes widened , for the man's misunder -
standing of him was so complet e he didn't know where to begin to correct it.
But the landlord wasn't done.
"There was another fellow like you who stopped her e an d aske d fo r
Saara
, lutenist
. H
e wa s a southerne r wit h a shar p tongu e an d a shar p sword
, an d h e disappeare d into the witch's garden—that' s what we cal l tha t
slop e o f th e hill—an d wa s neve r see n again.
"
Damian o blinke d an d regarde d tha t fa r patc h o f greenery with
intense interest. "I have no sword," he murmured, as much to himself as to the
landlord.
"And
, a s fo r m y tongue
, I hop e i t i s mor e honeye d tha n sharp, because I have to
convince that lady to help me."
Th e Lombar d laughed
, an d coughed
, an d spat
. H
e lef t th e on e wh o h e though t wa s a youn g Frenc h dandy,
leaning on his prettified walking stick, his face a study in concentration,
his curled black hair turning white with snow.
Damian o lef t th e hors e an d th e flori n i n th e car e o f th e
stabl e keeper
, an d h e an d Macchiat a starte d aroun d th e smal l lak e tha t
stoo d i n betwee n Ludic a an d th e
Sisters. It had been a while since he had done any amoun t o f walking
; hi s knee s ached
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.
" I a m stil l bruised, " h e sai d ruefull y t o th e dog
.
"Purple-and-blac k a wee k later
. I wonde r i f tha t i s
Satan'
s littl e joke
, t o remin d m e tha t I wen t dow n o n my knees before him. Though
it was not my idea to do so."
Thi s wa s no t th e sor t o f conversatio n t o interes t
Macchiata
. Sh e trotte d ahea d alon g th e pat h b y th e water, her ears
a-prick, her twiggy tail wagging stiffly behind her. Damiano trudged behind,
burdened with packs, staff, and the lute, which he ought to have left back at
the inn. The snowfall was halfhearted and soon die d completely
. B y noo n th e sk y wa s suds y wit h whit e clouds, and the
travelers had come to the feet of the hills.
On two of them the bare bones of rock were exposed; these were the tall ones.
Most of the rest were weathere d grass y domes
, pal e no w wit h snow
. Th e middle hill, however, was clothed in timber, and the sout h slop e o
f i t shon e green
. Throug h th e gors e an d heather, a little path—no more than a goat
track—led toward it.
"Thi s isn'
t difficult, " Damian o mumbled
, pushin g hi s wa y forwar d agains t th e clingin g brush
. "Ther e must be somebody who visits here and keeps the way passable. "
Macchiata disappeared into the undergrowth; not even her tail was visible. But
Damiano could follow her snuffling progress with his ears. "You know... little
... dear, he panted, as he fought through a waist-hig h bramble. "If Saara is
in truth an exile from her home, our task may be easy. How could she not
sympathize with Partestrada?"
A blac k nos e appeared
, an d the n a whit e muzzl e hanging with burrs. "An exile is someone
who was chase d ou t o f home
, Master
? I f thi s on e go t chase d away from her home, then how can she chase
the soldier s ou t o f yours
? I mean
, sh e ma y no t b e fierc e enough. "
Damiano stopped dead, his bags swaying at his sides. "That's a thought,
Macchiata . But we don't really
kno w th e trut h abou t Saara'
s home
, onl y tha t m y fathe r sai d sh e wa s th e mos t powerfu l witc
h i n th e
Italics
. An d besides
, her e ther e wil l b e tw o o f us
, sh e an d I . An d thoug h I a m no t th e mos t powerfu l witc h
i n the Italies—and may not even be among the most powerful (how am I to
know?)—I do know a few things. "
"Of course you do, Master, " attested the dog. She waggle d ove r an d
place d on e dirt y whit e foo t agains t
Damiano's knee. He played with her ears while he examined the path ahead. It
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vanished under an arch of pines, dark as the door of a tomb. Damian o
straightene d an d peered
, the n leane d o n hi s staf f an d stare d intently
.
"There
. Ahea d i s th e gat e t o Saara'
s garden
. No t welcoming , is it?
"Bu t I smel l magic, " Damian o added
, an d strod e forward.
Thoug h i t wa s dar k within
, i t wa s als o warmer
, an d Damian o coul d se e wel l enoug h i n th e dim
. Th e ai r was thick with the evergreen frankincense; like a church, it
almost made one sneeze. The path wound steeply upward. Perhaps it was a goat
path after all and had never been trod by man. But if it was a goat path, then
there was something ahead besides pine forest, be-
caus e a goa t doe s no t subsis t o n pin e needle s alone
.
"It'
s a goo d thin g w e lef t Festilligamb e behind, "
whispere d Damiano
. "H
e wouldn'
t d o wel l o n thi s road. " The dog growle d her own opinion .
There was light ahead, atop a rocky outcrop that reduce d Damian o t o
climbin g o n hand s an d knees
, with his staff wedged into his armpit. He winced each time the lute slapped
down against his back, not for the pain of it, but for the instrument's sake.
When he reached the crest, sunlight blinded him a moment.
Then he saw his hands, scratched red and coated with a honey-dus t of crushe d
sandstone . He sat up and allowe d th e do g t o lic k hi s hand s
clean
.
"Look , Macchiata, " he cried. "The witch' s garden .
I wish it were my own!"
As a garden, it was very wild, for the grass grew knee-high and bobbed its
wheaty tails in the breeze, and black logs and branches choked the little
stream that wandered left and right over the meadow, cutting it into
room-sized islands. Wind-carved rocks lay scattered about, not by chance, but
as though tossed by a care-
fully artless hand. Above rose a stand of birch, still holding its yellow
leaves, which rattled together like flags of paper.
But as a wilderness, it was sweet and comfortable, for the sun shone softly
over grass that still held a touch of green, and flowers dotted the meadow:
late asters and early crocuses, bronze and white. The stand-
ing stones themselves looked inviting. They were col-
ored a deep bricklik e red and pitted and hollowe d all over, so that they
carried an assortment of tiny gardens on their backs, each harboring three
stalks of grass, perhaps, or a cornflower.
Damiano felt the sun touch his lips. It made him yawn. "We'll stop here," he
said to Macchiata. "Maybe all day. We can eat lunch on the south side of that
biggest rock."
Macchiata agreed to the proposal, and the two of them walked through the sea
of soft grass toward the furthermost standing stone, which looked like a seat
wit h a huge
, scallop-shel l bac k an d velvet y mos s ove r the cushions.
At the foot of the red stone grew a thicket of rosemary, dotted now with blue
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flowers and droning with bees. "It's Dami, golden people," announced the witch
as he climbed. "Out of the way so I don't crush you and so you don't sting
me." Obediently the insects circled wide of him.
This was a chair for a giant. Damiano could lie full length on the cushions of
moss and still have room for his baggage and a restless dog. They ate stale
bread an d chees e an d a carro t Damian o ha d stole n fro m th e
inn kitchen. Then he filled his wooden bowl from a child-size d pon d wher e
a rubbl e o f rock s ha d damme d the stream. Tiny silver fish darted
around his hands, each not much bigger than a fingernail. He hoped none ha d
gotte n int o hi s drinkin g water
.
A few inches from his eyes, as he knelt there, was a patch of blooming
crocuses. He broke off three blos-
som s an d carrie d the m bac k t o th e rock
, wher e h e la y down on his stomach on the moss and peered down the
flowers' throats.
They were shining white but veined with purple at the bottom of the petals.
Within each little cup proudly stoo d th e stame n covere d wit h saffron
, whic h lef t a film of gold on the young man's finger.
A t thi s distance
, too
, th e mos s wa s radian t wit h color
: gold
, green
, russet
, soot y black
. Damian o lai d th e crocuse s o n th e mos s an d close d hi s
eyes
. Macchiat a la y dow n besid e him
. " I wish...
" sh e said
, an d the n was silent.
"You wish what, little dear?" murmure d Damiano .
There was silence. He turned to the little dog, who licke d he r lip s
nervously
.
"I..
. i t woul d b e fu n t o pla y wit h Raphae l now, "
sh e blurte d a t last
. "It'
s bee n a lon g tim e sinc e yo u called him."
Damiano'
s eye s close d again
. "Yes
, i t has
. Bu t I
don't imagin e he's drummin g his fingers , waiting . He i s a blesse d
angel
, Macchiata
, an d w e are..
. creature s of the earth. He has all eternity, while we have the hour s
betwee n lunc h an d dinner
, a s i t were
.
"And he cannot understand the affairs of men."
Damiano yawned again, and since his chin was resting o n th e moss y stone
, th e effor t raise d hi s whol e head
.
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Then he frowned.
"Actually, little dear, I don't understand the affairs o f me n either
. I appreciat e th e affair s of..
. bees
, let'
s say... much better. But I am a man, so it is up to me to act the part."
Damiano squirmed onto his back and placed the
white cup of a crocus over each of his eyes. "I can see th e su n throug h
them, " h e commented
. "Tinte d whit e and pink and purple." When he took the flowers away, hi s
lashe s wer e duste d wit h gold
. "Thes e crocuse s loo k sor t o f lik e Raphae l t o me
: al l whit e an d gol d an d radiant
. Thoug h th e whit e i s hi s robe
, o f course.
"
Damiano yawned once more, screwed his eyes shut
, an d rubbe d th e gol d al l ove r hi s face
. "The n again, since what we are seeing when we see Raphael is only an image
for our mortality's sake, perhaps he is th e robe
, an d ther e i s nothin g unde r it
. Wha t ma n would dare lif t it to see? "
" I kno w wha t Raphae l look s lik e unde r th e robe
. I
looked," said Macchiata. Damiano opened his eyes very suddenly.
"You what? "
"I looked . I stuck my head under and looked , Master
. A
long tim e ago
. I wa s curious.
"
No w i t wa s Damiano'
s tur n t o lic k hi s lips
. H
e taste d saffron
. "An d what..
. No
, littl e dear
. Neve r mind
. I don'
t thin k it'
s fo r m e t o know.
" H
e sighed
, turne d hi s fac e t o th e sun
, an d compose d himsel f fo r a nap .
He did miss the angel. In the three years since he ha d firs t ha d th e
temerit y t o speak th e summonin g words (that was after his father died,
when many things in Damiano's life had got easier), he had never gone as long
as a week withou t a lesson . Indeed , the lute, though important, was only a
bridge by which to reach Raphael, who was Damiano's closest friend.
Secon d closes t friend
, h e amende d t o himself
, feel
-
in g a slim y nos e agains t hi s palm
. Tha t mad e tw o friend s i n all
, unles s h e coul d coun t Carla
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, who m h e would never see again.
Lyin g ther e o n th e mos s i n th e sun
, th e youn g witch thought of the Devil's words and did not feel in the
slightest bit damned. But for the plight of his city, now so far away, he
would be the happiest fellow on earth. And the sleepiest .
Wha t instrumen t did
Raphae l play
, b y choice
? Th e lute had been Damiano' s idea, since he happened to have a lute, and
the angel had never demurred . He played the lute masterfully, but it was
hardly likely it wa s hi s onl y instrument
.
Gabriele (whom Damiano had never met) played th e trumpet
. O
f course
. Bu t ther e wa s n o reaso n fo r al l archangels to be alike. If
they played together, it would b e mor e reasonabl e t o hav e bot h
wind s an d strings
.
Tha t is , i f th e wind s coul d b e taugh t no t t o overpowe r
the sound of the string players. Among angels, there woul d surel y b e mor
e consideratio n tha n amon g Italians
.
Painting s ofte n showe d angel s playin g harps , but that was because harps
were so common; when your imagination fails, you could always paint a musician
with a harp. They were easy to paint, too, having three angle s an d onl y
tw o curves
.
Bu t Raphae l showe d suc h a deligh t i n shufflin g between modes,
and in flatting his seventh.... Damiano could more easily see him at a lute or
chitarre. Or perhap s a larg e vielle—
a hurdy-gurdy—wit h chromati c keys.
Then it occurre d to Damian o that since Raphae l wa s a spirit
, h e ha d n o nee d fo r a materia l instrument
;
the trees could make his music, or the bones of the earth. So what did the
archangel mean when he said, "I have my own instrument? " Next time Damiano
saw him
, h e woul d as k straigh t out
, "Raphael
, wha t d o yo u play?"
With this decision off his mind, Damiano fell asleep.
The bees were crawling over him: thick, droning, coatin g hi m wit h gold
. The y ha d a thousan d voices
, war m an d nasa l lik e th e viell e itself
. The y wer e th e voices of friends. Damiano strained to hear them, to
pull out one voice and recognize it. To know a single name. "Solitary, " they
whispered , all together. "Soli-
tary boy."
The weight of the bees was on him, soft and
heavy. He could feel it on his arms, his body, his lips.
The golden drone echoed in his chest. Damiano strug-
gled upward from sleep and knew he was under a spell.
A han d wa s upo n him
, invisible
, gentle—a s th e hand of a girl might cover a baby rabbit. It was at once
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caressing and imprisoning. He heard Macchiata whine.
H e hear d a song
.
"Boy, boy, solitary boy.
I see you in the garden, Alon e i n th e garden
, Sleeping in the sun."
I t wa s a woman'
s voice
, throat y an d deep
, ric h a s a multitud e o f bees
. "Boy, " i t chanted
. "Solitar y boy.
"
Damian o turne d hi s hea d towar d it , pushin g slowl y against the
invisible hand. He cracked his eyes open an d peere d ou t fro m unde r
th e concealmen t o f hi s thic k lashes
.
Her hair was sunny brown and wound in peasant braids
. He r cheek s wer e blushe d ros e an d dimpled
, fo r she was smiling. Her eyes were green and brown and golden, all
together, in a pattern that swam and made his head swim. She wore a blue dress
embroidere d wit h star s o f re d an d yello w an d Damian o foun d
he r utterly charming.
It was not a strong spell that held him; he could hav e broke n i t wit h
a word
. Bu t i t wa s th e mos t intimat e touc h h e ha d know n fro m
an y woman
, s o
Damiano lay still and did not speak.
"Young one, I can see you, I ca n pee l yo u lik e a n onion
, I see backward, through your days.
I unfol d yo u lik e th e petal s o f a rose
.
Book-friend
, rabbit-friend
, you r playmate s ar e th e beasts in the stall.
Wha t d o yo u study
, boy
, tha t make s yo u s o alone?
"
He r touc h int o hi s min d wa s lik e a feathe r unde r th e chin
. I
t tickle d an d mad e hi m smile
. The n th e feathe r withdre w i n surprise
.
"Dark boy, do you know who you are?
Ther e i s powe r i n you
, youn g one
, lik e flood s unde r stone. "
Th e haze l eye s widened
, an d sh e dre w back
. Th e spell shattered, tinkling, as Damiano heaved up on one shoulder. He
opened his eyes. "Don't go," he whispered.
"An d I' m no t a s youn g a s al l that.
"
The woman stopped where she stood, eyes wide and wary. Neither did Damiano
move, and though she did not try to enter his mind once more, (he would not
hav e obstructe d her
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, havin g nothin g t o hide)
, slowl y her smile grew again.
"You'r e a witch, " sh e said
, amusemen t an d sur
-
pris e i n he r words
. Eve n whe n no t singing
, he r voic e had a lilt to it that was nothin g like the Italia n of
Lombardy . "You're most certainly a witch, and you know it, too. But those
black eyes are worse than witchcraft
, boy
. Don'
t tur n the m o n m e lik e that.
"
Damian o blushe d t o th e root s o f hi s hair
. "You'r e making fun of me," he said. "What have I done to deserve it?" But
the truth was he liked her teasing and wa s likin g everythin g abou t th
e woma n mor e an d more. This was Saara. It had to be.
She had the round face of a country girl of seven-
tee n an d th e knowin g ai r o f a belle dame o f Provenc e an d th e
lightnes s o f movemen t o f on e o f th e woo d sprites, whom even
Damiano could only see out of the corner of his eye. Best of all, she was not
a country girl or a great lady or a pagan sprite but one of his own kind, a
human witch.
Sh e didn'
t answe r hi s question
. Instea d sh e pu t her hands on her hips. Damian o sat up, noticin g she
neither carried a staff nor seemed to need one. "Who are you, boy?" she asked.
"For boy you are, to me. I
a m muc h olde r tha n I look
, I war n you
. An d yo u ar e i n my garden. "
Suddenl y Damian o remembere d th e southerne r th e landlord at Ludica
had described to him: the man with th e shar p swor d an d shar p tongu e
wh o ha d vanishe d in Saara's garden. But looking at Saara herself, he was
not afraid.
"M
y nam e i s Dami, " h e said
, "Damiano
. W
e hav e travele d her e fro m th e Piedmont
, m y do g an d I , t o tal k to you. "
Saara spare d a glanc e at Macchiata , who still lay unde r th e spell
, flattene d lik e a whit e pill-bu g o n th e cushion s o f moss
. Wit h a giggl e an d a wav e o f th e han d sh e release d th e
dog
, wh o scuttle d (lik e a whit e pill-bug) out of sight behind the rock.
" I woul d lik e t o tal k t o yo u too
, Dami
. I t i s rar e t o find another in Lombardy who is tuned to the powers.
Rare r stil l t o fin d on e wh o i s friendly
. Bu t i f I allo w yo u to come much closer to me, you will make an
enemy yo u don'
t wan t t o have
. H
e migh t remov e you r curl y head from your shoulders! " She sat down
cross-legge d o n th e gree n an d silve r grass
, to o fa r awa y fo r Damiano'
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s close vision.
Damian o dismisse d this possibilit y with a shrug an d a wave
, an d h e sli d dow n fro m th e roc k int o th e rosemary bush.
Saara sang a line in a tongue that seeme d t o b e compose d mostl y o f
k sound s an d lon g vowels
, an d whic h wa s t o Damian o n o mor e tha n birdsong. Instantly
limber fingers of rosemary whipped ou t an d hugge d hi s knee s an d
calves
, bruisin g them
-
selve s wit h th e strengt h o f thei r gri p an d fillin g th e ai
r with herby sweetness .
"All right, " said Damiano , and he sat dow n obediently in the thorny patch.
Casually, with one hand, he reached up behind him and found his staff, which
he laid carefully across his lap.
Saar a sa t straigh t a s a n abbess
, he r fee t crosse d over her knees. She pointed at the ebony stick.
"Those, "
sh e said
. " I hav e see n yo u souther n witche s us e them
.
You lock yourselves into them, like men who trade thei r leg s fo r
crutches
. Why
? An y le g a t al l i s bette r than the most beautifu l crutch."
Damiano frowne d uncertainly . "The staff is a fo-
cus, lady—like a lens. Do you know what a lens is? It's lik e a dro p o f
water
, whic h make s sunligh t int o a brigh t point
. Th e staf f i s th e focu s throug h whic h m y craf t touches the
world. It makes my spells more... the same
, fro m da y t o day
. I hav e use d thi s staf f fo r years
;
all my powers are tuned to it, and without it I'd have nothing."
"That's dangerous , boy. It makes you too vulnera-
ble, needing an outside object like that. My... lens... or drop of bright
sunlight, is my song. My song cannot be taken from me."
Damian o lifte d hi s eyebrows
. "Music
? Lovel y lady
.
Wha t a prett y thought
. I pla y musi c too
, bu t no t fo r magic. To do that seems, somehow, to sully the tune."
Saara's little pink nostrils flared, and woody rose-
mar y crawle d over
Damiano'
s hands
. "Sull y th e tune
?
No
! Fo r bot h magi c an d musi c ar e sacred!
"
"Sacred?" Damiano sighed. "Music, yes, but witchcraft..
. I don'
t know
, lady
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. I hav e see n to o muc h done with witchcraf t that had nothin g to do
with God' s will.
I releas e m y ow n power s int o th e staf f becaus e runnin g fre e
throug h m e the y can..
. mak e m e drunk
.
Then who knows what deed I might do."
He raised his eyes to the pretty woman in her bright
, childis h dress
. "Becaus e I am
, afte r all
, a man
, lady. And men at times are slaves to their passions."
Saar a mad e a s thoug h t o laug h a t hi m bu t change d he r mind
. "Yo u mus t lear n t o kno w th e powers, " sh e sai d seriously
. "Th e goo d fro m th e wicked
. Th e pur e from the twisted. When you are possessed by a spirit of wisdom
, yo u ca n d o nothin g bad.
"
Damian o shoo k hi s head
, dissatisfied
.
"Perhap s fo r you
, lady
, tha t i s true
, bu t fo r me..
