The giant heaved himself to his feet. "Come with me." He led Oliver outside. Quite near the cave was a very tall grape arbor.
"I can't reach them," said Oliver.
"Here, let me hand you down some." The giant stretched out his arm, in a movement that exposed his armpit. Aretino threw Oliver his sword; Oliver caught it. The giant's arm was still up there. But it was the right arm. Oliver hesitated.
"Go for it anyway!" Aretino called out.
Oliver gritted his teeth and plunged the sword into the giant's armpit. It was armored, just as he'd feared, but not very well armored. Aretino's sword passed into it.
"Ouch! What did you do that for?"
"I had to. You were going to kill me."
"I would have changed my mind."
"But how was I to know that?"
The giant fell to the ground. He gnashed his teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Whoever heard of giants winning? By the way, that candlestick you've been looking for. I've got it in the back of the cave." He gave a convulsive heave and was dead.
"Quick!" Aretino said. "Get the candlestick!"
Oliver ran back into the cave and found the candlestick behind a boulder. Now he had the ring, the key, and the candlestick. He took two steps forward and recoiled.
Aretino was gone. An entirely different man was standing in front of him.
Chapter 4
Who are you?" Oliver asked. "Your second-in-command, sir," the man said. "Globus is the name.
Serving greatness is the game."
Oliver's peripheral vision kicked in, and he realized he was in a different place. Picking up the candlestick seemed to have done the trick. The beach was gone. He was standing in a large meadow outside a village with mountains to one side and a wide plain to the other. A river sparkled in the middle of the plain; near the edge of the river was an encampment full of men and tents.
"The White Company," Globus told him.
The White Company was famous. Its original commander, Sir John Hawkwood, had led this group to many notable victories all over Italy. There were about ten thousand of them, fighting men from every corner of Europe — swarthy Letts, pixie-haired Poles, mustached Germans, Italians with rings in their ears, Frenchmen with marcelled hair, Scotsmen with tufted eyebrows. These troops were the finest, the merriest, the bloodthirstiest, yet also the most obedient to orders, of all the troops in the civilized—even in the uncivilized—world.
"Where is Hawkwood?" Oliver asked, inquiring after the company's famous commander.
"Sir John is taking a paid leave in England," Globus told him. "He didn't want to go, but my master paid him a price he couldn't refuse."
"Who is your master?"
"I'll not name him directly," Globus said, "except to say that he's a Hell of a good fellow. He bade me give you this."
From his haversack Globus took a long slim instrument and handed it to Oliver. Oliver recognized it at once as a baton of command, such as a field marshal might carry.
"This is your insignia of command," Globus said. "You will show this to the men and they will follow you anywhere."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"We are situated just now on the south side of the Alps." Globus pointed in a southerly direction. "It's a straight march down that way and along the river to Venice."
"All I have to do is lead the men there?" Oliver asked.
"That's it."
"Then let us go join the men!" Oliver cried exultantly.
Chapter 5
Oliver reached the purple tent that had been reserved for him. Inside, sitting on a campstool and filing his nails with a little silver file, was none other than Azzie.
"Hi, Chief!" Oliver cried.
"Welcome to your command, Field-Marshal," Azzie said. "Is everything to your liking?"
"It's wonderful," Oliver said. "You've gotten me a wonderful bunch of soldiers. I had a look at some of them as I came up here. Real toughs, aren't they? Anybody trying to stand against me is going to be very sorry. Is there anyone I have to fight, by the way?"
"Of course. On your march south, which I expect you to begin immediately after we finish this briefing, you will encounter the Berserkers of the Death's Head Brigade."
"They're not tough at all. I gave them that name because it sounds good to the press. Actually they're a bunch of disenfranchised local peasants, farmers from the district who have been put off their land for nonpayment of the exorbitant taxes. They are armed only with axes and scythes, have no armor, no bows and arrows, not even proper lances. Also there are only a couple of hundred of them against your ten thousand. Not only are these men poorly prepared, they are also guaranteed to betray their comrades and flee at the first clash of arms."
"That sounds okay," Oliver said. "And then what?"
"Then you'll march into Venice. We'll have the press prepared."
"The press? Surely I haven't done anything to warrant torture!"
"You don't understand," Azzie said. " 'Press' is our name for the various persons who make things known to other people: painters, poets, scriveners, that sort of thing."
"I don't know anything about that," Oliver said.
"You'd better learn if you expect to become famous for your victories. How will you become legendary unless the writers write about you?"
"I guess I thought it just happened," Oliver said.
"Not at all. I've hired the finest poets and writers of the age, headed by the Divine Aretino, to sing your praises. Titian will do a huge propaganda poster of whatever victory we ask him to portray. And I'll hire a composer to write a masque in memory of the victory, whatever it is going to be."
Azzie rose and walked to the entrance of the tent. A few fat drops of rain were falling, and big black clouds had come up from behind the Alps. "Looks like a bit of weather making up," he said. "It'll blow over soon, no doubt, and you can get your men on the road to Venice. Don't worry about how to address them, or in what language. Just tell Globus and he'll make sure everyone understands."
"Good. I was worried about that," said Oliver, who hadn't thought about it at all but wanted to sound alert.
"Good luck," Azzie said. "I suppose I'll see you in Venice by and by."
PART EIGHT
Chapter 1
Darkness held sway over Europe, and nowhere more than in the little inn where Azzie — despite small journeys of reconnaissance and aid—was still busily recruiting people for his play.
"What news, Aretino?" Azzie asked.
"Why, sir, Venice already buzzes with rumors that something strange and unprecedented is going on. No one knows what, but there is talk. Venetians are not privy to the secrets of the Supernaturals, though we certainly ought to be, so special are we among the peoples of the world. Citizens meet day and night in San Marco's Square to discuss the latest marvel glimpsed in the sky. But you did not send for me, sir, to discuss gossip."
"I caught a glimpse of him as I was riding up," Aretino said without much enthusiasm. "It's a rather unusual way to cast a play, taking the first applicant and giving him the role willy-nilly. But no doubt he'll do. Who's next?"
"We wait and see," Azzie said. "If I am not mistaken, those are footfalls upon the stairs."
"They are indeed," Aretino said, "and by their sound I judge them to belong to a person of no particular quality in terms of station in life."
"How can you say so? I'd love to know your secret of distant perceptions."
Aretino smiled sagely. "You'll note that the boots make a scraping sound, even when heard through the material of a door and from the distance of half a corridor. That, sir, is the unmistakable sound of untanned leather. Since the sound is high-pitched, one must ascertain that the boots are stiff, and that the one rubbing against the other is like two pieces of metal rubbing together. No man of quality would wear such material, so it must belong to a poor man."