Padre; they were waiting for her, bright, wide, loving and baffling as ever. She smiled at him, and he at her, a smile worth a lifetime of gratitude. Mari then looked to her mother. Her eyes were also waiting for her daughter’s gaze, but her eyes were different now, brighter, wider and more resplendent with love than they had been in a decade. Mari then turned to Davido. Of course his eyes were waiting, waiting with ten thousand arrows of love that Mari instantly felt pierce her heart. She was not sure that the village’s vanquishing of Giuseppe equaled a sanctifying of her love for the Ebreo; nevertheless, she could not stop her feet from following her heart.
The crowd stood there watching as Mari walked to the boy and then kissed him sweetly upon the cheek; stood there mesmerized as the boy blushed and despite his cuts and bruises looked suddenly like the happiest man in all of Tuscany; stood there thinking precisely what Nonno also thought, that there are times in life when it’s possible to believe that a just and fair God rules the world. First Bertolli, then Mari’s mother, then Mucca, the Cheese Maker, Vincenzo, Signore Coglione and the entire crowd turned to look at the Good Padre, and saw that he too was looking and smiling in the direction of Mari and Davido, that their wonderful, baffling, mind-boggling priest seemed to approve of this love and sanctify it in the eyes of Church and God. And then, like a bottle of Lambrusco, that odd, sparkling wine that the people of Parma prefer to drink, the cork of triumph popped. Mari leapt into Davido’s arms. The crowd exploded with merriment, and the couple kissed with the exact and perfect zeal that Cupid reserves for lovers who have just overcome great odds!
And the crowd too followed Cupid’s bow. There was spontaneous hugging and joyous slaps upon the back, laughter and tears of joy. Mucca and Vincenzo hugged, as did the Cheese Maker and Mari’s mother, Bertolli and his uncle Signore Coglione. Even Augusto Po, who had not hugged another human in forty-three years, found himself improbably— delightfully—wrapped inside the huge, warm arms of the Good Padre. But just then, as the entire town frothed and bubbled with jubilation, an incredible clatter of hooves dispirited the celebration and a dozen gleaming stallions came galloping into the piazza.
The cadre of Meducci guards drew their horses to a halt and the crowd recoiled nervously. Most in the village rarely, if ever, had seen a Meducci guardsman and the sight of a dozen battle-hardened, elaborately adorned soldiers atop their fierce horses turned the mood from gaiety to anxiety in a heartbeat. Cosimo, however, feared he knew why his chef would take such a risk.
“My lord!” cried Luigi Campoverde upon finding his boss lying on his side with a bolt stuck in his buttock and a cloth compressed against the wound. He quickly dismounted and hurried to the duke’s side.
“Just a scratch,” Cosimo answered his chef, waving off his concern. But the look of desperation upon Luigi’s face could not be waved off and Cosimo felt his heart sink.
“My lord,” Luigi repeated, hardly able to say the words, “your son.”
The Meducci guards dismounted and scanned the crowd for dangerous elements. The lead guard stepped forward and a burst of nerves swam up Davido’s spine. He recognized him. It was the older guard whom he’d led in prayer and who’d given him a pouch of gold coins just eleven days ago.
The lead guard rushed to Cosimo’s side and gestured to the crossbow bolt sticking from the duke’s buttock. Cosimo flicked his chin in the direction of the bloodied and beaten man sitting in a pile of food muck, mumbling deliriously. The lead guard nodded to the duke, then removed a cudgel from his belt, approached Giuseppe and whacked him across the back of the head.
Mari, Davido and the entire crowd groaned, not with empathy for Giuseppe, but more at the ruthless efficiency of the guardsman. The fierce soldier cracked Giuseppe across the head the way a skilled chef cracks an egg one-handed: deft enough to spill the yolk without getting a trace of shell in the bowl. And just like that, Giuseppe fell face-first into the slop —unconscious, but not dead.
The lead guard restashed his cudgel then returned to the duke’s side. He took a leather bit from a satchel attached to his belt and handed it to the duke. With haste, Cosimo placed