. I
don't trust so much. If I allow a spirit to command my action s an d the n
kil l a chil d o r bur n dow n a house
,
who will it be who comes before the throne of the
Almight y for judgment : the nameles s spirit or Damiano? "
He shuffled amid the fragrant, prickling branches, trying to win some comfort.
"Besides, even if the spirit is pure, I am not. At this moment, my lady Saara,
I
loo k a t yo u an d am fille d wit h a swee t longing tha t i s not
pure at all." Immediately he lowered his eyes to the grass, overcom e by his
own gallantry .
The witch Saara put one braid-end to her mouth and giggled like a little girl.
"We have different ideas of purity, Dami-yano. But I tell you, as long as you
keep your power as a thing apart from yourself, you will not com e t o you r
ful l strength.
"
He shrugged, as though to say 'so what'? but his smile apologized for the
gesture even as he made it. "It i s you r powe r tha t ha s le d m e al
l thi s wa y i n th e snow
, Saara. I need your help."
Sh e le t th e brai d drop
. He r greenis h eye s wen t wary
. "Yo u mea n yo u didn'
t clim b her e jus t t o spea k words of hopeless love to me?" Her words
were lighter than her guarded expression.
Befor e answering
, Damian o paused
, runnin g hi s fingers lightly over the jewels of his staff. "Beautifu l
lady, I think I could speak words of love to you—an d mor e tha n
speak—forever
. I f the y ar e hopeless
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, the n I
a m desolate
, bu t sinc e I hav e onl y jus t me t yo u thi s hour
, I ma y recover
.
"Bu t I hav e live d i n Partestrad a al l m y life
, an d sh e i s i n grea t trouble
. I t i s fo r tha t reaso n I hav e disturbe d your peace: because I
am told you are the most power-
ful witch in the Italics." He glanced up to see whether hi s word s ha d
offende d Saara
. Sh e looke d merel y concerned.
"Who told you that I was the most powerful witch i n th e Italics
, boy
? N
o on e i n th e Italie s know s me.
"
Bu t rathe r tha n waitin g fo r hi s answer
, sh e continued
, "Grea t trouble
, Dami
. Tha t woul d mean—plague?
"
Bot h hi s eyebrow s sho t up
. "Mothe r o f God
! No
!
Not that! Not again. I meant war. And tyranny."
"Ah." The syllable expressed dying interest. She turned her head away from
Damiano and toward the fluttering, yellow birch leaves. "War. Well, there's
noth-
ing I can do about that."
"No?" For one moment he faced the possibility that his search had been
useless, that there was no hope for Partestrad a or for any small, industrious
, unarmed peoples. Perhaps neither logic nor magic could hold the gates, for
plague and Pardo were Fate and
God'
s will
. Jus t fo r a momen t h e stare d a t thi s possibili
-
ty, and then he turned firmly away from it.
A t a singl e wor d fro m Damiano
, th e tendril s o f rosemary sprang away and hung as coils in the air
around him. "I don't believe you. You say there's nothing you can do, but I
read in your face that it's just no t wort h th e bother.
" H
e stood
, an d Saar a stood
. Th e air spat tiny sparks that smelled like hot metal. "Well it i s wort h
on e person'
s bother
, an d muc h more
, an d i n th e servic e o f m y cit y I hav e bee n beate n an d
frozen
, gone hungry and sleepless and done deeds... that I
shouldn't have done," he concluded less forcefully. "In fact, I've done what
no man should do. I've tried to strik e a bargai n wit h th e Fathe r o
f Lies
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, t o delive r m y cit y fro m bloodshe d an d poverty
. Eve n h e refuse d me
.
You are my last hope, Saara. I cannot believe the greatest witch in all Europe
doesn't know of a way to free a town from the power of one Roman brigand.
"I'l l d o whateve r nee d b e done
, lady
. I'l l figh t
Pardo's men alone on foot, if need be. I'll swell the
Evancon to wash them from the streets. I'll go to any amount of work, and
through any peril.
" I onl y nee d yo u t o tel l m e how.
" Th e fait h i n hi s eyes was as unreasonabl e as a child's, and his jaw
clenched again and again.
Saara tried to break the link that locked her green, slightly tilted eyes to
Damiano's. She failed, for the power that held her was as old as sorcery and
far stronger. "I'm not the greatest witch in Europe, Dami-
yano
. I n m y hom e w e ar e al l witches
, an d ther e ar e som e muc h stronge r tha n I , an d wilder
. Tha t i s why..
.
"But, boy, you are free of that place, and of Gener-
a l Pardo
. Th e worl d i s yours—althoug h no t thi s hill
, I
must remin d you. Genera l Pard o canno t follo w you everywhere."
Damian o squinte d painfull y an d shoo k hi s head
.
"H
e ha s m y city
, lady
. M
y home
. Ther e i s a grea t difference between a traveler and an exile. Ask
Dante.
Ask Petrarch. "
Saara cocked her head at the unfamiliar names, and then she laughed. "I need
no one else's opinion. A
cit y i s a collectio n o f ston e walls
. M
y peopl e nee d n o cities
; the y follo w th e reindee r an d ar e free.
"
"Reindeer? "
Saar a grinne d a t hi s puzzlement
. "Shagg y dee r wit h grea t antler s an d bi g fee t tha t ca n
stan d o n th e snow. We ride them and milk them and also eat them, thoug h
no t th e sam e one s w e ride.
"
Lookin g at the impish set of Saara' s smile, Damian o wa s no t sur e h e
wa s suppose d t o believ e her
. H
e decided, sighing deeply, that he should let the matter pass.
"We Piedmontese—all Italians—do need cities. We invest our hearts into them. A
city is like a mother, lovel y lady
. Sh e give s u s ou r foo d an d ou r friend s an d our amusements .
She sets an indelibl e stamp upon us.
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Yet a city—she can't defend herself. Who will take care of her if not her
children, eh?"
Th e Fenwoman'
s elfi n fac e softene d wit h some
-
thin g lik e pity
, ye t sh e sho6
k he r head
. "Tha t i s a prett y thing to say, Dami. But a city is not a person. Nor
has it life like a tree. It's thing like the staff—it's your choice a t o pu
t car e int o i t o r t o b e free
. I woul d soone r hel p yo u be free."
Hesitantly , Damiano stepped forward, trying to smile. When he was close
enough to see her well, he was also close enough to touch. He put out his left
hand and stroked her arm and shoulder . So roughene d
by the strings were his fingertips they scraped against the thin felt of her
embroidered dress.
"Saara
. M
y lady
. I f i t i s you r wis h tha t I don'
t liv e in my city anymore, so be it. I will live in a black forest.
Or in a boat on the ocean—I don't care, so long as it is b y you r will
. Bu t firs t I mus t hel p Partestrada
, don'
t you see?"
She watched his hand carefully but did not with-
draw. He continued "I am told... by whom it doesn't matter, that a city can
only prosper with blood and war, an d tha t I coul d sav e Partestrad a
a t th e expens e o f he r own future glory. I came to you to find another
way."
Damian o spok e i n a whisper
, an d a s h e spok e hi s finger s trace d a smal l wheedlin g
circl e o n he r shoulder
.
So intent was Saara on this motion that she seemed not t o b e listening
. Bu t sh e answere d " I kno w nothin g abou t glory
, unles s yo u mea n th e light s i n th e winte r sky. I won't go to
war with you, Dami-yano."
"Then show me how to succeed without war," he whispered, and as she raised an
ironical eye to his insistence, he kissed her softly on the side of her mouth.
Saar a caugh t he r breat h an d close d he r eye s an d stepped back
from him. "This is no good," she said weakly. "Neither what you say nor what
you do. Dami-
yano, I have a man who would kill you for that."
She rubbed her face with both hands. Damiano's smile
, a s h e watche d her
, wa s slo w an d sad
. "Maybe, "
h e admitted
. "An d mayb e i t wa s wort h it , Saara.
"
"No maybes about it," she said sternly, then realiz-
ing what she had said, she added, "—about his killing you, I mean. He is just
like you, too: lean and dark and unpredictable
. Hi s nam e i s Ruggiero
, an d h e come s from Rome."
"From Rome!" cried Damiano, stung. "Then he ca n b e nothin g lik e m e a
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t all
. I a m Piedmontese.
"
Her mutable eyes danced. "No difference that I
ca n see—sav e tha t yo u ar e muc h younge r an d d o no t wear a
sword.
"Take warning by that, Dami-yano and go back to
Ludica
. Ther e i s a worl d o f charmin g girl s ou t there
.
You need not a mother or a city or... a wicked old woman like me." With those
words Saara vanished, and a pale gray dove flashed upwards into the heavens.
Damiano followed the flight with his eyes, till the su n blinde d him
. H
e ha d neve r see n anyon e tur n int o a bird before; such magic was
impossible to one who worked through a staff.
There was a snuffle and grunt by his feet. He glanced down to see Macchiata,
obscured by a dancing, roun d afterimag e o f th e sun
. Th e do g looke d earnestl y into his face.
"You licked her—kissed her, I mean," said Macchiata.
"Yes," responded her master. "I... like her."
Still the dog stared. "I've never seen you kiss anyon e before
, Master
. No t anyon e bu t me.
"
Damiano'
s lip s twitched
, bu t h e controlle d th e smile
. "That'
s true
, littl e dear
, bu t doe s tha t mea n tha t I
can't kiss anyon e else? "
Macchiata thought about it. "You never kissed
Carl a Denezzi, " sh e commente d sagely
.
Damiano'
s repl y wa s short
. "No
. Bu t I shoul d have.
" H
e turne d bac k t o th e rock
, wher e th e bee s stil l drone d an d th e mos s la y lik e a
cushio n i n peti t point
:
green, gold, russet, black.
" I shoul d have.
" H
e picke d u p th e lut e b y th e nec k and began to finger it,
indecisively.
Macchiat a heave d hersel f u p besid e him
. "Bu t sh e doesn't like you, Master. This one. She told you to go away."
The treble trilled wanly. "That's because she doesn't want me to get in a
fight with her... her Roman friend.
On e mus t lik e a perso n somewha t t o wan t hi m no t t o get his
head lopped off. Of course, there is really no danger of that. Saara
underestimate s me. She thinks
I' m younge r tha n I am.
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" H
e cam e dow n o n th e bas s cours e s o forcefull y tha t th e
string s buzze d agains t th e bridge.
"She will come around," Damiano stated. "We'll cam p o n he r hillsid e
unti l sh e does.
" Macchiata'
s ear s flattened with doubt.
"Bu t yo u said
, Master..
. tha t w e woul d soo n b e out of food. Remember?"
"W
e don'
t nee d t o eat, " sai d Damiano
, an d h e se t his jaw. The dog stared for a long time without a word.
The camp he set up at the edge of the birch wood tha t evenin g wa s small
, sinc e h e hadn'
t bee n abl e t o carr y muc h b y foo t fro m Ludica
, an d neat
, sinc e h e fel t i n a wa y tha t th e meado w wa s th e lad y
Saara'
s parlor
.
And although he hadn't exactly been welcomed by that lady, he hoped to make
himself a pleasant guest.
He and the dog ate bread and raisins while night-
ingales ornamented the wind in the leaves and a single late sparrow went
"peep, peep, peep." After dinner
Macchiata lay before the fire and sighed.
Damian o wa s i n a bette r mood
. "Yo u know
, littl e dear, what is the best thing about Saara?" he asked as he peered
down the neck of the liuto, checking it for wood warp. He didn't wait for an
answer. "It's that she'
s wis e a s a grea t lad y an d ye t fre e a s a child.
"
"Those are two things, " Macchiat a commented , but her master was not
listening.
"She was barefoot; did you notice, Macchiata? Her little white feet seemed
scarce to bend the grass."
Th e do g emitte d a slo w groa n tha t ende d i n a grunt. "I
noticed that she had a very heavy hand, when she pushed me down on the rock."
Damiano shot her a glance in surprise. "Heavy?
No
, tha t wa s no t heavy
, Macchiata
. Didn'
t I fee l i t myself? For a heavy hand, you must remember my father
. No w he ha d a heav y hand.
"
The lute was sound, but its finish had undeniably suffered in the climb.
Hoping the bass course was true, Damiano tuned the rest of the strings by it.
(Among his gifts was not that of absolute pitch, which Raphael said
wa s mor e o f a n ordea l tha n a blessin g t o th e musicia n
possessing it.)
"Yet, Saara the Fenwoman is greater than my fa-
ther was. I'm sure I could learn much from her, and the learnin g woul d b e
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mor e pleasant.
"
Macchiat a raised her head. "But you don't want to be a witch, Master. You
want to play the lute and go from place to place. You said so."
Damiano cocked an eyebrow in irritation, and at tha t momen t a mi d strin
g snapped
. Th e smal l explo
-
sio n echoe d throug h th e littl e gol d woo d an d th e bird s all
went quiet together.
He stared down dumbly for a moment, then began to pull off the remnants of the
string. "Both ways of life," he stated, "Have their advantages. And disadvan-
tages.
"It may be I'm tuning too high," he concluded, an d starte d th e tunin g
again
.
"Bu t Saar a ha s th e bes t o f bot h worlds
, fo r he r music is her magic. And vice versa. Her way, I think, is mor e
suite d t o a woma n tha n a man
, fo r w e ar e b y ou r nature more forceful and less gentle. If my
feelings ruled my craft... well, we'd have a lot more storms in the sky,
Macchiata."
This time the tuning was completed without inci-
dent, though the empty space on the fingerboard was as bad as a missin g
tooth. "It must be that the lady's pure heart is her strength . That and her
green eyes.
Gree n an d golde n eyes
. An d smooth
, dimple d skin...
"
"Master, " brok e i n Macchiata
. He r ow n eyes
, ear
-
nes t an d brown
, wer e concerned
. "Master
, d o huma n me n eve r hav e t o g o t o th e stable?
"
He peered across the fire at her, blinking, his chain o f thought—i f i t
wa s thought—broken
. "What
, Macchiata
?
D o huma n me n eve r what?
"
"Eve r hav e t o sta y i n th e stable
. Fo r tw o weeks
.
Alone."
Damiano's glance slid away, and his complexion
went many shades darker. He cleared his throat. "No, Macchiata, " he said with
authority . "No, never."
In the dark, in the rustling quiet of the birch trees, unde r th e roun d
whit e moon
, Damian o bega n t o play
.
Hi s musi c wa s French
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, bu t i t wa s no t th e ne w musi c a t all. He played songs that
were two hundre d years old:
th e chanson s o f Bernar t de
Ventadour
, whos e lov e o f hi s patron'
s lad y wa s s o unwaverin g tha t h e wa s banishe d for it, and who
then chose to love Eleanor of Aquitaine.
And Damiano sang to the lute in old Provencal, a languag e he could barely
understand . The mode was
Ionian, but the tune was very sad.
"Amors, e que'us es vejaire?
Trobatz mais fol mas can me?"
(Love, what is your opinion?
Can you ever find a greater fool than I?)
H e hear d i n hi s ow n voic e greate r dept h an d feeling than he
had imagined it to possess, for there is tha t abou t an y foreig n
language
: speakin g i t on e be
-
comes a different person, capable of new and astonishing things
. Hi s voic e carrie d hi m away
, til l ther e wer e tear s in his eyes with pity for the song and for
himself .
"... Farai o,c c'aissi's cove;
Mas vos non estai ges be
Que m fassat z tostem s ma l traire.
"
Little wings fluttered in the tree nearest the fire:
neither the wings of the lark nor the sparrow . Damian o did not look up as
Saara swooped to the earth beside
Macchiata and sat there, feet folded under her blue felt skirt. But he sang
the last part of the verse again, in
Italian.
"I'l l d o wha t I must
.
But it does not become you
T o kee p m e sufferin g thi s woe.
"
Saar a whispere d "Ah, " an d Macchiat a slun k awa y fro m th e fire
. Th e greates t witc h i n th e Italic s twiste d her brown braid
around and around one pink finger.
"Ver y pretty
, Dami-yano
. You r musi c i s lik e you
: war m an d dar k an d lonely
. Onl y ver y youn g me n ar e lonel y in that way."
There was silence while Damiano regarded her from across the campfire. Though
her face was a blur at that distance, under the full moon he saw things with
his witch's eyes and was abashed.
"I'v e com e t o tel l yo u something
, Dami—I'l l cal l yo u that
; it'
s easier
. I'v e com e t o tel l yo u wh y I won'
t help you fight a war."
" I don'
t want...
" h e began
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, bu t sh e cu t hi m of f with a sharp gesture.
"I n m y home
, whic h i s Lapplan d i n th e fa r north
, we were all sorcerers among the Haavala tribe: all
Lapps are sorcerers—witches. We have power over the herd s an d th e wil d
beast s and
, mos t importan t o f all
, the weather. We keep the weather just bad enough to keep other peoples out."
"Weather? You mean raising the wind and calling cloud s o r dispersin g
them
? I ca n d o tha t a little.
"
Sh e smiled
. " I mea n makin g a downpou r i n a drought, or a garden without
winter."
Damian o shrugge d humbl y an d shoo k hi s head
. " I
cannot even imagine that much strength."
Saar a chuckled
. "T
o contro l th e elements
, Dami
, yo u mus t b e willin g t o becom e on e wit h them
. Tha t you refuse to do.
"Bu t I wan t t o tel l yo u abou t me
, an d wh y I'
m here.
"I was young, Dami. As young as you. I had a husband—Jekkinan—and two little
girls with black hair, like their father's.
"Jekkina n was the head of our tribe. He was a stron g man
, an d coul d cag e a wol f wit h a son g o f thre e words. He was
also proud and haughty, though he tempered his words with me.
"In the autumn was the gathering of the herds, when the men go out alone.
There was a fight over the division
, an d a ma n wa s killed
. I a m tol d Jekkina n killed him, though I cannot believe...
"Whethe r o r no
, h e cam e hom e an d sai d nothin g t o m e abou t a fight
, bu t th e nex t da y I wen t ou t alone
, an d whe n I cam e home
, Jekkina n wa s dead
, an d the
—
and the chil—children. Dead on the floor, pierced by spears. The open wounds
were mouths that spoke the killer'
s name.
"
A n involuntar y cr y escape d Damiano
. "Ah
! Lady
, I'm so sorry." He leaned forward till his face was almost in the fire.
Saara glanced upward with dry, locked eyes. "That isn'
t wh y I won'
t hel p you
, Dami-yano
. Th e sam e nigh t that I found my children dead I came to the house of th
e ma n wh o kille d them
.
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"An d I kille d hi m wit h a song—hi m an d hi s wife
.
His children were grown, or I might have killed them too. Then the tribe came
together and decided—for shame—no t t o b e a trib e anymore
, an d th e her d wa s divide d an d the y wen t apart
, takin g th e name s an d th e manners and the stitchwork of other
tribes. I am the onl y on e lef t wearin g th e tw o star s o f th e
Haavala
.
"Tha t i s wh y I won'
t hel p you
, Dami
. I hav e don e wha t hat e mad e m e t o do
. Fo r al l m y life.
"
Damiano stepped through the fire and sat beside her. "We are more alike than
you know, Saara," he whispered. His sun-darkene d hand rested on her own.
"Oh, I do know, Dami-yano," she replied, her hand motionles s but unyieldin g
beneat h his. "Whe n I
felt you in the breezes of the meadow, I knew you, both by your delight in my
garden and by the pain that brough t yo u t o it . Yo u dre w m e t o
yo u lik e a lodeston e draw s a nail
, an d eve n no w I canno t hel p but...
"
Wit h thes e word s sh e edge d awa y fro m hi m an d turne d he r
fac e t o th e dark
. Damian o di d no t releas e her hand .
"If you know me, lady, you know that I don't want vengeance , but peace for my
people. "
Saara's rose pink lips tightened. "Let them find other towns to live in, as my
people found other tribes."
He sighed. "It's not the same, lady. A man without property—wit h onl y a
wif e an d hungr y children—he'
s not especially welcome anywhere. Exiles are so many beggars.
" A cit y i s lik e a garden
. Everythin g grow s together
, and the roses shade the violets. A man belong s in his own city. Can't you
help me, Saara? If you have the power to cage a wolf, can't you cage a
brigand, or at leas t scar e hi m away?
"
"Can't you?"
she replied. "Men who have no pow-
e r ar e easil y cowe d b y it.
"
Damiano smiled ruefully and scratched his head.
