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Battista’s side, Pompeo launched his body between Battista and the opposing team coming at him from all sides, intent on stopping him from nearing the goal line running the width of each end of the piazza. All around them, the mayhem of the melee continued as men head-butted, punched, elbowed, and choked one another, anything to keep the other team from besting them, each capitalizing on the sport-shrouded opportunity to make another pay for besting him in either love or dice.
    Great guffaws of triumph rang out, groans of pain and frustration rumbled, as the players closest glimpsed who now possessed the ball. Equally as deadly with either hands or feet, Battista could hurl or kick the ball across the goal line to score a cacce, whichever method presented the best opportunity.
    Never as happy as when in the midst of calcio, Battista sneered merrily as he rampaged across the field. He had grown up playing the Florentine kick game, and he hoped he died an old man, staggering about the grounds. Few upon the field were as tall or as sturdy as he, and many a team fell to his agility.
    Battista lowered his head, put his shoulders to the oncoming rush, and barreled forward with a roar. The low wall delineating the goal line stood but meters away, and so did a row of the angriest, most determined players he had seen yet today. Their eyes burned red, their lips formed gruesome snarls.
    He cupped the red and white ball in the crook of his arm, and pulled his arm overhead, poised to launch. From his right, at the farthest tip of his vision, he saw them ... two red-breeched players hurtling toward him.
    With the graceful twirl of a court dancer, Battista lowered his poised arm behind him, turning with the movement to come round full circle. Dropping the ball to both hands, dropping both hands to his knee, he took one step forward with his left leg, and impelled his right forward, his foot smacking the ball, launching it over snarling men and goal wall alike.
    “Vittoria! Fantastico!” The whoops and cries of victory filled the square, colliding with the stone buildings lining all four sides, rebounding again and again into the air. Spectators cheered or jeered, congratulating or commiserating with their favored team as money exchanged hands from the losing to the winning wagerers.
    The pile of victorious players jumping on top of Battista was as dangerous as the opposing team had been, and he struggled to free himself of the crazed horde, but not without his own cries of delight and triumph. Pompeo found him and they embraced in the shared conquest, strutting across the piazza together, enfolded once more into the arms of their most dedicated fans.
    “Bèn fatto!” Frado saluted as he threw each man a cloth to wipe away the dirt and sweat coating his skin. “Very well done indeed.”
    “You have won us a fortune this day,” Ercole joined in, still accepting the mix of coins, large and small, from the swirl of grumbling men who shoved them into his hand. “A celebration is in order.”
    “Agreed!” Battista cried with enthusiasm, tossing aside the now-dirty rag and accepting his shirt and doublet from Giovanni’s hands.
    Beside him, Ascanio assisted Pompeo with his own clothing, as the tall, thin Lucagnolo leaned down and kissed a fey woman softly on her cheek, handing her over to another woman, similar of face but of a much heartier disposition.
    “How is she?” Battista stepped to the only married man among them.
    “Fine, grazie, ” Lucagnolo responded, eyes following the two women as they made their way through the tumultuous crowd just beginning to abate.
    Battista studied Lucagnolo’s face, handsome in that very Roman way, the strong, straight nose, the high, protruding cheekbones, a face much like Battista’s, though far narrower. The concise response did not worry Battista overmuch; for the quiet Lucagnolo, such was a typical rejoinder. The worry in the man’s piercing blue eyes concerned Battista far