“Come, then.” Medallia helped him up, and had to steady him as he found his feet. Gianni groaned with the pain as a dozen bruises screamed at him for the folly of moving. He felt his knees buckle, but Medallia’s shoulder was a bulwark against unconsciousness, and he began to hobble with her toward the caravan. “Slowly, slowly,” she crooned. “We’ll be there soon enough.” And there the yellow boards were, right in front of him. She tucked his fingers over the dashboard, saying, “Hold tight, now, till I bring your friend, for I think six weak hands will do better than two strong, in hoisting you up.” She went back for Gar.
But the big man had already pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying, propping himself up with a pole that had a ragged end. With a shock, Gianni realized that the man must have broken a pike, and that its owner had taken the head with him, for steel was valuable. Medallia took Gar’s hand and placed it on her shoulder (Gianni was surprised at the sudden jealousy he felt). Gar nodded gravely and followed, but Gianni could see that he wasn’t leaning on the woman, only held her shoulder as a guide. She anchored him to the back of the wagon, then returned to lead Gianni there, too, then on up and into the caravan, where she lowered him onto a padded bench, then went back for Gar.
Gianni looked about him in amazement. He had never been inside a Gypsy caravan before, but had not expected it to be so neat, so bright and cheerful. The walls were painted ivory, with a pattern of flowers stenciled on; beneath each of the front windows was a padded bench covered in the beige-and-white striped cloth woven in his own city. The front windows were made from the bottoms of bottles melted together, coloring the light yellow and green and brown; the rearmost windows were clear and curtained, the glass divided into many small panes that could easily be cut from scraps. Two chairs faced one another to either side of the left-hand window—they looked to be nailed down, as was everything in this wagon that didn’t hang from the ceiling—and between them, a tabletop was folded down against the wall. At the back, four feet from the door, stood a stove of enameled tile, almost as though it were guarding the entryway. Framed pictures hung on the walls—a scene of a city, a picture of a cottage in a wood, and a tableau of an old peasant couple sitting by their hearth. Could it be, Gianni wondered, that this young Gypsy woman wanted to live in a house as badly as most other young folk wanted to wander?
Gar was able to stoop through the doorway without toppling over, but it took some careful maneuvering for him to sidle around the stove without knocking down the chimney. That done, he collapsed on the bench opposite Gianni, closing his eyes, breathing heavily. Gianni was surprised to see that there was a limit to the giant’s strength.
“Rest,” Medallia advised, and laid a waterskin near Gianni’s hand. “Your benches have arms; hold to them, for the caravan sways a bit.” Then she was gone with a rustle of brightly colored cloth through the little door at the front, to call to her donkeys. The caravan lurched into motion, and Gianni found that the arms of the bench were indeed useful. “Where is she taking us?”
“Where does the road lead?” Gar countered.
“To Pirogia, if she doesn’t turn off to go to another city.”
“Then she’ll most likely take us to your home,” Gar said. “I told her you were from Pirogia as she bandaged me—told her that I had promised to see you safely home, and was bound to do it however I had to.”
“I thank you for that,” Gianni said slowly, “and it seems that you shall indeed, though perhaps not in the manner you intended.” He glanced out the window, then said, “She is very kind.”
“Very,” Gar agreed, “but she doesn’t look very much like a Gypsy.”
Gianni looked up in surprise. “How do Gypsies look? Surely she wears a kerchief and bright clothing, like any Gypsy woman I have ever seen—yes, and with brass earrings, too!”
Gar just gazed at him a moment, then said, “Well, if clothes are all it takes to make a Gypsy, then she must look like one indeed.”
“Why—what do you think Gypsies look like?”
“Those of my homeland generally have dark complexions and black hair—and large noses.”
Gianni shook his head. “I have never seen a Gypsy who looked like that.”
“So,” Gar said, more to himself than to Gianni, “the Romany didn’t truly come to this plan … to Petrarch.”
Gianni frowned. “What plan did you speak of? And who are the Romany?”
Gar looked up, stared a moment, then smiled. “They’re the folk who invented carts like this one, but the arrangement inside is quite different.”
“A plan of decoration?”
“Yes, quite so—of management, you might say. ‘Medallia’ is a pretty name, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Gianni agreed, but he could have cursed Gar for having aroused his suspicions. Even he had to admit that “Medallia” didn’t sound much like the names of the Gypsies he had known.
Gar distracted him from that line of thought. “I’m sorry I couldn’t guard you well enough.”
“Who could, against an army?” Gianni realized he was echoing the words of the face he had seen in his vision. He tried to ignore that and said, “I saw the amount of roadside that the bandits’ hooves tore up. You fought enough of them, my friend.”
Gar shrugged. “I had to make it look convincing. Who’d believe that so large a simpleton could be so easily overcome? Unless he was a total coward, which Lenni isn’t.”
Gianni felt a prickle of eeriness at the way that the big man referred to the simpleton he had pretended to be—but there were more important matters at hand. “We must warn Pirogia.”
“Ah.” Gar nodded, eyes glinting. “So. You noticed that conversation too, eh?”
“I wish there had been more of it! But what other merchants could they not yet have punished? They’ve certainly burned out Ludovico, and slaughtered us—at least, so far as they know.”
“Yes, that’s the one factor in our favor,” Gar agreed, “that they think we’re dead. But I noticed that the bandits who beat us this second time were Stilettos too, and when they trade stories with their friends who attacked our caravan, they may both mention a rather large man.”
“You’re hard to miss,” Gianni agreed. “Still, the way you fought this time didn’t exactly speak of training.”
Gar grinned. “I have done my share of brawling. I know the amateur’s style.”
“So do I,” Gianni said ruefully. “I seem to have practiced it.”
Gar shook his head. “You fought as a trained fighter.”
“But an amateur merchant,” Gianni said bitterly.
“Not at all,” Gar said, with a sardonic smile. “You’re still striving.”
“Well, we can scarcely lie down and die.” Gianni said it with a twinge of guilt, remembering his dream. “We’ll have to be more cautious in our progress back home.”
“Thanks to Medallia, all we need to do is stay inside—though if she’s attacked, I think we may both find we have the strength to overcome the pain of our bruises.”
Anger surged at the mere idea, and Gianni said softly, “Oh, yes. We surely may.”
It was a brave resolution. Fortunately, they had no need to put it to the test.
When they stopped for the night, Medallia brewed a rich soup from dried meat and legumes, fed them, then made pallets for them underneath the wagon. Her attitude and stance were firm, and neither man questioned her unspoken decision nor objected in the slightest, though they did groan a little as they climbed down the steps. Medallia pulled the stairs in, said, “I shall see you in the morning, goodmen,” and closed her door. Gianni stared at it for a moment, letting his imagination picture what she was doing inside, but found that his body was too worn to work up any enthusiasm, and turned away with a sigh of regret.