Hi s han d disappeare d ami d th e tangl e o f blac k curls
. " I
can'
t thin k how, " h e admitted
. "Th e onl y way s I kno w t o frighte n a n arm y ar e way s Pard
o suggeste d t o m e himself
, an d s o I doub t they'
d wor k o n him
.
"Bu t wit h rai n an d lightning
, lady
! I'l l spea k th e spell myself, so if it is risky or demands heavy pay-
ment, it will come back on me..."
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Saara shook her head emphatically. "You can't, black eyes. Not bound to this
staff as you are, and even if you let it go, you would have to learn again
like a child.
" I woul d hav e t o d o thi s thin g fo r you
, an d I
won't." Her face was set. "In the morning you go back to Ludica."
Damian o flinched
. H
e squeeze d he r han d placatingly
.
"Please. I'd like to stay here a few days, in case you change your mind."
Saara glared at Damiano. She pulled on one of her braid s i n frustration
. " I tol d yo u yo u can't
, boy
. Ruggeri o wil l g o int o a rage
, onc e h e know s you'r e here.
"
Damian o picke d u p a pebbl e an d thre w i t int o th e fire. His
own quick fire was wakened. "Well then, he
mus t b e ver y easil y enraged
, Saara
. Fo r i f th e trut h b e known, I myself am as much a virgin as a
day-old chick
. I f I trie d t o d o yo u violence
, lady
, yo u woul d probabl y hav e t o sho w m e how!
" An d wit h hi s admis
-
sion he turned away from her, rested one hand on his knee and his head on his
other fist and stared unseeing acros s th e meadow
.
Saara smothere d her laughte r with both hands.
"Oh, my dear, my sweet boy. I know. I knew that from th e beginning
. Bu t Ruggerio—wil l eithe r no t believ e o r no t care
. H
e i s prou d an d quic k t o anger
. Lik e Jekkinan
, I guess. And it's his boast that he keeps men out of the garden."
"Proud and angry and not even a witch. What do yo u wan t wit h him
, Saara?
" growle d Damiano
, stil l with his back to the fire.
H e misse d th e lif t o f he r shoulder s an d he r dim
-
pled smile. "He's very faithful," Saara offered.
"So'
s Macchiata—m y dog, " h e grunte d i n turn
. H
e turne d agai n t o se e th e lad y scratchin g he r bar e toe s
thoughtfully .
"Understand, Dami. When I came to this country I
was very unhappy. Filled with grief and regret. When the southerners
discovered who I was—a foreigner and a—a witch—they would not speak to me. The
children ran away.
" A ma n cam e t o me
, then
: a southman
, bu t a ma n of our kind—the first witch I ever saw who bound himself to a
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stick. (How that puzzled me!) He told me he had felt my presence in the wind
of his own chimney
, fa r off
, an d coul d no t sta y away
.
He was young, like you, and dark. I thought I
loved him. I
did love him; he was like Jekkinan , with both his powe r and his storms . One
nigh t he.. . he did somethin g ver y bad
; h e crep t int o m y mind
. H
e move d t o stea l m y strengt h fro m me
, an d s o I discovere d tha t he had never loved me at all but had
desired my power.
"It was horrible to find I had been so wrong—to
fin d I ha d live d a s wif e wit h a ma n an d i t ha d al l bee
n planned as a trick! He had the skill of lying with the heart itself—never
had I heard of such a thing.
"But he had exposed himself too soon. I fought back
, an d I wa s th e stronger
. H
e wen t fleein g dow n th e hill, and I've never seen or heard of him
again.
"But I remember; I remember how I saw through a man
, o r though t I did
, an d wa s a fool
. An d I wil l no t trus t anothe r lik e him
! S o I allo w n o on e o n th e hil l an d rarel y ste p ou t o f
m y garden
. An d tha t wa s wh y I wa s surprised to find that people in the far
Piedmont know my name.
"Ruggerio has no power," she continued, in calmer tones. "And his temper is a
trouble to me, Dami. But he loves me, and because he is only simple I know he
i s no t hiding...
" Sh e stoppe d i n midsentence
, starin g at Damiano's face, where anguish and shame and a drea d certaint
y wer e growing
. "Wha t i s it , boy
? Wha t have I said?"
He swallowed and croaked, "The witch who betrayed you. His name. What was it?"
He r bro w dre w forwar d painfully
. "I..
. don'
t re
-
pea t it . Wha t doe s i t matte r t o you
, Dami-yano?
"
His hands clenched each other as Damiano, uncom-
fortabl y glance d everywher e bu t a t Saara
. "It.
. .i t couldn'
t hav e bee n Delstrego
, coul d it
? Guillerm o Delstrego
?
Because if it is, I really am sorry."
Saara's breath hissed out. She took Damiano's head between her hands and
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looked into his eyes, reading the truth she had missed before.
" I
am sorry, " h e said
, thic k voiced
. " I wouldn't...
"
"No!" she cried out. "I've done it again! Again!
Great Winds, will I never be free?" And Saara vanished upward into the trees.
Damian o huddle d agains t a blas t o f froze n air
.
"Dear Jesu," he whispered, as the fire guttered out. A
few minutes later he added, "Papa, you have so much to answer for."
Macchiat a crawle d ou t o f th e nigh t an d sa t besid e him .
Chapter 12
Th e col d fade d soon
, an d Damian o wa s to o depresse d t o restar t th e fire
. H
e wrappe d himsel f i n hi s singl e blanket and hugged Macchiat a close,
both for warmth and comfort. Sleep came nowhere near.
Damian o almos t calle d upo n Raphae l fo r comfort
, since the angel, at least, knew he was not party to the wrongdoing s o f
Delstrego
, Senior
. Ye t tha t busines s o f the interview with Lucifer stopped his mouth.
Even if
Raphae l ha d n o knowledg e o f wha t ha d passed
, Damian o did, and he knew his face would proclaim his deed.
And what of Raphael's face? Now that Damiano ha d looke d int o th e eye s
o f th e Devi l an d recognize d the angel, what would he see in the eyes
of the Devil's brother? Not sin, certainly, but...
And on the other hand, how could he communi-
cate to his spiritual friend his feelings for the lovely
Saara
, wit h suc h depth s i n he r eye
, an d suc h swee t impudenc e i n he r mouth
? Eve n th e do g doubte d th e purity of his intent. Silently Damiano
cursed the purity of his intent .
No
, h e di d no t wan t t o se e Raphae l righ t now
. H
e turned back to the comforter of whom he was sure.
"How can I be to blame, little dear? She looked int o m y sou l s o fa r
a s t o se e m e a s a child
, i n th e day s befor e yo u wer e born
, playin g wit h rabbits
. I f I wa s lik e my father, surely she would have seen it then."
Macchiata laid her long nose on the blanket by her master's head. Her tongue
flicked out in consolatory gesture, touching the tip of Damiano's nose.
Licking face s wa s a thin g Macchiat a wa s no t usuall y allowe d t
o
do, but tonight her master didn't chide her for it. "I
thin k I kno w wha t i t i s wit h Saara
, Master, " sai d th e dog.
"Unph!" He rose up on one elbow. His dark hair snared the stars in its
tangles. "What is it, Macchiata?"
Th e do g rolle d over
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, presentin g he r unlovel y bell y t o hi s scratchin g fingers
. "It'
s lik e tha t wit h a cat
.
Something—anything—get s a ca t upse t an d the n there'
s no sense in her. No use to talk; you just have to go awa y an d lic k you
r nose.
"
"Lic k you r nose?
"
"The scratches. Saara is upset at your father, so she claws you instead."
Damiano smiled at the image of Saara as a cat.
Wit h he r littl e fac e an d tilte d eyes
, she'
d mak e a goo d cat
. His sig h melde d wit h a laug h an d cam e ou t hi s throat and
nose as a horse's whinny.
Doubtless Saara could become a cat in an instant, if she wanted to. A big cat.
Damiano regarded the susur-
rous meadow grass with new caution. But no. Had the lad y wante d t o
destro y him
, sh e coul d hav e don e i t before, in the midst of his surprise and
shame.
"Eve n a ca t calm s down
, eventually
, Macchiata, "
h e murmured
, reclinin g again
. "Calm s dow n an d curl s b y th e fire
, s o on e ca n pe t her
. I n th e mornin g I'l l fin d
Saar a agai n an d tel l he r sh e ca n loo k int o m y hea d al l
she wants, till she is sure I am true. Perhaps if I put dow n m y staff
, she'l l believ e me.
"
Macchiata whined a protest and wiggled free from the blankets. "No, Master!
Remember: you did that befor e an d go t hi t o n th e head!
"
Damiano grabbed at one of her feet. She evaded his hand. "Those were ordinary
men, Macchiata. They were afraid of me."
"So is Saara," the dog reminded him.
Morning came, with strings of mist curling up fro m th e waters
. Damiano'
s blanke t wa s damp
; s o wa s he . Breakfas t wa s col d wate r an d th e las t o f th
e bread
.
Macchiata ate a dead frog and then wandered off in search of more.
Damian o ha d th e lut e i n hi s hands
, wonderin g wher e unde r heave n he'
d b e abl e t o fin d a replacemen t for the broken string, when he
became aware of a man in the pine wood. It was neither vision nor sound that
informed him, but the instinct he had inherited from his father.
It was a slight pressure, like the light touch of a finge r o n th e face
, a n irritatio n hardl y noticed
. Indeed
, in the streets of Partestrada, Damiano suppressed this sense, as a
distractio n and hindrance . But here in solitude with the moon at its full,
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Damiano could feel th e stranger'
s siz e an d shape
, an d even
, t o som e mea
-
sure, his intent.
He put off his mantle and laid it on the rock seat.
H e smoothe d hi s clothe s an d ra n hi s finger s throug h his hair.
Since he had no sword to don, he slung his lute across his back instead. Then,
with unconscious dignity
, h e proceede d t o th e edg e o f th e meadow
, where the pines cast a barrier of shadow. When the man steppe d out Damian o
bowed to him in a manne r neither proud nor servile, and he wished him good
day.
The stranger was tall, and where Damiano was slim
, thi s fello w wa s lea n lik e a starve d hound
. Hi s fac e was long and his eyes glinted black in the early sun.
His nose was so high-bridged his face would have appeare d arrogan t asleep
. A
s h e stoo d there
, peerin g dow n a t Damiano
, th e expressio n upo n tha t fac e wa s an insult.
Silence stretched long. The stranger shifted his weight onto his left hip with
mincing grace. His left thumb was thrust negligently between the hilt and the
scabbar d o f a swor d tha t wa s neithe r ne w no r orna
-
mental. The worn nap on his velvet runic proclaimed the fact that this
gentleman wore the sword at least as often as he wore the tunic.
His eyes went from Damiano's dirty boots to his
rude
, mountai n trouser s an d thenc e t o hi s woole n shirt, where the
white linen peeped out at neck and wristline
. Th e blac k glanc e wrot e a silen t satir e o n eac h articl e i
t lighte d upon
, an d whe n i t reache d Damiano'
s face
, it s narrativ e wa s s o amusin g th e ma n brok e ou t i n
laughter.
"The wolf has a very small puppy," he announced, speaking to an invisible
audience. "Perhaps this is only a bitch-whelp , after all."
Damiano leaned upon his staff, allowing the flush to pass from his face. "By
all signs you are Ruggerio,"
h e said
. " I don'
t wan t t o trad e insult s wit h you
, Signer
.
Bu t I d o wan t t o tal k t o you.
"
Ruggerio stepped forward in an airy toe-dance abou t whic h ther e wa s
nothin g feminine
. H
e circle d aroun d Damian o t o ge t th e su n ou t o f hi s eyes
.
An d int o Damiano's
. "Bu t onl y on e o f u s ha s anything to say, whelp. Take you from my
lady's hill."
Damian o sighe d deepl y an d scratche d hi s head
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.
"You have a sword, Signor, and I do not. That is a strong argument in your
favor. But much as I would like to avoid trouble with you, I cannot leave
without seeing the lady Saara again."
Ruggeri o paused, a black shape against the sun. "I
see, fellow. And that in itself is an argument almost as strong as a sword,
for my lady is more beautiful than th e ne w rose
, an d he r speec h i s lik e wate r t o a ma n i n the desert. If I
prevent men from Saara, it is because otherwise her garden would become a
litter of broken hearts.
"But, little wolf, with you the matter is different. It is not I but Saara
herself who has ordered you gone from here. Isn't that enough, fellow? You
have seen my lady's face; how can you not now bend to her wish?"
Damiano heard the practiced, smooth draw of the swor d fro m it s scabbard
.
H e steppe d bac k behin d hi s staff
, a s thoug h i t could conceal him. "I would indeed bend to her wish,
Signor. Every wish but this one. If she told you who I
am
, sh e mus t hav e als o tol d yo u wh y I a m here.
"
The sword reflecte d light like water. The long grass stoo d awa y fro m th
e bas e o f Damiano'
s staf f a s thoug h blow n b y wind
. "Lik e you r do g o f a father
, fellow
, yo u covet my lady's powers," said Ruggerio.
" I don'
t wan t he r powers
, Signore
, bu t he r help
. I
nee d he r t o sav e m y cit y fro m destruction, " replie d th e
witch, and he raised his staff off the ground. As the
Franciscan in his homespun robes may raise the cross before some Muslim
caliph, so Damiano raised his blac k staf f befor e Ruggerio
. An d Ruggeri o laughed
.
"Yo u hav e a prett y nam e fo r ambition
, churl
. I'l l admi t that
.
"But enough, now. Go." The sword made an abor-
tive feint toward Damiano's midsection. "Or I'll prick yo u wit h tin y
holes
, lik e bedbu g bites
, tha t wil l ge t bigger and bigger as I lose my temper. You see?" The
steel flickered in motion and was deflected by Damiano's
•staff .
A
swee t tingin g like that o f a bell cu t th e air .
Ruggerio circled his wrist, and the sword lunged again.
Sparks flew as steel hit silver, and again the strike wen t wild
. Ruggeri o grunte d i n hi s throat
.
Damiano's eyes (never very useful to him) went soft and vague as he turned his
inner attention to
Ruggerio. He swayed to the right out of the path of the swordsman's attack.
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"I' m no t abou t t o le t yo u stic k m e wit h tha t pin
, Signo r Ruggerio, " Damian o sai d aggrievedly
. "No t eve n a prick like a bedbug bite."
It was not agility alone that preserved the young witch
, fo r wit h eac h swor d thrus t hi s staf f calle d ou t t o hi s
opponent'
s blad e an d too k th e forc e o f th e blo w upo n it s ow n woo
d an d metal
. Thre e mor e time s
Damiano evaded the taunting feints, till the tall south-
erne r steppe d bac k wit h a his s o f breath
.
"You will drive me to kill you, fellow," Ruggerio spat.
Cautiousl y Damian o steppe d sideways
, unti l h e
could discern the features of his enemy's face. "Is that what the lady said,
Signore? That you were to kill me if
I did not run away? "
Th e Roma n snorted
. "Sh e didn'
t stipulate
. Bein g a delicat e creature
, m y lad y leave s suc h necessitie s t o me. I am very willing to..."
Ruggerio's sentence ended in a scream of rage, whic h turne d t o on e o f
pai n a s ivor y dog-fang s clashe d agains t th e bon e o f hi s
ankle
. H
e kicked
, an d Macchiat a flew through the air above the meadow grass. Seeing the
tip of the sword touch against the ground, Damiano stepped down upon it, but
Ruggerio withdrew his weapon
, slicin g halfwa y throug h th e woo d an d leathe r of Damiano' s
boot heel. "Leave us, Macchiata, " called
Damiano. "I can handle him; you'll only get yourself killed."
Ruggerio's cry was wordless . The edged blade flashed in a scintillating arc
toward Damiano's head.
"Mothe r o f God
, hel p me!
" whispere d th e witch
, a s h e thre w hi s staf f int o th e pat h o f destruction
. Th e blade sparke d and recoiled , while the wood itself sang lik e th e
ree d o f a cathedra l organ
. "Don'
t d o that
, Signore, " Damian o warned
.
Ruggerio switched his sword to his left and stuck a numbe d righ t han d
int o hi s belt
. "Ah
? S o it'
s th e stic k yo u need
, puppy
. I forgo t m y lad y sai d somethin g t o that effect. Then I'll cut
it out of your hands or cut your hands off with it; that's the fitting
punishmen t for a thief."
The knowledge that Saara had given away his weakness hit Damiano like a slap.
For an instant he heard the forest ring in its own silence and felt a weakness
in his chest. Ruggerio swung again, scraping hi s blad e alon g th e
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surfac e o f th e staff
. Damian o spu n th e ebon y lengt h jus t fas t enoug h t o escap e
wit h hi s hands
. Th e knuckle s o f hi s lef t han d ooze d blood
.
But it was Ruggerio who cursed aloud at the pain tha t sho t u p hi s wris
t an d arm
. "Le t th e staf f be
,
Ruggerio," shouted Damiano, drawing back a step.
"Strikin g i t i s deadly.
"
The tall swordsman stood motionless a moment, eyes intent, face
expressionless. He swayed lightly, as thoug h t o music
. "I
s it
, fellow
? T
o m e o r t o you
, I
wonder? Where will you be, if I cut off that pretty silver hea d wit h th e
yello w stones
? Wil l you r ow n hea d rol l in the dust? Let's see." And Ruggerio's
blade whirled abov e hi s ow n head
.
Damian o yanke d sideway s o n th e staff
, an d th e sword flew clean. He started to step away. "No, Signo-
re. You will only get..." And in that instant his torn hee l caugh t i n th
e gras s an d Damian o wen t down
, fallin g fla t o n th e bod y o f th e lute
. H
e hear d th e sna p o f wood
, Ruggeri o stoo d abov e him
, an d th e blad e wa s falling .
"Mother of..." Damiano whispered, expecting to end the phrase in heaven or in
hell. But the blade came down with terrible force not on flesh but on the
silver hea d o f th e staff
, wher e fiv e topa z mad e a ring
, almos t directl y o n to p o f th e single
, smal l ruby
.
Th e swor d itsel f mad e a nois e lik e a broke n strin g that
echoed through earth and air. Ruggerio dropped th e weapon
, shuddered
, an d pu t bot h hand s t o hi s heart
. O
n hi s greyhoun d feature s wa s a loo k o f embarrassed surprise. He
dropped beside Damiano, wh o stil l la y wit h on e foo t trappe d i n
th e lon g grass
.
The witch saw the man's spirit, like light, like water, lik e wings
, shak e itsel f fre e o f th e bod y an d b e gone
.
The wind made mumbling sounds in the grass. In the birch wood a single sparrow
repeated "peep peep peep.
" Damian o knel t befor e th e bod y o f th e swords
-
man. He began to shake his head, though he himself didn't know why he was
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doing so. He closed the man's eyes and arranged the sprawled limbs, then he
leaned bac k o n hi s heel s an d folde d hi s hand s o n hi s lap
. H
e bega n a Paternoster
, fo r wan t o f anythin g els e t o do
.
The wind grew louder, its wailing growing mo-
men t b y momen t unti l th e win d becam e a whit e bird
,
which became Saara the Fenwoman. She took the body o f he r love r i n he
r arm s an d crie d ou t i n a strang e an d bitter tongue. Her face
was white and unbelieving. Her eyes stared, and she, too, shook her head at
the sight of death.
Damiano shuffled back and rose to his feet. His jaw seemed to be locked; there
was nothing he could say. He staggered, dragging one wooden heel held only by
a strip of leather. Macchiata whined and thrust her head between his knees.
Saara looked up slowly. Her face was ashen and blank. Her eyes were dry. It
was a long time before she saw Damiano standing there before her.
The single sparrow went "peep peep peep." The wind sorted through the grass.
Damiano noticed his left hand was red with blood. Blood from his knuckles had
slicked the black staff, but the wound itself had no feeling.
Then Saara opened her mouth and began to keen.
Col d struc k Damian o lik e s o man y blow s t o th e face. His nose
stung, and the roots of his teeth. Frozen ai r scrape d a t hi s lung s a
s h e raise d hi s han d t o hi s face
. I n anothe r instan t th e win d ha d knocke d hi m from his feet,
and he rolled on grass that snapped like ice beneath his weight. He closed his
eyes to the cold and cried out.
Hi s ear s fel t Saara'
s son g a s a deadl y pain
. Damian o screamed as his right eardrum burst. He clambere d to his feet and
ran toward the pine forest, horribly dizzy, stumbling as he went.
