They groaned, and Gar said, “If that’s what you were paid for, friend, I can see why you were wandering the roads. Signor Braccalese, this is Feste, who purports to be a professional jester.”
“ ‘Purports,’ forsooth!” Feste snorted. “Do you ‘purport’ to be mad, Gar? What shall I say you ‘purport’ to do next?”
“Wash, if I may.” Gar held up grimy hands. “If you will excuse me, gentlefolk, I have an appointment at the horse trough.”
“You shall do no such thing!” Mama scolded. “We have a copper tub, and kettles to heat water! You shall all bathe as gentlefolk do! Come in, come in all, and share our bread while we wait for the water to heat!”
The travelers cheered, and Feste sighed, “I thought they would never ask,” but Mama didn’t encourage him any further, only shooed them all inside and set about the task of organizing an impromptu celebration.
The next morning, Gianni woke to shouted commands and the sound of tramping. He leaped from his bed, ran to the window, and saw Gar, in the center of his father’s wagon yard, barking orders to eight men who were marching in two rows of four—the four vagabonds and four of Papa’s drivers. Gianni stared, then pulled on his clothes and dashed out into the courtyard. He came up to Gar, panting, “Why didn’t you tell me? I want to learn this, too!”
“Very good, very!” Gar nodded. “Find a pole to put over your shoulder, Gianni, and step into line!”
Gianni ran to fetch a pole, then slowed, frowning. “What’s the staff for?”
“To represent a spear or halberd—I’d rather teach them drill without the real weapons, so they don’t cut each other’s heads off every time they turn about.”
“Economical,” Gianni said judiciously. “But what’s the point of teaching them this marching, Gar?”
“About face!” Gar cried, just in time to keep the men from tramping head first into the wall. As they turned back, he said to Gianni, “It teaches them to act together, instantly upon hearing a signal, so that an officer can send them where they’re needed in battle, and have them point their spears in the right direction in time to keep the enemy from stabbing them.” He flashed Gianni a conspiratorial smile. “It also mightily impresses Council members.”
Gianni stared at him, amazed at such duplicity in Gar. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Master Gianni!”
Gianni turned. A boy came running up, panting. “The sentries at the land gate, Master Gianni! They say there are four men there, four strangers, who claim you will vouch for them, to let them enter the city!”
“I will indeed.” Gianni smiled. “Thank you, lad.” He pressed a coin into the boy’s palm. “I’ll go and fetch them right away.” He turned to Gar. “I will join your marching, Gar—but I’ll bring you four more recruits first.”
“Give them my compliments,” Gar said, grinning, and turned back to bark a command, then swear as the back row had to duck to avoid the tips of the front row’s staves. Gianni went back inside, marveling at Gar’s high spirits—he enjoyed the strangest things.
Gianni took the time to straighten his clothes and shave, fortunately fortunately because, as he crossed the Piazza del Sol, he saw a Gypsy caravan drawn up beside the canal. His pulse quickened, and he veered toward it like a compass needle swinging.
There she was, sitting under an awning propped out against the side of the caravan, reading a goodwife’s palm. She glanced up and must have recognized Gianni, for her eyes widened, and she stared at him for a brief second. Only a second; then she was staring down at the woman’s hand again, and Gianni had to stand and fidget until she finished. He glanced up apprehensively at the line of men and women lounging and chatting with one another as they waited their turns to hear their fortunes—but when the housewife smiled happily, paid Medallia, and rose to leave, Gianni was up to the table like a shot, ignoring the outraged cry behind him. “Godspeed, fair Medallia.”
She looked up, perfectly composed now. “Good day, Gianni Braccalese. It is good to see you safely home.”
Only “good”? No more than that? Gianni tried to control a massive surge of disappointment, and had to force his smile to stay in place. “It’s a joy to see you returned to Pirogia. To what do we owe this treat?”
“Why, to good business,” Medallia said easily, waving at the line of waiting customers. “If you will excuse me, Signor Braccalese, I must tend to my shop.”
Signor! “Of course,” Gianni said slowly. “But when you’re finished … may I meet you here in the evening, to chat?”
“Do you wish your fortune told?” She looked up at him with wide, limpid, innocent eyes.
Not unless you’re my fortune, he thought. Slowly, he said, “Why … yes, I suppose I do.”
“I shall be here all of today until sunset, and tomorrow too,” she said. “You may have to wait your turn, though. Good day, Signor.”
“Good day,” he muttered and turned away, his face thunderous. It was strange how the sunlight no longer seemed so bright, even stranger how stupid his fellow citizens suddenly appeared, chatting and laughing, completely at ease, while Fate rolled toward them with the thunder of the hooves of an army. Didn’t they realize the enemy was nearly at their gates? Didn’t they realize their freedom, their prosperity, their very lives might soon be snuffed out at a lord’s whim?
No. Of course not. No one had told them.
Gianni resolved that he must make an appointment to speak to the Council again at once, that very day if possible! The fools would see, they must see! And blast Medallia for pretending that he meant no more to her than any other customer, anyway!
But what if he didn’t?
CHAPTER 12
Gianni tried to shrug off his gloom as he went to greet his companions. He told himself that Medallia was only one pretty woman among many, and one he hadn’t even come to know very well—but he was amazed at how little the thought cheered him, and at how much his fancy had fastened upon her. But he forced a smile and waved at the guards at the inner gate, even managing to exchange a few cheerful remarks, and was able to put on a good show by the time he reached the land gate. He saw Vladimir, Estragon, Rubio, and Bernardino, and called, “You lazy layabouts, you idle road walkers! What makes you think you’re good enough for Pirogia?”
They leaped to their feet, Rubio the merchant reddening with anger—until they saw Gianni and laughed, coming forward with open arms. He embraced each of them, surprised at how the greetings of these relative strangers cheered him.
“It’s intolerable, Giorgio!” Rubio said indignantly. “They tell me they can’t trust a man from Venoga!”
“Yes, but if you had come with a goods train behind you, they would have let you in quickly enough,” Gianni assured him. “Besides, they’re pulling your leg—I argued that out with them yesterday.” Rubio stared; then a slow grin spread over his face. He turned to the two guards, who had rolled up their eyes, watching the sky in innocence. “You scalawags! You’ve no more hospitality than your friend Giorgio here!”
“And no less, either,” Alfredo assured him. “But who is Giorgio? I see only Gianni.”
Rubio turned to Gianni in shock, and so did the other three—but Gianni only smiled apology and said, “Forgive me, friends, but the lie was necessary. The prince had set a price on my head.”
“A price?” The thief frowned, “I should have heard about this! What’s your full name?”