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fashion?” asked the general dryly. “Without interference.”
    Damiano lifted his eyebrows in a gesture that, though he did not know it, was the mirror of that which he had distrusted in Pardo. “No, Signor General, that is not what I want for my city. All this she had accomplished on her own, unguided, like a peasant virgin, beautiful and barefoot. What would she be under the protection of a great man?”
    Pardo leaned forward, uncomprehending. “I am not in the habit of protecting virgins, peasant or otherwise,” he said simply.
    Damiano felt his face growing hot. He had picked the wrong metaphor to use with a soldier, certainly.
    â€œWhat I mean is,” he began slowly. “We need the presence of a man of wealth and culture, in whose house the arts will flourish, and whose greatness of soul can inspire Partestrada with a similar greatness...”
    â€œIt’s the pope you want,” suggested Pardo with a white smile. “Go to him, Signor Delstrego, and tell him to move from Avignon to Partestrada, where the air is better.”
    Wit is cheap, thought Damiano, yet reason cannot best it. He dropped his eyes, accepting the humiliation as he had accepted it from his father daily in his childhood. This general reminded him of his father in more ways than one.
    For the sake of his city, he tried once more.
    â€œGeneral Pardo, it would not be bad for you to join yourself to Partestrada and to grow with her. By her placement and her people she is destined for greatness. You could be the tool of her greatness. She could be the tool of your own glory. Like Visconti and Milan.”
    Pardo’s nostrils had flared, but he had let Damiano continue until he heard the name of Milan. “Milan!” he barked. “When I marry a city it will be one with a greater dowry than Partestrada! Why do you think I am up here, sweeping your little hill towns like a housewife with a broom, if not in preparation for Milan? I need money and power, and my army needs experience. I will get what I can from the crumbling House of Savoy, while Amadeus is busy with his new wife and the stupid wars of Jean le Bon. When that great one turns to bite the flea on his leg I will be gone.
    â€œBut I will come again. And again. And each time I will harvest this miserable, cold cloud-land, until I am rich enough and have men enough, and then I will move on Milan. If I cannot buy that city’s love, I will take it by force.”
    Damiano’s face tightened painfully, but he spoke what was to him the obvious. “Milan has been in so many hands. You will not be remembered in history by taking Milan.”
    â€œHISTORY IS SO MUCH DOG SHIT!” bellowed the general, pounding his fist against the wooden back of the pew. “Milan? That is something else. Passed through many hands? Well the whore is none the worse looking for it.
    â€œBoy, have you SEEN Milan?”
    â€œMany times,” answered Damiano, meaning three times, once with his father and twice since, buying books. “It is a beautiful city, although very flat.”
    Now it was Pardo’s turn to lean forward and stare. “I don’t want you to take this as an insult, Signor Delstrego, because I think I could like you. You have loyalty and enthusiasm. Also a very useful talent, if that business with the doors was any guide.
    â€œBut your provincial upbringing has colored your thoughts. You have read about Florence and Rome, and you think they are no different from your little town in the hills, where your family has a certain... reputation. It seems to you better to devote your time to making the little town bigger than to risk all by starting anew in a place where there are more possibilities, but you have no reputation at all.”
    Damiano frowned perplexedly and shook his head, but Pardo continued. “My advice—and I am a man of some experience—is to risk it all and leap for what you want. Most men are