Saara's song reached before him, and the gentle air froze, leaving each green
needle clothed in ice. There wa s a cracklin g lik e a fire
, a s branche s to o suddenl y stresse d brok e an d fel l t o th e
ground
. Sno w cam e ou t of nowhere and stole Damiano's breath. He fell again an
d gobbet s o f sno w an d froze n strea m wate r pelte d him from
behind, beating him, seeking to bury him alive. From nearby Macchiata howled
"Master!" He free d hi s fac e o f th e drift
. H
e calle d t o her
.
The n th e roug h blac k tre e trun k a t hi s righ t han d cracked
like a twig underfoot, and forty feet of pine loomed over Damiano and came
crashing down.
He couldn't move, trapped under the weight of snow
. Bu t b y instinc t h e twisted
, an d h e raise d hi s staf f t o th e fallin g monste r a s h e
ha d don e agains t Ruggerio'
s sword.
"No!" he shouted, with his foolish little protection waving above him.
The air crackled with a smell of burning metal.
Damiano's hair stood away from his head, and the black wind whistled through
his ebony staff.
Th e tre e stoppe d falling
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.
Its mammoth bulk lay suspended in the air for thre e seconds
, the n i t caugh t fire
. Rud e orang e flame s li t th e shadow
, an d th e soun d o f burnin g wa s lik e a n enormous, damned choir.
Damiano lay half-buried and helpless as the heat of flame warred with winter,
and feathery ash fell upon his face. It began to rain in the covert.
And then the tree was gone.
He rose slowly, unhindered, and stared down at hi s blood y hand
. H
e mouthe d th e word s
"Dominus
Deus!
Di d I d o that?
" Wondering
, h e shoo k hi s hea d again.
Yet
, eve n now
, Damian o wasn'
t weary
. Destroyin g the tree had been easily done. It was as though he had all the
fires of hell to draw upon. The very idea of that mad e hi m shiver
.
H e peere d al l aroun d himsel f a t th e blaste d wildernes s tha t
ha d bee n a garde n onl y minute s be
-
fore. The red rocks glistened beneath jackets of ice, and the flowers in their
tiny rock-bound plots lay frost-
white and broken. The bed of the wandering stream gaped empty, while snow bent
the grass double. No-
where was there body or bird that could be Saara.
An d i t wa s quiet
. Eve n th e sparro w ha d cease d it s din, either frozen or frightened
away. Damiano stepped into the meadow again.
There was the body of Ruggerio the Roman, lying upon grass untouched by frost.
And there, very near to it , wa s th e littl e lute
, broke n lik e a n egg
. Damian o sighed and came closer.
A s Damian o steppe d hi s to e thudde d int o a lum p in the snow. He
caught his balance with difficulty and glance d down
.
The snow was white and the lump was white, but ther e wa s a re d spo t
lik e a bloodstai n upo n it . Damian o went down upon one knee and
touched not blood but ruddy short fur and the hard, cold ugly bulk that had
been Macchiata.
"Macchiata?" he said stupidly, and he turned the dog over. "Littl e dear? "
Th e bod y wa s stif f a s wood
, wit h thre e leg s folde d unde r an d on e hel d out
, littl e toe s sprea d lik e th e finger s o f a wardin g hand
. Th e lip s wer e pulle d i n a perpetua l smile of terror, and the
eyes—th e eyes were dull chestnuts, no more.
The obvious truth hit Damiano slowly. He took the frozen dog on his lap,
hugging her to him. Then he grunted, dumbly, and for the third time he shook
his head. His staff clattered to the ground, and Damiano wept like a child.
Saara came toward her enemy, stepping through th e sno w barefoot
. He r fac e wa s colorless
; he r eye s round
. Beneat h th e ga y fel t dres s he r smal l shoulder s were hunched
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stiff, as though she expected blows.
On e han d sh e raised
, finge r pointing
, the n sh e dropped it. She stood motionless and unseen before
Damiano's grief.
"Ah
, Macchiata, " h e croone d t o n o on e bu t him
-
self, and he stroked the white head. It was like petting a piece of wood; even
her little petal-like ear was stiff.
"Little dear. So small a thing to be dead. Why does it have to be?"
An d hi s unthinkin g questio n awok e i n hi m th e memory of
Macchiata's own words as she mourned the
murdere d infan t i n Sou s Pon t Sain t Martin
: "It'
s s o little
. Can'
t i t b e alive?
"
"No, Macchiata . It can't," he had said. And with that memory his grief grew
harder.
H e looke d u p an d sa w Saar a standin g barefoo t i n the snow,
hands at her sides. The simple , girlish figure wavered in his vision as
though he were looking through water
. H
e rose
. Th e staf f wa s agai n i n hi s hand
.
"He was my man," she said. "He loved me. He thought I was beautiful . I'm not
young, Dami. I'm old.
Where will I find another like him?"
Damiano did not reply. Perhaps he did not even hear her. He heard the sound of
fire in his ears, and he kne w th e flame s wer e near
, t o b e draw n throug h hi s staf f lik e ai r throug h a flute
. H
e tilte d hi s hea d t o hea r what the fire was saying.
Saara looked at his face and turned to flee.
The white bird rose, but fire seared the sky like the lick of a whip . She
droppe d and dove , and a beas t like a shagg y dee r spran g away
. I t carrie d backswep t ant
-
lers, and its hooves were wide like the pads of a camel.
I t wa s true
, Damian o though t distantly.
Sh e wa s no t lying
; ther e i s suc h a deer
.
A tongue of flame raced toward the pine wood;
where it touche d the snow, the air went white with steam
. I t reache d th e edg e o f th e meado w befor e th e leaping
animal and flashed sideways , turnin g the rein-
deer, prisonin g both it and its capto r with a wall of deadly heat. Grass
sizzled. The fire burned wood, earth, snow. It needed nothing but itself to
burn.
I hav e onl y begun
, though t Damian o withou t emo
-
tion. Hell is vast; I could char all this hill. All of
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Lombardy.
Saara turned at bay, and as she cast off her animal form, she was hidden by
the thickening mists. It didn't matter. Damiano could feel her presence on his
closed eyelids. He advanced toward her.
Suddenl y th e ai r dazzle d an d snappe d wit h thun
-
der. Above both witches the heavens convulsed, and a drenching rain smote
down.
The ring of flame guttered , and for a momen t
Damian o sa w Saar a plainly
: a smal l an d slende r figur e kneelin g o n th e flattene d grass
, stream s o f rai n runnin g along her long braids and down her breast.
Her hands were raised to the sky. She was singing.
She was as fair as a dryad, as a child. Her beauty hurt him, and with his pain
he built the fire higher.
Saara screamed at the touch of boiling steam. Damiano fel t nothing
.
The clouds lifted, but there was no woman on the grass, merely a flock of
doves, watching him. He closed his eyes and stepped toward Saara.
A white bear rose above his head, black mouthed, te n fee t tall
. I t swun g a pa w a t hi m tha t wa s thicke r than Damiano's
waist. He dodged and thrust a staff of fire at the creature' s eyes. It turned
and faded.
Lightnin g smashe d dow n upo n him
, an d th e ma d staf f dran k it , singin g a s thoug h wit h joy
. H
e thre w th e bol t a t th e woma n befor e him
, an d sh e fell
.
Damian o leaned over her. Water ran from the snakelik e curl s o n hi s
hea d t o spatte r i n he r face
. H
e put his boot upon her stomach; the broken heel snagged and tore the red and
yellow stars. The silver head of his staff he pressed against her throat. "No
more singing,"
he said.
The n h e raise d hi s head
. Th e rin g o f fire
, unat
-
tended, had flickered out, but Saara's rain continued, cold
, dull
, an d gray
. Damian o groun d hi s teet h an d stare d withou t seeing
.
In another moment he would kill her. Or walk away. He desired... what he
wanted he did not know.
H e flexe d hi s damage d knuckle s o n th e staff
.
Th e staf f kne w wha t it desired
. I t tol d him
, speak
-
ing the same language as the fire had used. It desired increase—power
. I t vibrate d i n hi s hand
.
Saar a crie d shrill y an d gaspe d fo r air
. Damian o
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glanced down in surprise, all hate forgotten between on e momen t an d th e
next
. H
e lifte d hi s foot
.
And then he was struck by a blow of greater power than that of the lightning .
It came throug h the wood of the staff itself and ascended his arm, striking
int o hi s hear t an d hi s head
.
It was cold rain and distance and falling. It was sunlight and unrecognize d
tunes and a wealth of mean-
ingles s words
. Damian o floate d i n stunne d silence
. H
e woul d hav e flun g th e staf f away
, ha d h e know n how
.
But he was not now master. The staff had been created b y Damiano'
s father
, an d i n thi s moment
, i t reverte d t o type . It was strong , and it was thirsty . It dragge d
the young man into its own magic.
But it was the only weapon he had or knew how to use, so he fought the chaos
with that length of black wood, until it was subdued to it.
Time and time and time passed away.
Saara was still screaming. Rain pelted him in the face. Damiano climbed
swaying to his feet. He stopped the rain.
Sh e stare d u p a t hi m i n horrifie d wonder
. "Yo u have it all," she whispered , and huddle d in a ball on the mired
grass. "What your father wanted."
He looked down at the woman' s full hair, gray at th e temples
, an d he r eyes
, whic h wer e seame d b y su n an d har d weather
. O
n th e back s o f he r clenche d hand s the tendons stood out clearly,
and veins made a faint, blue lacework. Her face was burned by steam.
Bu t nothin g h e sa w wa s a surpris e t o hi m now
, fo r he knew Saara very well—in her body, in her song, and i n he r power
, whic h ha d becom e his
.
"You are still beautiful, pikku Saara,"
he said, not knowin g he spoke the far Norther n language . "And you are not
very old."
Saara turned her head to him, and what she saw hurt her eyes. She started to
shiver.
Damian o limpe d awa y fro m her
. I n th e middl e o f th e wast e tha t ha d bee n a garde n h e
stoppe d an d
tapped hi s staf f upo n th e soil
. Gras s root s ripped
, an d stones. A black hole gaped before him. Within it he placed the corpse
of a dog. He made again the small journe y t o th e dea d man'
s side
, an d h e picke d up, no t
Ruggerio's body, but the pieces of the broken lute, which went into the grave
beside Macchiata. In another momen t th e eart h shu t it s mouth
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.
Leaving the grave unmarked , Damian o turned away from the meadow, where a
winter wind blew across the sullie d earth
. H
e di d no t loo k bac k a t Saara
.
Chapter 13
Whe n h e wa s wel l int o th e privac y o f th e pines
, Damiano sat down on a log. He stuck a bit of moss into his painful ear, to
keep out the cold, and with this his dizzines s gre w less
. Wit h a brea d knif e h e prie d of f th e heel from his intact
boot, making his steps level.
Hi s ne w power s whispere d i n hi s righ t ear
, lik e a friend standin g too near for comfort . That broken ear coul d
hea r nothin g sav e th e memor y o f chant s sun g long ago, in a
language repetitive and strange, yet to
Damiano understandable.
Fly
, th e word s repeated
. Fin d th e sky
. Leav e vestmen t an d bod y behind
. H
e clun g doggedl y t o hi s clompin g staff .
"I t isn'
t wha t I wanted
, lady, " Damian o sai d aloud
, hi s voic e echoin g oddl y throug h hi s lef t ea r only
. " I a m not my father. "
Suddenly it occurred to him that even he did not believ e himself
. H
e stoppe d i n hi s tracks
, chewin g hi s lowe r lip
. H
e bega n t o revie w hi s actions
, ste p b y step
, since leaving home, both through the eyes of his mem-
ory and through this strange new vision that had becom e his
. H
e sa t down
.
Before Damiano moved again, the endless ever-
gree n twiligh t ha d deepened
. A
n ow l stretche d it s down y wing s i n th e crotc h o f a spli t
fir
, an d col d sprea d dow n from the high meado w into the wood .
Only the silver on his staff was visible as Damiano haule d himsel f agai n
t o hi s feet
, usin g a saplin g fo r support
. H
e cleared hi s throa t an d glance d abou t him
, markin g each mouse-sti r and badger' s yawn: the living rustle of the
forest.
This time the invocation should be easier. He had merel y t o follo w hi s
ow n fir e t o it s source
, an d h e woul d locat e th e spiri t h e sought
. Closin g hi s eye s
Damian o descende d withi n himsel f unti l h e touched
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, fa r dow n an d glimmering
, th e trac e o f th e fire
.
Thi s h e followed
, throug h blacknes s an d void
, an d it grew stronger and brighter as he approached its source. At the
shore of a molten ocean he stopped, daunted not by heat but by terror.
I was born for this, he thought, and with that understandin g h e migh t
hav e wept
, excep t tha t h e ha d use d u p al l hi s tears
. H
e di d no t kneel
, bu t stoo d wit h his knees locked, braced by his staff .
"Satan! "
he called.
"I am here. "
There was no response . Damian o opened his eyes.
H e wa s i n th e blac k forest
, i n ful l night
. Hi s journe y ha d gon e nowhere
. Puzzlemen t kni t hi s brow
.
"If those are the fires of hell," he mumbled to himself, "the n thi s Lombar
d hillsid e mus t b e hel l itself
. An d
I've been many place s worse. "
Frowning
, h e dismisse d th e matte r an d bega n hi s conjuremen t i n th e
traditiona l manner
, wit h staf f an d palindrome
. A
t th e wor d Satanas
, h e agai n fel t th e pul l tha t woul d wrenc h hi m fro m th e
dam p pine needle s t o the Devil's palm. Every weary bone in Damiano re-
belled at the thought of that wild flight.
"No, " h e stated
, an d roote d himsel f t o th e earth
.
The spell tightened like a rope around him, but it
neither shook him nor did it tear. The jeweled head of his staff sparked, then
glimmered like an oil lamp, and
Damian o foun d himsel f starin g a t th e fin e rudd y fea
-
ture s an d elegan t pois e o f Satan
, wh o shoo k th e dea d needle s fro m hi s shoe s an d bowed
.
Th e Devi l wa s jus t hi s size
.
"S o yo u ar e n o longe r th e sympatheti c littl e dov e who had
words with me a week ago," he said to
Damiano.
Th e witc h shrugged
. "Yo u don'
t hav e wings, " h e remarked
, pointing
. " I didn'
t notic e before
, whe n yo u were so big. You don't have wings anymore."
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Th e re d fac e twitche d wit h scorn
. " I a m wha t siz e i t please s m e t o be
. An d a s fo r wings
, youn g mortal
, I
don't need them to fly."
Damiano blinked and scratched his chin. "Perhaps, Signore, but I don't need my
eyebrows either, and yet I
don'
t pluc k the m out.
"
Scarlet deepened to crimson, but the Devil's urbani-
t y remaine d otherwis e intact
. "Di d yo u brin g m e her e to throw insults at me, Delstrego? If so, I
warn you, you are not yet that powerful..."
"No
, Signore.
" Damian o ra n on e han d throug h hi s hai r i n a businesslik e
manner
. "I..
. aske d yo u her e because I want to take the bargain you offered me last
week."
Satan'
s smil e wa s slo w an d grudging
. Unde r th e flickering staff-light it looked a bit... satanic. "But you
were sure there was a better way, little witch."
Damiano nodded, lips pursed. "Yes. I'm still sure o f it . Bu t no t fo r
me
. Everythin g I hav e don e ha s le d to blood. "
Ver y quietl y th e Devi l said
, "Yo u ar e on e o f mine.
"
Damian o stare d dow n a t hi s boot s an d nodded
.
"The bargain," he repeated.
Sata n san k indolentl y dow n upo n a chai r tha t hadn't been there
before: a chair that looked very much like the one Damiano had seen burnt in
the guard
shac k a t th e crossroad s belo w Aosta
. H
e fixe d Damian o with a knowing eye.
"Wh y that?
" h e bega n diffidently
. "No w tha t yo u know the truth, I can give you freedom itself."
"The bargain. I will trade the future of my city, and my own , for peace. "
"Renounc e th e shackle s o f th e Beginning
, an d yo u ca n hav e whateve r yo u want.
"
Damiano snorted and sat also, not on a magical chair , but on the ground . "Wh
y woul d I renounc e my
Maker, Signore. He has done nothing ill."
Satan's eyes widened in shock. "He has covered the earth with pain and
despair, Damiano. His cruelties are so enormous that even his ministers curse
him in private . You hav e seen his wor k well thes e past few weeks. Open
your poor, nearsighted eyes."
Damian o too k a dee p breath
, an d stil l regardin g
Satan, he scratched his forehead on the wood of the staff. "I have seen cruel
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and angry men and men who are mistaken . I have seen my own misbegotte n
nature .
And I have seen a lot of bad weather.
"Bu t th e worl d H
e made
, Signo r Satan
, doe s no t despair. It is beautiful. No, I admit that I am wicked, and
that my destiny is hell. But that does not mean I
mus t lov e hell
, o r al l tha t i s wicked
, an d I d o not
.
"I love the green earth, Signore , and the Creato r who made it. I also love
your gentle brother Raphael, an d th e cit y o f Partestrad a i n th e
Piedmont
. Wha t o f th e bargai n yo u offered?
"
The Devil's eyes flickered. "Don't be a fool, Dami.
Yo u ca n d o bette r tha n that.
"
"That's what I thought, once. The bargain."
Sata n folde d hi s flori d an d shapel y hand s i n hi s lap
. Damian o notice d beneat h hi s chai r a settle d pal l o f smoke,
and the tang of burning cut the incense of the pines .
"The situation has changed, " announce d Satan.
"Yo u yoursel f hav e change d it , youth
, b y your..
. adven
-
tures . It will have to be approache d differently. "
"Explain, " replie d Damiano
, drummin g hi s finger s on hi s staff .
"Yo u hav e becom e larger
, Damiano
. Muc h larger
.
An d yo u ar e a disturbin g influence
, wit h you r ultra
-
modern ideas and your quaint morality. Men such as yourself exist only to make
trouble." The Devil grinned tightly.
"An d yo u wil l mak e trouble—fo r you r village
, fo r the Piedmont, for the Green Count himself, in years to come—fo r yo u
wil l inevitabl y com e t o disagre e wit h
Amadeus
, whateve r th e ma n does
.
"I f yo u wan t wha t yo u wante d las t wee k fo r you r
village—pardon me, your city—peace and stagnation, you will have to pay a
higher price."
Damiano'
s blac k eyebrow s cam e togethe r i n a V
betwee n hi s eyes
. "Yo u sai d th e cit y woul d fad e an d b e forgotten. And I
myself. Have you found something wors e t o offer
, Satanas?
"
Satan'
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s smil e wa s pained
. "I
? Damiano
, I' m tryin g to help you construct the future. You have created the
possible choices, not I.
"And this one... isn't good. In order for Partestrada t o squa t i n comfor
t fo r th e nex t half-centur y (befor e decayin g int o th e soil)
, i t i s necessar y tha t yo u b e ou t o f the picture."
Damiano shrugged and watched the smoke crawl lik e s o man y snake s ove r
th e fores t floor
. "S
o I can'
t g o home?"
Th e Devi l sa t immobile
. "That'
s no t enough
, a s i t was not enough to exile Dante from Florence. You must die, " Sata
n sai d calmly
.
Damiano's eyes shot to the red, expressionless face. "Die?"
"Yes
. Die
. An d soon
. S o yo u see
, Dami
, it'
s no t much of a bargain after all, is it?"
Th e youn g man'
s mout h opened
. Hi s blac k eye s stared unseeing . "How soon?" he whispered , repeat-
ing Macchiata' s words once again. "How soon is soon?"
A slo w smil e pulle d a t th e perfec t lip s a s Sata n
watche d th e morta l ma n shiver
. "Soon
. I can'
t say
, exactly. Perhaps a year or two. Perhaps tonight. It is certain
, i f yo u strik e thi s fool'
s bargain
, tha t yo u wil l no t liv e t o becom e wise.
" An d h e observe d Damiano'
s misery with trained appreciation.
But his enjoyment was short. Damiano raised his head, met the Devil's gaze,
and nodded.
"Done, " h e said
.
Sata n scowled
, an d hi s hug e ange r cracke d throug h th e carnelia n mask
. "Wha t gam e d o yo u thin k you'r e playing? You can gain nothing by
theatrics, boy! The
Beginning has cast you off already, and mankind will neve r know!
"
Damiano placed both hands on top of his head and rubbe d hi s fac e agains
t hi s knees
. "Eh
? Yes
, bu t I wil l know, Signor Satan, and that is something."
