Read Online Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy - Free Book Online Page A

mountains, and how would one be able to tell they had been devastated?” inquired Paris, who in all matters seemed to be the spokesman of the three.
    Damiano felt a variety of envy for them, whose lives had not yet been touched by the present troubles. He assumed that because his troubles were not theirs, they had no troubles. This supposition on his part was a human error, certainly, but it could have been dyed a much deeper hue had Damiano felt contempt and alienation from the three because of their fortune.
    Instead he wanted to help keep them safe and carefree, and to that end he said, “Believe me, Signori Clericale: we are little more than a day’s travel from what was a thriving city and is now abandoned to General Pardo’s soldiery.”
    â€œPardo?” spoke up Eulenspiegel, who seemed to have a quick ear, though a slow tongue. “The condottiere in the service of the pope? He was at Avignon a few years ago.”
    Damiano peered stricken at the blond at the other side of the table. He was just at the limit of Damiano’s close sight, and Damiano could not be sure Eulenspiegel was joking. “You mean... It could not be that the Holy Father is sacking the towns of the Piedmont?”
    Paris broke in smoothly. “It could be, but I think it isn’t. The condottieri serve contracts, not men, and I remember hearing when I was at the papal court last that Pardo’s time was lapsed, and either he or the Holy Father did not renew.
    â€œAnd, my dear brothers, what is a condottiere without lands or employer, but a brigand?”
    â€œThey’re all robbers, anyway,” sneered Eulenspiegel, glaring dourly into the distance. Damiano reconsidered his conception of this man; there was doubtless sorrow in his past.
    â€œNonetheless, I beg you to beware, Signori. Do not follow the road down from the hills or you may find you have walked into trouble. And if you hear the sounds of many horses on the road, then leave it quickly and hide where you may.”
    â€œWould in any case,” growled Eulenspiegel, while the poet just sighed.
    â€œAh! I thank you, friend Delstrego,” said Paris, placing both the basket-covered wine jug and a husk of bread in front of Damiano. “I drink to your health, for you have cared for ours.” He picked up Damiano’s green bottle and did as he had promised. “Now you 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 them upon it.
    â€œShould be good,” said Eulenspiegel, showing his teeth.
    Paris cleared his throat. “I appreciate your advice, Signor Dottore Delstrego, and believe we are all grateful. Yet our path was decided for us before we left France, and to veer from it would destroy the meaning of our journey.
    â€œLet me tell you, friend in the wilderness, that we three are retracing the steps of the great Petrarch from Avignon to Milan, seeing every inch of the countryside about which he wrote.”
    â€œAh, the verse!” cried out Breton, the poet. “Immortal verses, wild as the god Pan!”
    Damiano started. It was as though a dog had talked—another dog, not Macchiata.
    â€œI saw him, in Milan,” ventured Damiano. “He was very gracious, and let me copy four of his poems into a book. I dared not ask for more, for I was sitting in his office where the window looked out onto il Duomo, and he sat across from me, asking which parts I liked. It was a great moment for me. Yet I don’t believe Petrarch rode from Avignon in the beginning of winter, did he?”
    The poet opened his brown eyes very round. “He has spoken with you? The laureate himself. You sat in his house?”
    Damiano shrugged in self-deprecating manner. “Only for an hour. I doubt he would remember my name.”
    â€œDelstrego would be hard to forget,” remarked the blond. “I’ve been