The Damiano Series Read Online Free Page A

he asked Raphael, he was told to trust in God and not to worry, which was advice that, although 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 enough to snow. The sky was heavy and opaque, like a pottery bowl tipped over the city, its rim resting on the surrounding hills and trapping all inside.
    Except it had not trapped anyone, anyone but old Marco and himself. Where had the people gone? Where had Paolo Denezzi gone, taking his whole family? It was not that Damiano would miss Denezzi, with his black beard and blacker temper. His sister Carla, however…
    The whole city was one thing. An undifferentiated mass of peasants and vendors and artisans called Partestrada; to Damiano it was all that Florence is to a Florentine, and more, for it was a small city and in need of tending. Damiano was on pleasant terms with everyone, but he usually ate alone.
    Carla Denezzi was another matter altogether. She was blonde, and her blue eyes could go deep, like Raphael’s. Damiano had given her a gilded set of the works of Thomas Aquinas, which he had gone all the way to Turin to purchase, and he thought she was the jewel around Partestrada’s throat. Damiano was used 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, if a chaperon was near and her brother Paolo was not, she would permit Damiano to swing himself up by the slats of the balcony and disturb her sewing further.
    In his own mind, Damiano called Carla his Beatrice, and if he was not being very original, it was at least better to liken her to Dante’s example of purity rather than to Laura, as did other young men of the town, for Petrarch’s Laura had been a married woman and had died of the plague, besides.
    Now Damiano passed before the shuttered Denezzi house front and he felt her absence like cold wind against the face. “Where are you, my Beatrice?” he whispered. But the bare, white house front had no voice—not even for him.
    The town hall had no stable under it, and it was 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 the interest of the council to enlarge it, or even to seal the infected-looking brown cracks that ran through the wall by the door. Except for the weekly gatherings of the town fathers, discussing such issues as the distance of the shambles from the well and passing judgment on sellers of short-weight bread loaves—such were commonly dragged on a transom three times 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-dozen men necessary to keep Partestrada safe and in line.
    Damiano knew what Savoy’s soldiers had been like: brutishly cruel or crudely kind as the moment would have it, but always cowed before wealth and authority. No doubt these would be the same. It was 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 philosopher besides. The soldier’s response, equally well thought-out, was intended to illustrate that he had both a sword and a spear. Damiano stopped in front of him.
    â€œI am told that General Pardo wants to see me,” he began, humbly enough.
    â€œWho are you, that the general should want to see you,” was the cold reply.
    A bit of his natural dignity returned to Damiano. “I am Delstrego.”
    The sentry grunted and stepped aside. Damiano passed through, leaning