The Devil stood up and flung the spindly chair into nothingness. He spat on
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the forest floor in front of
Damiano, leaving a spot of smoking ash. "You will know, boy? When you are in
my hand you will know wha t I permi t yo u t o know
, n o more
. Yo u wil l remem
-
ber only the idiocy of your actions, forever!"
Damiano rose slowly. "Then I know it now, and that will have to be enough.
Come, Signor Satan. It was your bargain to begin with; hold to it. Shall I
sign in blood? "
Ruddy nostrils twitched, and Satan glared at the ma n wit h barel y
disguise d rage
. "Unnecessary
, Damiano
.
I will have blood enough at the end.
"So be it, fool. I give you your bargain." The Devil sighed
, an d hi s pal e eye s narrowed
. "G
o bac k th e wa y yo u came
. Wha t yo u se e o n th e roa d wil l mak e you r pat h obvious
.
"As for what you are to do, do what seems best to you
. Emplo y wha t tool s yo u ar e given.
"
Pulling on composure like a cloak, Satan bowed and was gone.
The young man drew his hands into his mantle and leaned against the rough
trunk of a tree. "I'm
cold," he said aloud, with no expressio n in his voice.
"An d ver y tired.
"
But the full moon and his unfamiliar and exotic power s pulle d upo n him .
Th e staf f i n which they wer e cage d wa s war m i n hi s hand
. H
e scramble d dow n th e steep incline toward the lake.
A patch of moonlight stopped Damiano. He fo-
cuse d o n th e knobbe d hea d o f hi s staff
; somethin g wa s different.
Indeed
. Th e silve r ha d gon e black—blac k a s soot
.
An d th e jewel s a t th e to p wer e si x smal l chip s o f jet
.
What was more, his clothin g had turned an equally ink y color
; ermin e shon e lik e sable
.
"So he has put his stamp on me, for all to see,"
whispered Damiano, speaking aloud because he was not used to being alone.
Horro r chilled the blood in his fingers . His shoulder s drew up to his ears.
"Mother of God, keep me from hurting anyone else!"
He reached Ludica in the gray-violet light of dawn.
The streets were empty , and Damian o went directl y to the stable.
Festelligambe whickered at his smell.
From a pile of hay and blankets came a phlegmy snoring
. Damian o nudge d i t wit h hi s staff
. "
I hav e com e fo r m y horse, " h e said
.
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The stableboy crawled out of his nest and stood upright before the shadowe d
figure . Then, with a cry of terror, he fell to his knees, hiding his face,
praying an d babblin g together
.
The witch stood puzzled , then his back slumpe d wearil y as he turne d towar
d the horses . "It seem s he ha s mos t certainl y pu t hi s mar k o n
me, " h e said
.
The ride west from Ludica was quiet, very quiet sav e fo r th e tumul t i
n Damiano'
s injure d ear
, wher e foreig n speech
, foreig n desire
, an d homeles s memor y mixed together in a murmurous yearning. But either
th e eardru m wa s healin g rapidl y o r h e wa s gettin g used to the
voices, for they no longer bothered him.
During Damiano's few days in Lombardy, Novem-
ber had given way to December. Damiano reflected that hi s birthda y ha d
passe d unnoticed
. H
e wa s no w twenty
-
tw o year s old
. Twic e tha t ag e woul d b e younge r tha n h e fel t himsel f t o
be
.
But he would not live to be forty-four, he reminded himself
. H
e woul d no t liv e t o b e twenty-five
. I t wa s quit e possibl e h e woul d no t liv e pas t th e night
. Wit h consumin g fir e a t th e en d o f i t all
, i t didn'
t mak e a pleasan t subjec t fo r thought
.
Snow was falling and had been all morning. Damiano was sincerely tired of it,
as well as tired of the wind, th e froze n ruts
, an d th e bar e trees
. Hi s onl y comfor t wa s tha t h e wa s als o to o tire d t o
questio n bot h wha t h e had done and what he was about to do.
H e huddle d i n hi s fur s an d bega n t o sin g a sa d ballad of
Walther von der Vogelweide . It sounded odd in his own head, as though the
singer were actually someon e standin g nea r hi m o n th e left
, bu t th e familia r tun e comforte d him
.
Wa s h e stil l abl e t o pray
? h e wondered
. Wel l wh y not? He'd said his little Paternoste r by the swordsman' s body
, an d th e onl y differenc e the n ha d bee n tha t h e ha d no t
know n h e wa s damne d a t th e time
.
"Sweet Creator," he began, in Latin as was proper for all prayers, "of this
green world... I thank you for it , thoug h i t i s no t t o b e min e
fo r ver y long
. An d though I am wicked in nature, I hope you will not take i t amis s i
f I as k yo u t o tak e car e o f certai n people....
"
Damian o brok e of f suddenly
, blinked
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, an d stare d a t th e roa d ahea d o f him
. A
s h e sa w th e delicat e glor y o f white wings rising upward in twin
interrogativ e curls hi s fac e stretche d int o a welcoming
, gentl y relieve d smile.
Bu t th e expressio n wa s stillborn.
Wit h th e sigh t o f
Raphael, Damiano's plodding numbness broke in pieces, an d h e remembered
. Sham e froz e hi s hear t an d heate d his face, which went dusky. His
hands twisted into the horse's mane . His eyes slid down to the road. "Ser-
aph, " h e sai d thickly
. " I didn'
t mea n t o cal l you
. I t wa s only a prayer."
"I know." The archangel Raphael did not try to smile. He gazed intently at
Damiano on his horse, and the wind riffled his yellow hair.
The angel raised one ivory hand, and Festelligamb e loped forward, lipping the
air and nickering. The heavy, swar t hea d presse d agains t Raphael'
s bosom
.
"I know, Damiano," Raphael said again, scratching the beast forcefull y behind
the right ear. "But I wanted t o se e you.
" An d th e angel'
s gaz e wa s simpl e an d open, yet so searching that Damiano felt himself
go red fro m hea d t o foot
.
That's why Satan looks red, he thought to himself.
Bol d a s h e is, hi s spiritua l bod y i s ashame d o f itself
. A
s
I am ashamed. And now I understand why he hates his brother.
Damiano's jaw clenched. "You do see me, Raphael,"
h e snapped
, mor e sharpl y tha n h e ha d intended
, an d h e stare d over
Raphael'
s shoulder
, wher e blac k tree s gave way to fields of dead grass, crusted in snow.
"And now that you have seen me, what is there to do but go away again?"
The young man waited. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the easy slow
drift of a wing, like the twitch of a cat's tail. He dared not look at
Raphael's face
, t o se e wh y th e ange l stoo d there
, no t speaking
, for Damiano feared that either the beauty of that face o r th e compassio
n writte n upo n i t woul d knoc k hi m t o the ground.
"Go back to heaven, Raphael. My lute is smashed.
M y dog , too. "
" I a m sorr y fo r you
, Damiano.
" I t wa s sai d coolly
, a s a statemen t o f fact
. "Bu t yo u mus t no t griev e fo r
Macchiata."
Damiano's answer was flat. "I have not been. I
haven'
t ha d th e time
. O
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r perhap s th e feeling
.
"It's my life that is smashed, Raphael. I have no more use for a teacher."
Then his need to know how
the angel was reacting outweighed both fear and shame, and Damiano's eyes
turned to Raphael.
Slowly the angel smiled. "I love you, Dami," he said.
Damiano's head sank forward onto the gelding's neck
. Hi s fac e hi d i n th e lon g mane
, roug h an d blac k a s his own hair. He shuddered until the horse's
black back twitche d beneath him. "Oh, no," he cried softly.
"Dominus
Deus!
No. Don't say that. Not to me."
Raphae t i s thi t yo l steppe distance u did d t o Damiano'
s side
. "Why r lov
, Damiano
?
Wha sai s
? D o yo mont u n o longe ago e me
? Yo u wa d tha
, no t a h
, an d yo u sai d I
s not to doubt it. I
will not doubt it.
"—I can be very stubborn."
Th e witc h flinche d a t th an e gentl groun e touc d hi h o n hi
togeth s knee
.
H e screwe d shu t hi s eye s d s teet h
-
er. "Of course I love you, Raphael. And that is turning me on a spit!
"G
o awa y now
. Begone
! Fly
! Yo u ca n d o i t fas t enoug h whe n yo u wan t to.
" An d Damian o mad e blind
, ineffectual bird-shooing gestures.
Th e touc h o f th e han d gre w heavie r fo r a moment
.
"I go," said Raphael. "But we will meet again, Damiano.
I am sure of it. At least once more. And then we will talk this over."
Suddenl y th . H d hi e hors stampe e snorte d an d turne d hi t i n
disap s hea d lef pointment t an d right e d a n iron-sho w a clou d
foo d o f steam
-
, an s breat h ble
. Hi s whinny rang among the iron-gray trees. Damiano opened his eyes,
knowing the angel was gone.
Chapter 14
The weather continued inclement, with the sky a dark nimbu s an d th e eart
h col d an d wet
. Damian o mad e slow progress westward, waiting for a sign.
He encountered a girl with a shoulder yoke and two baskets of hens. After one
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look at him she fled screaming , abandonin g her squawkin g wares . Damian o
righte d th e basket s an d continue d o n hi s way
, wonder
-
ing what it was she had seen in him. When he placed one hand on each side of
his nose, he felt the same face beneath them.
Tha t sam e da y a ma n o n horsebac k approache d fro m a sid e
road
. Hi s antipath y wa s a s pronounce d a s the peasant girl's had been,
and what was worse, his champin g horse seemed to share the terror.
"This is good," mumbled Damiano sullenly. "No on e her e t o ben d m y ea
r wit h unwante d compan y an d bad jokes. I can have some peace for a
bit." And he sighed.
He had been riding for almost a week along the empt y roa d whe n hi s
witc h sens e fel t th e presenc e o f people ahead, thick and hot like
the smoke of a wood fire. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and listened
with his mismatched ears.
Ther e wer e man y me n ahead—mor e me n tha n women
. Soldiers
, i n fact
, i f hi s power s wer e an y judge
.
The part of him that had been Saara grew very wary, feelin g this
.
But at least there was no sound of fighting. Damiano urge d th e geldin g
forward
.
Hal f th e wall s o f Sa n Gabriel e ha d gon e t o mak e rubble for
the barricades. Behind these makeshifts, the black leather and brass of the
army of General Pardo filled the town. Because the men were Romans, mostly,
they cursed the wind and the constant cold. Because they wer e soldiers , they
glance d dourl y over the barri -
cade s an d th e ploughe d field s t o anothe r camp, wher e blu e
tent s flappe d i n th e win d an d th e fla g o f Savo y was pitched
, and spok e of othe r things .
Ogier, illegitimate son of Aymon of Savoy, sat in his quivering tent and also
cursed the wind. He wanted
t o mo p u p thi s littl e pope'
s man—thi s upstart—an d g o bac k t o Chambery
.
But Amadeus had given him only three hundred troops for the task, while Pardo
had at least five. True, Ogie r ha d bee n abl e t o gathe r togethe r
a fe w scor e o f the peasants uprooted by Pardo's passage, men with a
grudge who would fight for almost nothing, but these wer e no t soldiers
, merel y angr y queenles s bees
.
H e ros e fro m hi s leather-seate d campstool
, stretche d to his full six feet in height, and scratched the scalp beneath
his yellow hair. As soon as he started to release the tent flap, the wind
caught it and snapped it out of his hands.
Sprea d befor e hi m wa s th e three-day-ol d cam p o f his little
regiment. The loose earth was dotted with man-size d shallo w holes
, whic h som e o f th e me n ha d dug as a protection from the wind.
These made a depressing sight, resembling graves as they did. The air smelled
of smoke, human feces (the men were not used to the water in this place), and
burnt mutton. No on e wa s doin g much
; til l Ogie r gav e th e orde r t o attack
, there was nothing to do.
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But his men were not fools or chattel. He could not sen d the m blindl y
int o a bloodbath
, hopin g i n th e proces s t o someho w dispatc h th e Roman
. The y woul d not obey such an order. Nor would Ogier have given it, for he
was a civilized man; he respected his soldiers, and he knew that giving orders
that will not be obeyed only serves to break an officer's authority.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether his half-brother had assigned him
this task in order to sham e him
. Certainl y tha t woul d b e unlik e th e Gree n
Count, whose obsession with honor and chivalry had cause d hi m t o stor m
of f unde r th e banne r o f Jea n l e
Bon, fighting Edward in Brittainy merely because he had sworn to do so.
The gesture had made Savoy appear weak in the eye s o f jackal s lik e
Pardo
, an d sendin g a forc e o f thre e
hundre d me n afte r th e Roma n ha d merel y reinforce d that
impression.
Whic h wa s false
. Savo y wa s no t weak
; i t wa s merely led by a ruler whose moralities were passe.
Ogier scratched the yellow stubble on his cheek.
No, Amadeus had not sent him after the brigand to shame him. The count was not
subtle enough for suc h maneuvering
, an d besides
, Ogie r ha d t o admi t tha t h e himsel f wa s no t stron g enoug
h t o b e a threa t t o
Amadeus. Still, by plan or no, this encounter could shame him.
He needed a stratagem to get past the relative weaknes s o f hi s regiment
. Bu t wha t wa s strateg y with
-
ou t citie s o r river s t o wor k around
, an d whe n tw o smal l force s ca n se e on e anothe r clearly
? Twic e h e ha d sen t mounte d patrol s int o th e surroundin g
hills
, attemptin g t o circl e Sa n Gabriele
, an d eac h tim e enem y trumpets sang out the Savoyard position. Men on
hill-
sides could not hide very well.
He fished for the rope closure of the tent flap, secured it again, and sat
down heavily on the camp-
stool
. H
e absentl y fingere d th e ti p o f hi s lon g lac e collar
. I t foun d it s wa y int o hi s mouth
, wher e h e bi t dow n upo n th e alread y draggle d fabric
.
H e ha d bee n gon e fro m hi s estate s si x week s now
.
He wondered if his wife had yet taken lover.
a
A t th e hou r o f sunset
, a s Ogie r too k suppe r i n hi s tent, alone and thinking, he heard a
single scream, and then the hubbub of raised voices. He cursed himself for
delaying too long, and he cursed Pardo for a treacher-
ou s Roma n bastard
. Snatchin g hi s swor d fro m th e ten t floor, he leaped through the
open tent flap and landed, rolling, on the stamped earth outside.
There was no battle, he decided in one swift glimpse.
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The men sat by their cook fires, necks craned to the east road. Or they stood,
their hands at their sides or their fingers pointing at a thing that
approached through the fading light of day.
Ogier, too, stood motionless and staring as the creatur e approached
, ridin g a hors e o f whit e bones
.
Th e ride r wa s black
, sav e fo r a bone-whit e face
, an d i t wor e th e shap e o f a man
. Tw o eye s lik e spea r wounds, black and ragged, peered over the
blue-clad assemblage. Ogier froze with the sudden belief that thos e deadl y
eye s wer e lookin g a t him
.
The worst of it was that the apparition was burning—
burnin g lik e a dol l o f pitch
, lik e a witch'
s to y mad e fo r a curse. Its murky red-orange light lit the trees from
underneath and shone through the gaping eye sockets of the horse' s skull. It
advanced .
"Le t u s shoo t it , Commander, " urge d Martin
, hi s second
. "Befor e i t doe s u s harm
. Look
, i t steal s men'
s courage by its very presence!"
Th e second'
s teet h wer e actuall y chatterin g a s h e spoke. This observatio n
broke Ogier's paralysis . "Not
... yet, Martin," he replied. "It is hideous enough, surely, but it's done us
no damage . And what if our weapons can't touch it? Then we will be sorry.
Wait,"
h e concluded
, adding
, "an d pra y t o Sain t Miche l th e archangel
, whos e dut y i t i s t o rei n i n th e host s o f
Satan.
" An d Ogie r strod e forwar d int o th e apparition'
s path.
With one will, the men drew back from this en-
counter. The burning figure stopped before Ogier; its mount'
s grisl y hea d turne d lef t an d right
.
At close range it was the same, or worse. "At least ther e i s n o stin k
o f burnin g flesh, " sai d Ogie r aloud
, i n orde r t o b e sayin g something
.
The dead face peered down. "Mutto n is what I
smell, " i t sai d i n tone s unexpectedl y mild
, an d wit h a strong Italian accent to its French. Its voice gratified
Ogier, who had always suspected the Devil was Italian.
It slid down from its seat of bare ribs, and for a moment the Savoyard' s
vision wavered , and he thought he saw an ordinary fellow (though rather
small) stand-
ing next to an ordinary horse. But that glimpse was
gone in a wink, and Ogier could not be sure he had ever seen it.
"You are the commander of these men?" the appa-
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rition inquired casually.
"Ogie r d e Savoy, " h e foun d himsel f saying
, an d h e execute d a precise
, ceremoniou s bow
. Somewher e i n the crowd of soldiers one man cried out and clapped his
hands. Ogier smiled tightly to himself, thinking this interchang e woul d d
o hi s reputatio n n o harm
, assum
-
ing he lived through it.
Whe n th e apparitio n returne d th e bow
, flame s hisse d lik e a flun g torch
. "Wel l met
, Marquis
. I kno w well the House of Savoy."
Ogier raised one eyebrow and tilted his head. He was not a marquis, but it did
not seem necessary to correc t th e thing
. "So
? I hadn'
t though t m y famil y ha d live d s o ill
. Bu t n o matter
, Monsieu r Fiend
, I stan d her e at your service. For what have you come so far?"
The creature sighed and patted his skeletal horse.
"I would like to talk to you in private, Marquis. It is to both our benefit."
Ogier's other eyebrow joined the first. "The only private place in the camp is
my tent," he said. "And I
greatl y fea r you'l l bur n i t down.
"
Th e cadaverou s hea d jerke d around
. "Burn..
. ?
Marquis
, I promis e wholeheartedl y I wil l no t bur n you r tent down. Why
did you think... Am I glowing red in your eyes, or something like that?"
A smile twitched over Ogier's long face. "Some-
thing like that," he admitted, and he led the apparition throug h th e hushe
d cam p t o wher e hi s blu e ten t flappe d and fluttered in the wind.
"Leave the horse alone," said the creature unneces-
sarily
, bu t a s i t steppe d awa y fro m th e structur e o f bone, that
monstrous steed wavered, and in its place stoo d a blac k geldin g o f
goo d breeding
, wearin g n o trapping s o f an y kind
. "Stay, " th e apparitio n commanded
, as though the horse were a dog.
Ogier and the fiend disappeared into the tent of
blue silk, which shone then like a lantern in the gather-
ing dark.
"You have men from Partestrada in your army, my lord Marquis, " Damian o
noted. As there was only one seat in the tent (the folding leather campstool)
, he settled himself upon the dirt.
Ogier also sat, his face expressionless , his eyes watchful
. " I hav e me n fro m al l ove r th e Piedmon t i n my retinue ,
good Devil , but only the ones I brough t over Mon t Ceni s are soldiers. "
Th e witc h nodde d appreciatively
. T
o Ogie r th e effec t wa s lik e tha t o f pape r shiverin g i n th
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e blas t o f a flame
. Th e Savoyar d sa t bol t uprigh t an d suppresse d a shudder .
After a meditative pause, Damiano spoke again.
"Am I correct in assuming you are pursuing the condot-
tiere Pardo and have him cornered in San Gabriele?"
Ogie r sucke d hi s chee k befor e answering
. "Asid e from the fact there are no corners left in the village you spea k
of
, th e situatio n i s a s yo u say
. Ma y I inquire
, Monsieur Demon, how it is you involve yourself in this matter?"
Ogie r foun d himsel f confronte d b y tw o earnestl y gaping eye
sockets, filled with night. "I, too, am hunt-
ing General Pardo. I think you and I can save each other both time and
bloodshed .
"I n fact
, m y lor d Marquis
, I wa s promise d I woul d find a tool to my purpose, and I believe your
army is the very thing."
Promised ? Ogier' s mind raced, and the hair on the bac k o f hi s fai r
nec k stoo d o n end
. H
e repeate d t o himself "Jesus, Marie, et Joseph," three times. "I re-
gret, Monsieur , that I am not empowere d by the coun t to make treaties,
neither with man nor with man's
Enemy
. I d o no t wis h t o offen d a bein g o f you r eviden t grandeur
, but... "
Tw o arm s rose
, leprou s whit e an d burning
, burn
-
in g .. . Damian o slicke d hi s hai r bac k fro m hi s face
. " I
d o no t as k yo u t o mak e a bargai n wit h th e Devil
, Marquis
. No r wit h me
, i f there'
s an y differenc e there
.
"I am merely explaining to you that I need your men, or at least a goodly
portion of them. I am going into the village tonight, and once I have captured
the general
, I wil l nee d troop s t o kee p hi s ow n me n fro m causin g
trouble.
"
Ogier started, snorted, and then thought better of it . "Yo u ar e goin g
t o kil l Genera l Pardo
, spirit
? To
-
night?" As if by chance, the blond shuffled his left foot forwar d unti l i
t almos t touche d th e flickerin g figure
:
no heat.
Damian o frowned
. "I
f nee d be
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. I ha d hope d t o delive r hi m t o you
, thoug h tha t woul d b e hypocris y o n m y part
, eh
? Sinc e yo u would
, i n turn
, sla y him.
"
Ther e wa s a moment'
s silence
, broke n b y Ogier
.
"Wh y d o yo u see k th e Roman'
s life
? Wha t coul d h e have done..."
" I wa s bor n i n Partestrada
, Marquis, " answere d
Damiano.
Ogie r leane d forwar d o n th e stool
, hi s revulsio n tempered by sudden interest. The lace of his limp collar
hun g i n th e ai r befor e hi s coa t o f sk y blue
. "S
o yo u were mortal once, Monsieur Demon?"
Damian o blinke d i n surprise
. Feelin g a chill
, h e dre w hi s soot-colore d mantl e closer
. "Yes
, Marquis
. Bu t it was a very short life and painful at the end.
"Enough. It's dark already, and there's no reason to delay. Assemble your men
now, and the battle will b e don e b y midnight.
" H
e ros e t o hi s feet
, usin g hi s black staff for support .
Ogier remained seated, staring at the ground. Af-
ter some moments he shook his head. "I am sorry, Monseigneur Demon, but I may
not do that. You see, although I am a soldier, I am still a Christian."
"The n I will, " sai d Damian o easily
. "Bu t the y woul d b e happie r le d b y you
, I think.
" A
s h e turne d away
, th e witc h hear d th e no w familia r soun d o f a blad e pullin
g free. He swiveled and pointed his staff.
With a cry Ogier dropped the weapon and cradled one badly singed hand in the
other.
Damian o ben t an d steppe d throug h th e ten t door
.
The night was windy but clear. None of the Savoyard soldiery seemed to have
moved during their command-
er's intervie w with the Devil. Some shadowe d figure s were standing , weapon
s in hand , whil e other s squat -
te d b y th e meage r cookin g fires
. Al l face d towar d th e hellishly radiant tent, and when the burning
corpse appeare d again, they backed slowly away.
Damiano felt the fear and hostility in the air he breathed. He glanced up at
the uncaring stars, as if borrowing their indifference . He raised his staff
just as a n arro w sho t ou t o f th e nigh t towar d him
. It s brigh t yellow length splintere d against the tarnishe d silver
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midband
, an d th e goose-feather s sizzle d an d stank
.
"None of that," said the witch quietly , starin g past three fires into the
crowd, directly at the archer who had loosed the arrow. "The next man who
tries to harm me will flame like that arrow.
"And he will die for nothing , becaus e I cannot be hurt as easily as that."
Damiano glanced around him, and his nostrils flared
. Th e ski n o f hi s fac e sorte d th e me n around him
.
H e strod e forwar d a t last
, an d me n squirme d ou t o f hi s path like the Red Sea parting.
H e stoppe d befor e a cluste r o f fire s a littl e apar t fro m th
e others
. "Belloc, " h e said
. "Aloisio
. I a m gla d t o se e yo u stil l aliv e an d healthy
.
"Tell me, old friend and benefactor. Where is Paolo
Denezzi ? Is he not amon g you? "
The square blacksmith gasped. "God's wounds!
It' s youn g Delstrego!
" The n a for m steppe d betwee n them.
"I'm here, monster," growled the bass voice Damiano knew and disliked so well.
Though his full beard hid mos t o f th e expressio n o n Denezzi'
s face
, th e small
, ursine eyes held more challenge than fear. Damiano met his gaze and said
nothing.
"M
y sister, " Denezz i announced
, "i s locke d i n th e convent at Bard. She is of no use to anyone, that
way, bu t a t leas t she'
s saf e fro m you.
"
Damiano nodded. "Good. To be locked away is by fa r th e bes t kin d o f
life.
" The n h e turne d hi s attentio n t o th e me n huddle d b y th e
fire
.
"I am going to take Pardo tonight, men of
Partestrada
. I though t yo u migh t lik e t o rid e behin d me."
"Behind you?" repeated Denezzi, in tones evenly divide d betwee n hat e an
d scorn
. "W
e wil l tak e Pardo
, all right, Devil's spawn, but not behind you."
Damiano shrugged. "As you like." He turned away.
Over his shoulder he called, "We will all be going to
Sa n Gabriel e soon
, however.
"
He returned to the middle of the camp, in front of the gay tent, which night
had reduced to a lumpish shape like a couchant cow. Ogier stood there,
weaponless, saying nothing, his face taut and sharp. Damiano ig-
nore d th e man
, fo r h e wa s preparin g himsel f fo r hi s work.
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He gazed left and right into the distance, examin-
ing his canvas. The half-moon beat down on the low hills as though its light
and nothing else had flattened them. The grassland before San Gabriele and the
half-
forested hills behind the village lay open and empty of man. The sky was clear
and translucent, not yet black.
The Savoyard camp was a small blot of shadows on the soil. The ruined village
was another.
Wind blew Damiano's mantle back from his shoul-
ders, and its silver chain pressed against his throat.
Wit h hi s righ t han d h e pulle d agains t th e chain
. Hi s lef t han d hel d hi s staff—hel d i t s o tigh t h e fel t
i t puls e an d knew that pulse for his own.
"You are perhap s plannin g to slip throug h Pardo' s sentries in secret,
Monseigneu r Demon?" Ogier's dry word s brok e th e witch'
s concentration
. "O
r shoul d I
call you Monseigneur Lost Soul? Either way, your peculiar... ornamentation
will make it difficult."
Damian o wa s awar e th e me n wer e slippin g awa y int o th e
darkness
. H
e coul d fee l th e terrifie d fee t stum
-
blin g ove r th e barre n field s lik e ant s o n hi s skin
. H
e took the staff in both hands. "Why so, my lord Mar-
quis. What is it I look like, anyway? "
Ogier smiled with an odd satisfaction. "You are aflame, " he said.
Th e dea d whit e fac e spli t i n a laugh
. "Appropriate
, Marquis, " i t whispered
, "fo r yo u ar e abou t t o se e quit e a lot of flames." As he spoke
a serpent of fire hissed and spat from the swart head of the staff. It
wriggled after the fleeing men, who screamed at the orange light
. Som e fel l t o th e earth
, whil e other s huddle d where they stood, praying and cursing together.
But the gaudy snake passe d them, burnin g noth-
ing but the ground and the night air. Damiano slid his hands to the foot of
his staff and swung it over his head.
Th e serpen t o f fir e becam e a ring
, a wall
, a priso n fo r th e Savoyar d soldiery
. Whe n th e witc h se t th e foo t of his staff back upon the earth,
the ring of fire remained, talle r tha n a ma n an d boomin g thunder
. Ogie r pu t hi s hands to his ears. The cries of men faded and were lost
in the wail of the fire.
"Bu t a s yo u see
, Marquis
, I a m no t plannin g a secre t approach.
" Damian o shoute d abov e th e noise
.
"Such would be a mistake , I think. My weapo n is terror.
"Using terror, I will save men's lives," he added.
With an effort, Ogier dropped his hands to his belt
. "Sav e men'
s lives?
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" h e repeated
. "Yo u ar e th e too l o f th e Fathe r o f Lie s himself
. Ma y Sain t Miche l th e archange l flin g yo u t o th e botto m o
f th e deepes t hel l i f you destro y my good and true men!"
Damian o stopped, a wor d o n hi s tongue concern
-
ing another archangel, but he turned his face to the sky again, and the word
went unsaid. "Weave me a storm,"
h e whispere d t o th e foreig n power s trappe d withi n hi s staff .
The stick throbbed and went warm in his hands, warme r tha n i t ha d bee
n belchin g flame
. A
win d whis
-
tled somewhere far away, from the north.
Dusk y cloud s snarle d an d tumble d ove r th e distan t
Alps
, movin g wit h impossibl e speed
. Ou t o f th e west
, wher e th e lan d wa s flat
, ble w skein s o f mare'
s tail
. Th e gleamin g hill s emitte d whit e fo g lik e breath
. Minute s passed while Damiano watched this tumult in the sky.
Fire shrieked a protest, and two cloud-soaked winds smashed together above the
circlet of fire that held the
Savoyard forces. The sky was ripped by lightning, again, again, and again, and
thunder drove men to their knees.
A spatter of rain caught Damiano across the face.
"Enough," he muttered absently. "We don't need to put out the fire." He
fingered the staff. "Wind, little instrument. Not wet."
Th e win d raged
, an d th e circl e o f fir e ben t lik e th e black shadows of the
trees. East it went, then south.
Th e sil k ten t too k spark s an d blaze d suddenly
. Th e men crawled to the middle of the circle, hugging the bare earth. All
the air smelled of pitch and metal.
Lik e a flute
, th e blac k staf f sang
, an d Damian o fingered it gingerly. It was not meant to channel such power
, le t alon e t o impriso n it . Th e silve r band s burn t his hands
when he touched them.
He took a deep breath of the clamorous air and let i t sig h ou t again
. "Thi s wil l do, " h e announced
. "No w we ride."
"Ride what?" shouted Ogier, terrified and angry.
"The horses are all on the other side of that... that..."
Damian o glance d aroun d an d note d th e trut h o f the statement.
"Eh? Well, I ride. Everyone else walks.
Afte r all
, th e villag e i s ver y close.
" An d h e whistle d fo r his horse.
The black gelding cantere d over, eyes rolling and ear s flat
. I n anothe r instan t i t ha d becom e th e grinnin g mount of
Death.
"Forward!" he cried to the despairing company.
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"Follow me, soldiers of Savoy, men of the Piedmont.
Follow me, and you need not fear the fire, for it will be your friend." He
added in a lower tone, "And with that as your friend, I doubt you will find
many enemies to fight."
As he nudged the horse forward a hulking man's figure appeared in the way,
blocking him. "Give me a horse, Delstrego, " rumbled Paolo Denezzi, "and I'll
ride beside you. Not behind."
Damian o peere d down
. Wit h th e staf f whinin g i n his hand, he had not much mind to spare
for this. But as he glanced up past Denezzi at the ring of fire, a dark ga p
i n th e brillianc e appeared
, an d a confuse d chestnu t mar e trotte d through
, draggin g he r tethe r rope
. Th e beast was blind to the fire and heard nothing except
Damiano'
s undeniabl e call
. "There'
s you r mount
, Paolo, "
th e witc h snapped
. "Don'
t as k fo r a saddl e t o g o wit h it."
Awkwardly Denezzi hefted his bulk onto the chest-
nut'
s back
, an d th e tw o me n starte d forward
.
The fire parted before them and ran, twin trellises, towar d th e hil l an
d th e village
. Behin d the m i t herde d the Savoyard soldiers like sheep.
The air was seared with the unending lightning.
Al l sigh t wa s confusion
. Damiano'
s lef t ea r wa s stunne d wit h th e bello w o f th e elements
, an d i n hi s righ t ea r wa s a passionate
, seductiv e keening
. H
e ha d th e staf f in his hands, it whispered and moaned. He could suck all
the power from it and be free. He could fly over the village, alone, bodiless.
He could pluck Pardo from hiding and carry the Roman high, up past the storm
to the lucent air where the stars sang. The heavens them-
selves
, then
, woul d kil l th e fleshl y man
. O
r h e coul d drop him.
Or better, far better, sang the voices in his right ear, he could simply
forget this onerous task and fly away.
H e raise d th e blac k wan d befor e him
. Afte r to
-
night, he said to the voices, you will be free. After tonight.
A white-ho t bol t smacke d dow n ahea d o f them
, a t the top of the hill of San Gabriele. It spun over the earth and hit the
dusty oak by the broken village gate.
The old tree flamed.
Sa n Gabriel e itsel f wa s comin g apart
: dar k frag
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-
ments rolling and scuttling down the hill in all direc-
tions. "Pardo's men are deserting," commented Damiano quietly.
Denezzi glanced at Damiano. The man's heavy face might have been made of wood.
"Where?" he asked. "I can see nothing but blackness and the fire."
"An d yo u cal l m e Owl-Eyes, " wa s th e witch'
s answer.
They were at the base of the hill. There the repel-
lent corpse-thing stopped and descended from the horse of bones.
Th e wal l o f flam e spli t again
, an d a blac k geldin g trotte d through
, followe d b y th e prett y chestnut
.
Damian o an d Denezz i climbe d th e rutte d marke t road to San
Gabriele. Ogier followed, with his empty scabbard, and then the Savoyard
troops, all slave to the constrictin g fire
.
Pard o wa s no t on e o f thos e wh o fled
; Damian o was sure of that, as he had been sure of the general's presenc e
sinc e firs t ridin g ou t o f th e wood s an d behold
-
in g Sa n Gabriele
. Pard o wa s unforgettable
, lik e a bliste r o n one'
s palate
. Bu t th e genera l wa s no t i n th e open
, a t th e barricade s o f rubbl e b y th e gateposts
. A
t tha t mo
-
ment
, t o b e exact
, ther e wa s n o on e mannin g th e barricades
. Damian o smile d an d passe d unde r th e blast
-
ed oak. Almost three hundred men followed him, their faces gleaming with the
heat.
Then the fire trellis parted, and two raging streams o f orang e race d eac
h othe r ove r th e heap s o f rubbl e
Pardo's men had built. They met behind the ruined villag e wit h a smac k
lik e canva s agains t water
. Sa n
Gabriele was enclosed, as were both the panicked
Romans and their terrified conquerors. Now there was only finding the general
himself.
But Damiano glanced around uneasily. Pardo was not the only person in town
whose feel he could recognize. Other presences licked his skin, tiny as the
tongues of mice. He felt, obscurely, that these pres-
ence s wer e no t thing s h e shoul d ignore
.
"Wait here," he called over his shoulder, but seeing
Ogier'
s expressio n o f open
, thoug h impotent
, insolence
, he stopped in his tracks.
The Savoyard troops were huddled in sullen unity jus t insid e th e gates
. Th e displace d me n o f th e Pied
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-
mont made another group. Ogier's blue gaze was hard steel directed toward the
witch. And Denezzi—well, Denezzi stood by Damiano's left hand, hating him.
These were not horses or dogs, or even human friends, who would stay at a
word. These men had wills and plans of their own. If the Savoyards engaged
with Pardo while Damiano was following his own curiou s nose
, ther e woul d b e unnecessar y death
. An d i t wa s t o avoi d tha t tha t Damian o ha d devise d thi s
bizarre attack.
With a gesture he drew a fiery chord through the circle of fire, separating
the forces of Savoy from those of Pardo. Two rams in a pasture, he thought
with some amusement as he turned away.
H e strod e dow n a stree t mad e unrecognizabl e b y the ruin and by
the multiplicity of dancing lights and shadows. Halfway along its length, on
the right-hand side
, stoo d a she d o f dr y stone
, it s stucc o facad e crumbled. This edifice seemingly had been too solid
for the soldiers to destroy. Perhaps it was old Roman work. Damiano's smile
flickered wider. He stopped at th e doo r o f bras s an d wood
.
"Gaspare," he called. "You are in there, aren't you
? And..
. i s tha t you r sister
? O
r no..
. that'
s m y ol d frien d Til l Eulenspiegel
, no?
"
There was a buzzing of speech, and then the heavy
doo r rattled
. Damian o flattene d himsel f agains t th e wall.
"Don'
t com e out
! Don'
t loo k a t me
. Jus t tal k throug h the door. "
But a pale, freckled face, topped by greasy red hair
, peere d aroun d th e doorjamb
. "Festilligambe!
"
shoute d th e boy
. "Wh y not
? You're alon e o n th e street
.
Is the village burning? How could that be? There's no wood or thatch left in
it. What a time for you to return, you old...
"Eh, Jan, did I ever tell you about this one? He can make lute strings cry for
Mama...." Gaspare reached ou t an d too k Damiano'
s wris t i n hi s scrawny
, stron g grip. He pulled him in.
Within the stone shed, the air smelled of old wood an d wine
. Ligh t filtere d betwee n th e nake d stones
, an d
Damiano'
s eye s discovere d row s o f barrels
. On e o f thes e ha d bee n rolle d int o th e middl e o f th e
she d an d turned on end, and on it lay a huge sheep cheese , broke n an d
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gouge d a t rando m al l ove r it s surface
.
Ja n Kar l slouche d nex t t o thi s makeshif t table
, seate d o n th e rounde d surfac e o f anothe r barrel
. Hi s bandage d hand rested on the greenish , mold-case d surfac e o f th
e chees e whee l i n proprietar y fashion
.
Beside him, very close, sat the beautiful Evienne in her dress of green.
Damian o too k a slo w breat h an d fel t hi s shoulder s relax. "What
do you see when you look at me?" he demanded of the company.
Methodically
, Kar l reache d ou t an d clawe d a mor
-
sel out of the cheese. Methodically, he chewed it.
Evienn e giggled
. "Wha t shoul d w e see?
" aske d Gaspare
.
"It'
s prett y di m i n here
. Yo u loo k tired
, I think
. That'
s understandable, considering the political situation."
Damiano closed his eyes in simple thanks. "I am under a curse," he tried to
explain, as he sank down ont o th e barre l acros s fro m th e redheade
d woman
. "O
r perhaps it's not a curse but a premonition. People tell
me I appear to be burnin g alive. They run. They cover their faces." He sighed
and leaned on his staff.
"It's been very useful to me."
Jan Karl swallowed. His narrow blue eyes regarded
Damiano doubtfully. "Maybe you are the butt of a joke, Delstrego. You don't
look different to me."
"Nor to me," added Evienne . She looked like she might have added more to that
but for the restraining presenc e o f th e Dutchma n nex t t o her
.
Damiano shook his head. He realized there was too much to explain, and he
could only devote a part of hi s attentio n t o th e amiabl e scen e
befor e hi m whil e hi s fir e imprisone d bot h th e villag e an d
th e Savoyar d forces
.
"Where's your lute? And your dog?" asked Gaspare, standin g nea r th e ope
n door
. H
e didn'
t wai t fo r an
-
swers. "Have some cheese and put your mouth to the bunghol e o f th e barre
l unde r it . Yo u spil l a lo t tha t way
, but we've got a lot.
"I really do think the village is burning."
"Broken, " replie d Damian o distantly
. "An d dead
.
No
, than k you
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. I don'
t fee l lik e cheese
, tonight
. No r wine."
Gaspare stepped over and looked his friend in the face
. "I'
m sorry
, Festilligambe
, i f you r do g died
. I like d her
. I lik e dogs
. An d you r lute
, well...
" Th e bo y shrugged . "These are terrible times to live in."
Bot h Ja n Kar l an d Evienn e grunte d i n unison
.
"Midwinter
, an d the y tea r al l th e building s down, "
continue d th e boy
. "The n the y mak e campfire s o f th e thatc h an d furniture
. Wa s tha t sensible
, I as k you
?
Everyone with anywhere to go gets out.
"Me
, I sta y t o watc h ove r Evienne
, bu t it' s n o goo d fo r her
, either
. Lot s o f business
, yes...
"
"If you can call it that," introjecte d the prostitute , glaring vengefully at
the wheel of cheese.
"But they don't pay," added her brother . "And Jan
Karl here... Where's he going to go with a hand like that, too tender to touch
anythin g yet and not a sou to hi s name
? Wher e i s Sa n Gabriel e whe n w e nee d him?
"
Damian o shoo k hi s hea d t o al l thes e questions
.
"Well, my friend. It's over, now, for Pardo. The army of
Savoy is in the town." He rose to his feet.
"As a matter of fact, I must get back to them, now, " h e said
, an d turne d t o th e door
.
"Th e Gree n Count?
" Gaspar e gasped
, an d h e dance d from one foot to the other. "You are with the Savoyard
army?"
"They are with me," corrected the witch. "And the y don'
t lik e i t much.
" H
e steppe d out
.
"Gesu and all the saints guard you," Damian o added
, quietly
, an d wit h a certai n formality
. Th e doo r creaked shut.
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The flames flapped and roared, and he passed throug h them
. Th e Savoyar d compan y turne d t o hi m as one man. "I know where
Pardo is hiding," he announced briefly, and the fire that bisected the village
stuttered and died.
Ogier snapped a word, and the men, for the first time that night, made ranks.
Damiano led the way alon g th e centra l stree t o f th e village
.
He found Paolo Denezzi at his side. The man's bearish aspect was much reduced,
for the hair of his fac e an d hea d wa s singe d t o th e roo t an d
hi s nake d ski n gleame d a tau t an d ugl y pink
.
"You attempted my barrier," remarked Damiano.
"Tha t wa s a mistake.
Th e fir e i s no t a n illusion.
"
Denezzi made only an animal noise.
Damiano turned to the commander. "My lord Mar-
quis, " h e began
. "D
o I stil l loo k a s I di d before
?
Burning? "
Ogier concealed his amusement behind a mock civility. "You must forgive me,
Monsieur Demon, if you hav e bee n engage d i n la toilette, an d I di d
no t notice
. T o m e yo u appea r muc h th e same.
"
Damiano merely nodded, and they passed through th e smok e an d win d t o
th e cente r o f Sa n Gabriele
, wher e a fe w ston e building s stoo d undamaged
.
"He'
s here, " sai d th e witch
. H
e stoo d wit h hi s eyes closed before a squat square tower. His head moved
right, then left, as though he were rubbing his face into a pillow. "He's in
the cellar, with a few men.
Follo w me
, please.
"
Befor e Ogier
, o r troublesom e Paol o Denezzi
, coul d object
, Damian o raise d hi s staf f befor e hi m an d leape d ont o th e
outsid e staircase
. H
e bounde d up
.
At the door to the interio r he was met by a sentry wit h a sword
. Th e ma n crie d ou t an d droppe d th e glowin g weapon
. Damian o passe d in
.
It was like home, this place: the well-buil t tower of a family with means.
The floor of the entranceway was tiled in red and blue, and the walls were
soot free, washe d fres h white
. Non e o f thes e carve d oake n chair s o r velve t divan s ha d
bee n burne d fo r campfires
, an d woolen tapestries added their warmth to the rooms.
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Damiano passed down the long stairs; no man dared to face him. Behind him was
a cry and the sound of massed footsteps. Damiano ground his teeth against th e
knowledg e tha t someon e ha d slai n th e weaponles s sentry.
Th e cella r ha d no t bee n mean t t o b e live d in
. I t wa s a warre n o f boxe s an d barrel s an d furnitur e store
d o n end. Though he could see reasonably well in this darkness, certainly
better than any ordinary man, Damiano sent light into his staff.
General Pardo, neatly built, clothed in black leath-
er , lounge d ami d th e clutte r o n a chai r upholstere d i n cloth
of gold. His sword lay on his lap. Before him stood three swordsmen wearing
his colors, each with sword and round shield. These men wore hauberks of
link-mail. Pardo did not. All four faced the apparition withou t flinching
, an d th e thre e guardsme n advance d upon Damiano.
At the moment Damiano saw Pardo his attention snapped away from the fire, and
all around the village it fluttered and died.
"No
, Carlo, " calle d Pard o i n moderat e tones
.
"Roberto, Gilberto, no. I fear your techniques will be..
. worthles s here.
"
Pard o stoo d an d bowed
. " I tak e it , Signore
, tha t the Devil has allied himself with the cause of Savoy?"
Damiano was struck by the literal accuracy of that statement
. "Yes, " h e admitted
. "Yo u ma y sa y that.
"
Pard o looke d abou t hi m an d reste d th e ti p o f hi s sword
blade upon the earth. "Well then. By all rights I
ought to have made an alliance with the Almighty agains t tha t possibility
, but.
, .unfortunately...
I neglecte d m y strategie s there.
"
"Your men have all run away." Damiano stared at
Pardo. The lithe dark figure was fascinating in that it was only that of a
man.
"Run away? " echoed Pardo , raising his head with a glimmer of hope. "They
were not all burnt to death, then
, o r swep t int o hel l alive?
"
"There is only one man dead, that I know of," said
Damiano
, an d Pardo'
s eye s narrowed
.
"Do I know that voice?" he asked aloud. "Yes! Are you not the young patriot
from the town below—the on e wh o claime d h e coul d no t us e
witchcraf t fo r th e purpose s o f war?
"
"I am," Damian o admitted , and he heard men on th e stai r behin d him
. H
e di d no t tur n t o gree t Ogie r and his men. Paolo Denezzi advanced
to the witch's side, growling like a beast at Pardo.
"I am, General, but you yourself convinced me otherwise. "
"Wha t abou t th e price
, witch
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, tha t yo u sai d wa s to o hig h fo r a ma n t o pay?
" Pardo'
s eye s shifte d fro m face to face. Recognizing Ogier, he bowed
insouciantly.
"Ogier de Savoy, I believe. I think we met at
Avignon last spring, at the salon of our Holy Father."
Damian o coul d no t se e whethe r Ogie r acknowl
-
edge d th e salute
. "Th e price?
" h e said
. "Loo k a t me
, General , and you will see the price."
With a theatrical sigh, Pardo let his sword drop to the dry dust floor. "It is
too bad, then. You could just
as well have damne d yoursel f for me as agains t me. I
admit I was a bit precipitous at your first refusal, but... "
"Yo u coul d no t rap e Partestrad a an d expec t m e t o join with
you, General."
Pardo shrugged . "Why not?"
Damian o too k a dee p breat h an d adjuste d th e flaming stick in his
hand. As he glanced behind him he saw only a wall of hate, directe d at the
Roma n genera l and directed at him. "Becaus e a man's city is like his
mother. "
With a snort and a sigh of weariness , Pardo sat bac k dow n o n th e
glitterin g cushion
. "Tha t again.
" H
e looked up at Damiano with his dark eyes steady and fearless.
"It is idiocy that has damne d you, Delstrego , and ideas wildly mistaken . A
city is not a woman, and its affections are purely... commercial. "
There was a titter from behind Damiano, probably from one of the Piedmontese ,
since the Savoyard sol-
dier s generall y spok e French
. "I
t i s true, " admitte d
Damiano, thoughtfully , "that Partestrad a never really love d me
, bu t sh e wa s a kin d enoug h mothe r fo r al l that, and it is
for her sake I have worked toward your fall."
Pardo glanced meaningfull y from the apparition to the blue coat of Savoy.
"And this one," he said. "Will he be any better? "
Ogie r pu t hi s han d o n th e pomme l o f th e plai n infantry
sword he was now wearing. He smiled dryly.
"Tha t shoul d b e o f n o interes t t o you
, pope'
s man, " h e said.
" I hav e i t o n authorit y tha t h e wil l be, " sai d
Damiano . "He or his brother , or his brother' s son. For the next fift y
years at least. "
Ogier' s eyes widened .
"Kill him!" bellowe d Denezz i in Damiano' s ear.
The witch jumpe d at the sound, for he had begun to think of the big man as a
mere brute. "You've talked enough . Kill the southerne r alread y and be
done!"
There was a murmur of support for this idea and
Denezz i stalke d forward
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. Pardo
, i n hi s chair
, froze
, hi s finger s clutchin g th e carvin g o f th e arms
.
Damiano felt a sudden sweat break out on his face.
This was not what should happen, though he was not a t al l sur e wha t th
e alternative s were
. Bu t no t Denezzi
—
it should not be the brute Denezzi .
Th e witc h waite d fo r Ogie r t o sa y something
, t o call the man back. But the Savoyard stood there, his blond hair
gleaming in the torchlight, and he said nothing.
There was a sound of clashing swords as the three
Roman guardsmen sprang out of hiding and made for their chief. Paolo Denezzi
paused, uncertainly, his head lifte d towar d th e sound
.
Pard o struc k s o fas t onl y Damian o sa w hi m move
, and he could only blink and watch as Denezzi was tripped and grabbed from
behind. Then Pardo had the bi g ma n ben t backwar d an d a daint y
dagge r proddin g a t Denezzi'
s short
, trunklik e neck
.
Th e thre e guard s makin g fo r thei r master'
s sid e were met by a dozen swords of Savoy.
Denezz i shoute d i n rage
, an d h e kicked
, helples s as a bull locked in the shackles. Damiano raised his staff .
" I ca n kil l hi m ver y quickly
, Signo r Delstrego, "
shoute d Pardo in warning . "See the positio n of the knife
? It'
s a t th e bi g vein
; I
ca n fee l th e puls e u p through the blade. Thoug h you strike me into a
toad or sea r m e t o ash
, thi s one'l l b e dea d wit h me
. He'
s you r townsman , isn't he? Perhap s you would have reason to miss him."
An d i t seeme d t o Damian o tha t h e ha d steppe d ou t o f th e
pat h o f time
, an d thi s cella r i n Sa n Gabriel e wa s a s fla t a s th e
tapestr y o n a wall
: a pictur e o f me n locke d i n comba t an d me n lyin g dea d an
d me n watching
.
I n th e wil d torchligh t th e pictur e wavered
, lik e a tapes
-
try in the wind.
An d he
, i n th e cente r o f th e composition
, ha d al l th e tim e i n th e worl d t o mak e a decision
.
Reaso n t o mis s Denezzi
? Ho w ironic
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. O
f al l th e peopl e i n th e worl d Damian o coul d d o without
, Paol o
Denezzi.. . He looked again at the big man with singed chin and eyes rolling
like an angry bull's. But for
Denezzi
, h e migh t hav e ha d Carla
.
Better he didn't, seeing what he now knew about himself
. Bu t Denezz i wa s everythin g th e youn g witc h disliked: boorish,
bullying, crude, self-important.. . He had made life difficult for Damiano in
every way he could, for years beyond remembering.
An d Pard o wa s dangerous
; Damian o ha d no t suspected how dangerous until that lightning grab for
Denezzi'
s throat
. Wit h hi s me n alive
, thoug h scattered
, Pardo was deadly. He had to be eliminated, for the sake of peace in the
Piedmont.
As all these reasons lined up in Damiano' s mind he knew absolutely he could
not allow Denezzi to die.
He let the heel of his staff thump in the dirt. Pardo smiled.
But other parties had made decisions as well.
"Coupe sa tete!"
drawled Ogier in a bored voice. A hundred men surge d forth .
Denezzi bellowed like a bull, like a cow in the shambles
, a s Pardo'
s littl e knif e opene d hi s throat
. Hi s frantic, unavailing kicks scratched the dirt. Martin, Ogier's second ,
scramble d past Damian o and raised his blade over Pardo's head.
"No!
" crie d Damian o wit h almos t n o voice
, an d the n again
, "No!"
Hi s staf f slippe d i n hi s sweatin g palm, and at that momen t
Denezzi' s dying spasm s kicked the object out of the witch's grasp.
Pardo's head bounced and rolled on the ground unheeded, for almost every eye
in the company was locke d i n fascinatio n o n th e slim
, motionles s figur e wit h tangle d blac k curl s an d blac k eye s
tha t peere d bac k a t theirs
, uncertainly
.
Ogier leaped forward and kicked the staff out of
Damiano's reach. It rolled over the hard floor like the stick of wood it was,
and it disappeare d into the shadows .
"Take him," said the Savoyard commander , and a dozen soldiers bore Damiano to
the ground. It was a deed quickly done, for Damiano hadn't the slightest idea
how a man ought to fight.
Ogier paused and examined the field. He rubbed th e fair stubbl e o n hi s
jaw.
"A
n excellen t engagement, "
he remarked to Martin. "I don't think we lost a man, except this poor lout
here. And we will give thanks for it by sending this creature back to his
rightful home.
"Tomorrow , though . Not during the darknes s it ha s mad e hideous
. I f th e oa k a t th e villag e gate s i s stil l standing, hang a
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rope from it."
Chapter 15
Half the night passed over the village of San Gabriele, while dead fires and
crawling fog wove a net of tangles in the air. The last of Pardo's soldiers
slunk out of the cellars in which they were hiding and vanished over th e
stubbl y fields
. Befor e th e wee k wa s ou t man y o f these would be recruited by
the polyglot Savoyard army, but tonight memories were too green, so they
departed quietly.
Most of the natives of San Gabriele were gone as well
, sav e fo r thos e who
, havin g nothing
, ha d los t nothing. These roamed like dogs around the broken houses,
avoiding Ogier's soldiers and sorting hopefully through the rubble of the
streets.
Damiano lay in the cold on the wine-soaked floor of the very stone shed where
he had found Gaspare, Jan
, an d Evienne
. Hi s wrist s wer e boun d behin d him
.
Where his three disreputable friends had fled to, and whether they were still
free, still alive at all, he had n o wa y o f knowing
, fo r withou t hi s staf f Damian o wa s like a man struck blind and
deaf. Nor had he much time to care, for the stars heaved slowly to the west,
pulling the sun behind them, and with the first light he would die.
They had thrown his mantle over him, lest he freez e durin g th e nigh t
an d chea t the m o f thei r re
-
venge
. Soldier s outsid e guarde d th e corner s o f th e shed; their slow
passag e blocke d the moonligh t that seeped in between the stones. Their
presence and the dry
, chokin g fea r tha t fille d hi s throa t kep t Damian o fro m
weeping
.
Instea d h e shoo k uncontrollably
, unti l hi s shiver s cause d th e fu r mantl e t o sli p off
, an d betwee n th e pai n of his wrenched shoulders and swollen hands, he
coul d no t craw l bac k unde r it .
Th e earthe n floo r smelle d strongl y o f win e an d mice, and as he
twisted to free his nose of the caking dust, the wad of moss in his ear fell
out and cold lance d in
. N
o voices
, jus t cold
.
Wh y woul d th e marqui s d o thi s t o him
? Couldn'
t the man see that Damian o had given him better than any commander could hope
for? Victory with no loss, al l i n a n evening
. An d i f a ma n wa s damned
, the n tha t was his misfortune, and nowhere was it written that he shoul d
b e murdere d o n to p o f it . T o kil l a damne d ma n must be a
crime worse than to kill a saint, for a damned ma n ha d n o goo d excep t
tha t foun d i n thi s life—forever
.
Damiano' s eyes stun g in self-pity , whic h he force d back, lest he lose
control and begin to howl. He had onl y a fe w hours
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, an d then
, accordin g t o Satan'
s prom
-
ise, he would remember nothing good, nothing of beauty, nothing he had loved.
Ye t h e didn'
t regre t hi s bargai n wit h th e Devil
, fo r i t wa s no t hi s bargai n tha t wa s sendin g hi m t o
hell
. Th e bargai n wa s onl y t o die
, an d al l me n mus t di e soone r or later. "Later!" cried a voice
within him—not a voice
of power, but a small, insistent voice like that of
Macchiata, like that of Dami the boy. Later would be better. Much better!
Wha t ha d h e answere d Satan
, whe n th e Enem y had told him he would not remember, nothing except what
Satan desired? "I know it now," he had said.
"That will have to be enough."
So . H
e wa s stil l alive
, thes e fe w hours
. H
e woul d remember: what was good and beautiful, what he...
Damiano swallowed the pungent odor of mice. He curled his knees to his chest
and closed his eyes. Then he heard another small voice, not in his head, but
from outside.
"Hein!
Festilligambe," it hissed. "Or Delstrego—
whateve r yo u cal l yourself
. Ar e yo u awake?
"
Damiano' s eyes sprang open. "Gaspare! " he hissed .
"Wha t ar e yo u doin g there?
" Ther e wa s a vagu e dar k blotc h behin d th e fieldstones
. I t shifte d an d th e bo y replied.
"On e o f th e soldier s wen t t o tak e a leak
. Onl y a moment
. Wha t ca n I do
? T
o ..
. Wait
. . . " Starligh t appeared where the blotch had been.
Damiano waited as still as a man carved of stone, his eyes wide in the
darkness. Then the shape of the sentry passed by again and despair crept back.
There was a lock of iron on the door anyway , and Ogier de
Savoy had the key.
Gaspar e was a good fellow . That was somethin g to remember
, a s lon g a s i t di d no t mak e hi m weep
. I t was makin g hi m weep
. A
h well
, h e coul d d o tha t quietly
.
"Hsst!
" cam e th e voic e again
, fro m th e fron t wal l this time. Damian o lurche d over, and when his
weigh t fel l o n hi s pinione d arms
, h e whimpere d i n pain
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. "I'
m her e now
. Evienn e is..
. distractin g th e guards
. Wha t can we do for you? "
He swallowe d twice before he could reply. "Noth -
ing
, Gaspare
. Yo u can'
t hel p me
, excep t tha t yo u have
, a bit, by... Run off, now, for if they catch you, they'll hang you too."
Gaspare'
s inaudibl e repl y wa s probabl y a curse
.
The n h e hissed
, "Becom e invisible
, Festilligambe
. I'l l say I saw you run down the street, and they'll open the shed to see."
Damiano had to smile at the plan. "I can't," he replied. "They took my staff.
I can't become invisible . I
can'
t d o anything
.
"G
o away
, Gaspare
. Thi s i s somethin g tha t wa s decided before. I can't escape it, and
I'm not Christ, that a couple of thieves should hang beside me. Go away."
H e ha d t o repea t i t thre e mor e time s befor e th e shado w
fade d off
.
Wha t da y wa s it
, anyway
, o r would i t b e wit h th e first morning's light? One ought to know
what day of th e wee k on e wa s dyin g on
. H
e figure d i n hi s head
, counting the days since the full moon. It was coming
Sunday, the twelfth of December.
O Christ! It was a terrible thing to die cold.
Suddenl y Damiano'
s weary
, straine d bod y stoppe d shivering. His mind was flooded with the
pictures of a sprin g h e woul d neve r see
, an d h e smelle d no t mous e droppings but the breathing earth and the
scent of lilacs. He grunted and sagged down against the floor, regardless of
the pain.
To see the spring again, and to lie in the grass. To be investigated by silly
lambs, newborn, all knees and nose, with their placid mothers bleating . To
see silk dresses on the street again, when the girls' faces and neck s wer e
pin k wit h th e shar p mornin g air
, an d the y were determined to wear their dresses anyway, for the calenda r
sai d spring
. T
o g o ou t int o th e field s an d search for blooming herbs, arrowroot,
angelica. Spend-
ing all the day and having little to show for it, because th e field s wer e
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bouncin g wit h ne w rabbits
, lik e th e children's little leather-sewn balls.
T o endur e th e las t fastin g wee k o f Lent
, whil e every oven in town was baking for Easter, and then the grea t gol d
an d whit e mas s o n Easte r Sunda y morning
,
an d al l th e townsfol k singin g togethe r i n thei r terrible
, wonderful, untutored Latin "Alleluia, Alleluia, He is risen
, H
e i s no t here.
"
Las t year
, o n th e da y befor e Easter
, h e ha d spen t all day in the hills and come home with two armfuls of
flower s an d a burn t nose
. Th e bes t o f these
: th e pin k early rose and the lily of the marsh, he had put in vases and
left them for Carla to find, stealing onto her balcon y a t nigh t whil e
Macchiat a ha d kep t watch
. (H
e had never told Carla.) The rest of them—the yellow lily an d brigh t
mustard
, an d th e tin y noddin g snowdrop s o n thei r stems—h e ha d pu t
int o a ba g an d ha d dumpe d the lot on Raphael, like a shower bath.
Though Damiano couldn't remember the expression on the angel's face, h e
remembered on e fluff y brush o f gold mustard dan -
gling at the end of fluttering wing, and the white robe a gilde d wit h
pollen
.
The act had been neither very respectful, nor very manly, but no matter.
Raphael had taken it well. And now... now Damiano sank into memory. His mouth
softened.
To die in the spring would be easier, for one would die drunk.
The winter was beautiful, too, or had been beauti-
ful when he was warm, climbing up the road to Aosta.
And of course, the gleamin g high Alps were lovely, despit e wha t Macchiat
a ha d said
.
Macchiata had been beautiful, too, the most beau-
tiful thing of all, in some ways. But her he could not bea r t o thin k
about
.
"Dominus
Deus,"
h e whispered
, hi s lip s brushin g th e dirt
, "yo u mad e a prett y world.
" I t wa s no t mean t to be prayer.
a
Col d ai r o n hi s injure d ea r wa s makin g hi m dizz y again, for
he could not feel the ground, and the room was swimming with lights of pearl,
lights of sunstruck clouds
. Damiano'
s hea d wa s gentl y lifted
. H
e looke d up into the eyes of Raphael.
Great wings curled in, hiding the walls of stone.
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The archangel took Damiano onto his lap, and the young man felt no cold at
all.
"That's right," whispered Damiano. "You said we should meet once more."
Raphael did not smile. He stroked the young man's hair back from his face. "I
said at least once more, Dami. And I said we would talk."
Damiano raised his head for a moment and let his eyes rest on the figure of
quiet beauty. Then he let it fall back. "Once is all I have time for, Seraph.
And there's no t a lo t t o say
. They'r e goin g t o han g m e a t dawn
.
Raphael looked down at his friend like a man starin g int o a well
. H
e sai d nothing
.
"Di d yo u kno w tha t already?
" aske d Damiano
, looking back.
Th e ange l nodde d an d touche d Damiano'
s fac e lightly with the backs of his fingers . "That's why I'm here
, m y friend.
"
"This will be it, for you and I—for our friendship—
my dear teacher. For I am damned and am going to hell
, wher e I doub t ver y muc h yo u wil l com e visiting.
"
Bot h wing s explode d outwards
, slappin g th e littl e shed walls. "Damned, Damiano? Damned? What are you
saying?" For a few moments the angel was speech-
less. "Wher e did you get this idea ? I neve r hear d you spea k such..
. such...
"
Damiano had not believed the perfect face could assum e suc h a blank
, startled
, almos t sill y expression
.
No r ha d h e imagine d tha t th e celestia l wing s coul d rutc h s
o lik e a sparrow's
.
"... such miserable folly!" Raphael concluded with effort .
Through his crushing misery Damiano almost laughed, but his face sobered with
the effort of explanation .
"It was
Satan himself who firs t told me... "
he began.
Th e comple x pla y o f feelin g o n Raphael'
s fac e wa s replaced by simple anger. "He? He is the Father... "
"..
. o f Lies
. I know
. I'v e hear d tha t man y times
, especially recently, Raphael. But forget that. Not all he say s i s a lie
, an d I hav e m y ow n evidenc e i n th e matter
.
I have touched the unquenchable fire, Seraph. I have traced it back to its
source, and I know now that its sourc e i s withi n me.
"
One wing went up, and the other went down, and
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Raphael's head tilted in balance to the wings. "Dami. If you are trying to
tell me you have fire in you, save your breath, for I've known it long since.
"You are as warm as a hearth, young one, and like a heart h fire
, ope n an d giving
. Til l thi s moment
, I
would have said as... as confident as a hearth fire, too, for I have seen you
go throug h pain and horror , and glow the brighter for them. Do you think it
is out of a sense of duty that I love you, Dami? Or that it is your witchcraft
that has compelled me to teach you music thes e thre e years
?
"I have no duty toward mankind. None. I was created not for duty but to make
music. Nor can the actions of mortals force me into time's stringent bondage.
"But you are such a silly one, Damiano Delstrego.
Your hands are too big for you. Also your eyes. And you r opinions
. Yo u tr y s o hard
, i n a worl d whos e pai n I
canno t bea r t o comprehend
. An d withi n you
, yo u know what is best and love it despite all error. That's why I cannot
understand how you could be so cozened as to believe...
"Ah, Dami, Dami!" And Raphael held the young man to him and rocked from side
to side. "Do you kno w wha t i t i s t o b e damned
? I t ha s nothin g t o d o wit h fire
. T
o b e damne d i s onl y no t t o love.
"
"No t t o lov e God
, yo u mean
, Raphael, " murmure d
Damiano
, wh o la y wit h eye s closed
, feelin g hi s pai n ebb away. "I've heard something like that from Father
Antonio."
Raphae l paused
, an d hi s fai r bro w frowne d i n concentration
. "Al l create d things, " h e sai d a t last
, "ar e
th e mirro r o f thei r creator
. Ca n on e lov e anything
, wit h whol e heart
, an d no t lov e it s source
?
"Maybe a man can—men are a mystery to me—but
I cannot
. And
, Damiano
, loo k a t me
.
"Yo u ar e a sudde n flas h o f light
, child
. A
tun e rising from nowhere. I am not flesh, and I cannot understand you, but I
love you, and I know you are not damned!"
Damian o blinke d u p a t th e angel
. Raphael'
s fac e blurred in his vision, and he blinked harder. "Is that so?
" h e asked
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. "I
s tha t really so
? The n I' m ver y gla d t o hear it," he added, "because I didn't want
to go to hell."
Then he wept without shame against the spotless whit e robe
.
Minute s passed
, an d the n Damian o lifte d hi s head
.
"You know what, Raphael?" he asked. "I'm sorry to sa y this
, afte r al l yo u hav e don e fo r me
, but..
. but..
. I
find I still don't want to die, either. Isn't that petty of me
, afte r al l I'v e don e t o ge t mysel f i n trouble?
"
And then the angel pursed his beautiful lips and rocke d Damian o bac k an
d forth
. "W
e al l ge t int o trou
-
ble sometimes, " he whispered , "doing what we shouldn't .
Sometime s w e should d o wha t w e shouldn't
. Don'
t worry about it, Dami."
Thi s statemen t wa s difficult
. I t wa s als o dubiou s morality
. Bu t Damian o wa s pas t tryin g t o mak e goo d sense out of
Raphael, or good morality, either. Perhaps angel s wer e no t expecte d t
o b e moral
, bu t jus t t o b e angels. Were they even Christians , these pure
spirits?
No matter. It was better just to listen and to trust
Raphael. And it was wonderful, being rocked by him.
It was music and it was rest. It was falling, falling weightlessl y lik e
snow
, hi s fac e agains t th e spotles s whit e garment
, fallin g throug h a roo m fille d wit h th e light s o f pearl
.
Pain was forgotten, and fear. And if tomorrow—
today almost, for it was near dawn—if tomorrow the
rop e worke d properly
, an d h e di d no t strangle
, the n perhaps death would be no more than this.
He was not damned.
Damiano almost slept, curled on the angel's lap, hi s hand s boun d behin d
him
. H
e woul d hav e slept
, excep t for the irritating , familia r poke agains t his hand s an d th e
awkwar d voic e callin g "Master
, Master
, Mas
-
ter," incessantly and too early in the morning.
Damian o opene d hi s eyes
. "Macchiata, " h e whis
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-
pered, and the heavy triangular head thrust before his face, and she licked
his wet eyes. She was as solid as life, and almost as ugly as she had ever
been.
"Oh
, poo r Master
, poo r Master, " sh e crooned
. "Al l tied up. It's terrible to be tied up. I remember."
Damian o sli d t o th e floo r an d sa t upright
. "Littl e dear, " he said . "It's so good to see you. I... I... don't kno w
wha t t o say
, excep t mayb e w e ca n b e togethe r agai n tomorrow.
"
Bu t sh e lef t hi m an d struggle d ont o Raphael'
s lap
.
"We'r e togethe r righ t now, " sh e said
, an d the n turne d he r attentio n t o th e angel
. " I go t it, " sh e announced
. " I
dragged it all the way up and down the stairs of the big house and nobod y saw
me. But I can't get it throug h th e door
. Hel p me
; I can'
t ge t Master'
s stic k throug h the door. "
Raphae l pette d he r fro m ea r t o tai l wit h eas y familiarity.
Damiano had to smile.
"Don'
t as k hi m that, " Damian o chide d th e dog
.
"Raphael can't arrange a man's life. Or death. He can't interfere, being not
of this world, Macchiata. I've told yo u tha t a doze n times.
"
But the little white ghost with a single red spot ignored him. She trotted to
the door on her bandy legs, then back to Raphael. "Open the door," she
insisted. "I
can'
t d o it , an d it'
s late
. Ope n it.
"
Th e ange l looke d ove r a t Damiano
, unti l th e youn g man hung his head. "Stop, Macchiata, " he whispered .
"He can't do it."
Then Raphael, still sitting, leaned over and opened
the door of the shed. Starlight flooded in, and the iron padlock
, stil l intact
, swun g bac k an d fort h agains t th e wood.
Macchiata scuttled out and then in again, dragging th e ornat e lengt h o f
ebon y wood
. Sh e maneuvere d it , wit h muc h thuddin g an d thumping
, til l i t touche d th e finger s o f Damiano'
s boun d hands
.
He cried out as power flooded into him. "Raphael!
What have you done? You have... have interfered!"
Raphael's smile was contained and inward-turning.
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"Yes, I have, Dami," he said, and he laced fair fingers over one white samite
knee. "It feels very interesting,"
th e ange l added
. " I wonder...
"
Damian o coul d wai t n o longer
. H
e spok e thre e words.
The massive door was flung back against the shed wall with such force the
stones shook, and the one iron hinge burst in fragments. All through the ruins
of San
Gabriele rang the echoes of similar doors swinging open and parchment windows
ripping open. The sword belts of the sentries writhed unbuckled and fell.
The laces of jerkins and tunics sprang free of their eyelets
, an d Damiano'
s bond s escape d hi m lik e fright
-
ened snakes , and at the gateles s gatepost s of the vil-
lage, a noose of rope, prepared for the morning, spi-
rale d fre e o f th e tre e an d la y lim p a s a wor m o n th e
trodden road.
Damian o crawle d t o hi s feet
. Wit h on e numb
, purple hand he scooped up the small ghost of a dog.
He embraced Raphael and kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Then he
stepped out into the street, where night and morning were touching and the
east was gray.
The sentries saw him emerge, splendid in his tuni c o f gol d an d hi s
rob e o f scarlet
, line d wit h stain
-
les s ermine
. H
e wa s youn g an d unwearie d an d fear
-
less. He grinned at them as he passed, thumping his tall staff in time. And if
they saw the archangel, or even
th e spectra l dog
, the y gav e n o sig n o f i t bu t stoo d frozen, holding their
clothes up with both hands.
Befor e th e squar e towe r Damian o stoppe d an d calle d ou t unti l
a blu e for m appeare d o n th e balcony
.
"Marquis?
"Ther e i s n o nee d t o han g m e afte r all
. I'
m no t damned; it was all a big misunderstanding. "
Ogie r mad e n o answer
, s o afte r a momen t Damian o added, "I'm Monsieur Demon—remember? But
maybe
I'm not so hideous after all, in the morning light."
"I see you," said Ogier, and the marquis looked left and right along the
streets. "You look much more comely this morning . Am I to understan d that
none of my men are willing to take arms against you? Yes, well, I quite
understand their reservations." For five seconds the marquis stared fixedly at
Damiano, and Damiano beamed up at him.
"What are you going to do, Monsieur who is not a demon?
" h e aske d finally
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. "Seein g w e canno t preven t you, that is."
Damian o shrugge d loosely
. "I'
m goin g t o leave
, o f course.
"But I thank you for your assistance last night. It save d muc h bloodshed.
"
"Overjoye d t o hav e bee n o f service, " responde d
Ogier, with chilly, ironical politeness.
There was a drum of hooves, and the black gelding racketed into the village,
passing between the gate-
posts and spurnin g the fallen rope. Damian o turned to the horse, which
snorted delicately and bit its master's curly hair.
He pulled himself up. Raphael stood before him on the road, wings outsprea d
and glorious . The little do g sa t besid e him
, scratchin g impossibl e fleas
. "Ser
-
aph," he said, leaning left around the black gelding's neck
, " I hav e on e mor e deb t t o pay
, an d it'
s on e tha t shoul d no t wait.
"
"I know," answered the angel quite calmly. "We'll com e along
, i f w e may.
" Th e littl e do g chime d in
, "O
f
course we'll come with you, Master. We haven't been here any time at all!"
H e lef t Sa n Gabriel e wit h hi s scarle t cloa k flyin g lik e a
banne r i n th e earl y light
. Brigh t wing s soare d i n the air above the galloping horse, for any to
see who ha d eye s t o see
, an d a smal l do g ra n a t hi s lef t hand
, trotting easily over the ground and never falling behind.
Chapter 16
It was a ride like all rides through the Piedmont during thi s blea k seaso
n o f th e Nativity
. Mu d spattere d th e horse'
s cannons
, an d ic e cruste d it s shagg y face
, til l i t scrape d it s muzzl e wit h it s hoove s lik e a dog
. Bu t th e mud was rich, and the ice was glorious, and the snow that
whipped Damiano's cheeks and caught in his hair—that was so much eiderdown .
He rode singing, sometimes sweetly, sometimes voice-cracked and hoarse,
sometime s i n strang e harmon y t o tune s whos e burde n no one heard
but him.
An d h e laughe d a t nothing
, wigglin g o n th e pa
-
tien t gelding'
s back
. A
t nigh t Damian o nurse d grea t bonfire s an d squatte d b y them
, talkin g lik e a craz y man. Talking, talking, talking to the air.
Beside a cairn of rocks crouched Saara the
Fenwoman, wrapped against the cold in a rough wool-
en blanket. Still she was cold, always cold. Being cold didn't interest her.
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She brough t a few rocks every day, and though sometimes wolves or dogs came
and dug a few of them away, Ruggerio's grave was becoming more secure.
On e dul l brow n brai d flappe d i n th e wind
. Sh e tucked it back into her blanket. She should go down to
Ludica
, sh e knew
. Thi s hig h hil l wa s n o plac e fo r her
, alone and in the winter. The steam-burns on her arms and under her chin
pulled in the cold and ached. She woul d g o dow n t o Ludica
; whe n hardl y mattered
.
She could sweep floors. A woman could always swee p floors
.
The wind sang over the flat, marshy field. It had don e s o da y afte r
day
, singin g a bleak
, mindless
, winte r song
. Thoug h he r ea r wa s traine d t o th e sound s o f wind and
water, she was rapidly learning not to hear thi s son g o f despair
.
But now she had no choice but to hear, for the tone o f th e win d wa s
changing
. Sh e cocke d he r smal l hea d t o on e side
, an d he r tilte d gree n eye s narrowed
.
This was a south wind, and a very familiar one. As an y weave r ca n
recogniz e he r cloth
, even whe n i t i s cu t ou t o f shap e an d sewn
, s o Saar a recognize d he r ow n soft south wind, woven to cover her
garden.
Sh e stood
, an d sh e sa w Damian o ste p ou t fro m th e pines, swinging his
black staff and striding toward her.
His raiment shone under the winter sun, and his hair was black and free as a
horse's mane. His eyes were filled with the beauty of youth and with purpose,
and i n hi s fac e shon e power
.
Saara turned from him, anger warring with shame.
Sh e though t t o ru n int o th e birc h woo d wher e al l th e
leave s rattled
. Bu t ange r wo n an d sh e stayed
, standin g between the witch and the grave of the man he had slain.
Damian o looked down at the stones . "Lady , please let me by," he said.
"Why?
" sh e aske d i n turn
, an d he r voic e shoo k like paper, like a dead birch leaf. "What more
harm would you do to him?"
Hi s nostril s flared
. "None
. H
e i s beyon d harm
, and I intend none." Then his face softened. "Please, Saara
. Le t m e b y an d yo u shal l se e wh y I' m here.
"
His pleadin g was more painful to her than his presence
, an d sh e stiffene d unde r it . "Se e what
? Ca n
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you bring Ruggerio to life again, after weeks in the earth?"
"No, " replie d Damiano
, an d wit h hi s staf f h e force d her aside. "All I can do is this."
And holding the staff b y it s heel
, h e raise d i t hig h ove r hi s head
.
"Leave the grave be!" she shouted in rage, but the staff whistled through the
air and smashed down.
Ther e wa s a sna p an d a screec h o f woo d an d metal. The staff
cracked. It split up the middle and brok e int o tw o pieces
.
Ther e wa s n o flas h o f light
, no r boomin g o f thun
-
der. The air did not smell burned. Yet Saara staggered as all that was her own
came back to her, and more, and more. She shook her head against memorie s she
had never known before: books unread, unfamilia r flower s an d faces
.
A girl'
s face
, wit h yello w hair
. Th e fac e o f a n ai r spirit, awesome and mild. The face of a dog.
The n sh e sa w th e fac e o f Guillerm o Delstreg o throug h othe r
eyes .
Dail y lesson s i n th e grea t ston e workroo m wit h th e woo d fir
e hissing
. Dail y dinners
, crud e bu t filling
, cooked on the same enormous hearth. Whippings—
both the deserved and the undeserved. A gift of ap-
ples. The gift of a staff.
And finally the screams from above, and, oh, pray fo r m y father
, h e i s dead
, m y fathe r i s dead
. Saar a crie d in anger but could not resist, violate d to the depth s by
the pity she was compelled to feel for Guillermo
Delstrego.
After minute s or hours she sighed, putting the image s away
.
Th e youn g man—th e boy—stoo d unmoving
, star
-
ing stupidl y down at the piled stones and the shards of woo d an d silver
. Th e hee l o f th e staf f dangle d limpl y from his hands. His mouth
was open. Finally he dropped the stick and rubbed his face in both hands. He
cleared his throat.
"It's what he wanted, Saara. Ruggerio , I mean. He
ha d a chanc e t o kil l me
, bu t h e chos e instea d t o tr y t o break the staff. Well, no one
but I myself could do that, whil e I a m alive.
" H
e turne d t o her
, squinting a s thoug h th e ligh t wa s to o bright
.
"My lady Saara, you are so beautiful! A beautiful witch and a beautiful woman.
It's not just the witch power
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. Whe n I cam e u p th e meadow
, yo u wer e beauti
-
fu l then
, too
, bu t yo u didn'
t giv e m e a chanc e t o mention it."
Saar a too k a dee p breath
, sortin g th e chao s withi n her
. " I don'
t wan t al l this, " sh e sai d t o him
. "Onl y wha t wa s mine
. Tak e bac k wha t i s yours.
"
H e shrugge d an d droppe d hi s eyes
. " I can't
. Be
-
sides, I don't want it anymore. Your song, my lady, was neve r mean t t o b
e boun d i n wood—i t wasn'
t happ y with me—and as for mine, well I give it freely, so it won't make any
fuss. Please accept it; it's like a home-
les s dog
. I t can'
t surviv e alone.
"
Saara stepped forward, letting the blanket slip fro m he r shoulders
. He r embroidere d dres s shon e gail y under a sun that was growing
warmer. Rags fell, leav-
ing her feet pink and bare. She touched Damiano.
"This is too much to understand, " she said, and he nodded.
" I fin d i t s o myself
. But
, lady
, I trus t yo u wit h powe r mor e tha n I trus t myself
. I tol d yo u s o onc e before.
Besides—wha t i s al l powe r bu t fire
? An d I hav e had too much of fire, lately." He stepped away, then glanced
again at her, one hand scratching the side of his head.
"Pleas e forgiv e me, " h e said
, "fo r al l I'v e don e t o you. It was never the way I wanted it." And
he walked away.
"Wait," Saara called. She opened her mouth to sing his feet still, but shame
stopped her. Instead she ran after Damiano, her bare feet splashing over the
wet ground. "Where are you going, like this?" she demanded.
"You're helpless as a baby." He turned to her in surprise.
"I'm going west," he said. "I thought to Provence , or as far as I get. And,
my lady, don't worry. I'm no more helples s than any other man."
"G
o hom e instead
, i f yo u can, " sh e countered
. "O
r if that general will not let you, then stay in Ludica.
"You'l l lear n wha t i t i s t o b e alone
, now
, Dami
.
Cold and alone. Believe me: a witch without power..."
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Page 211
He scratched his tangled head again, and he grinned at her. "Don't worry, I
said. I know what cold is like already. I've had a lot of practice.
"An d alone
? Saara
, pikku
Saara
! Ou r closes t friend s are sometimes those we cannot see."
H e leape d on e coi l o f th e broad
, choke d strea m tha t cu t th e meado w int o islands
. Landing
, h e slippe d and fell on one knee, then stood again, laughing at himself
. H
e me t th e Fenwoman'
s gaze
, h e squintin g wit h th e distanc e betwee n them
. "Wha t a bod y thi s is ;
nothin g seem s t o wor k right.
" The n hi s gri n softened
.
"Loo k a t me
, Saara
. I'
m happy
. Haven'
t yo u eye s t o see? "
Then he turned on his heel and darted across the meadow
. Saar a watche d hi m until
, slappin g a lo w branc h wit h hi s hand
, h e fade d int o th e dar k trees
.
When he had vanished, she lifted her head to the high, singing brilliance that
went with Damiano, shining abov e th e pin e wood
.
She had the eyes to see.
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Page 212
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