crowd shouted out and brought the bombardment to a halt. “Basta! Enough!”

To Davido, disoriented and lying upon the cobblestones under his stand, the voice, so firm, so feminine, sounded as if it issued from the lips of an angel. Davido blinked a few times to sort out his vision as the crowd parted to reveal the calves, ankles, feet and sandals of the dissenting voice. She walked to the center of the crowd and paused next to the body of the dead man. Davido had never seen such wonderful extremities. Her feet were perfect—salt-of-the-earth perfect—strong and shapely with a slight arch shaped like a cantaloupe’s curve. She had beautiful toes, like baby eggplants—sleek, tapered and slightly bulbous around the tips. Her ankles were strong, not too thick, nor too skinny, and they grew gracefully into muscular calves that seemed shaped by hours of standing on tiptoe to pick peaches or knock olives from trees. Just below the hem of her skirt, Davido could make out a small scar, right below her left knee, shaped like a scythe. It was a beautiful imperfection existing in harmony with the perfection of her skin, and Davido longed to crawl out and give the little scar a kiss.

“Basta!” she yelled one more time, and then promptly dumped a bucket of water over the face of the dead man.

“Huh!” The crowd gasped at such disrespect for the deceased.

Immediately, the dead man sat up and began to cough.

“Madonna mio!” a hundred voices rang out as nearly half the assembled group dropped to their knees and made the sign of the cross. “Un miracolo!” shouts rang out, “a miracle!”

“Nothing of the sort,” shot back Mari. “If any of you had been as concerned about Vincenzo as you were about vengeance, you might have noticed that he was breathing the whole time.”

“I was dead,” protested Vincenzo, gasping for breath. “Sure as Cristo died on the cross, I was dead!”

A frown curled Mari’s mouth as she sunk her gaze into Vincenzo.

Vincenzo withered, lowering his head sheepishly. “Well, I thought I was as good as dead.”

Mari did not relent.

“Regardless,” Vincenzo flicked his thumb in the Ebreo boy’s direction, “what kind of monster attacks a man in his own village?”

“How do you know it was him?” asked Mari.

“How do I know?” Vincenzo responded indignantly. “Who else could have done this?” He pointed to his tomato-splattered right ear.

Despite the safety of his current position and the lovely view of the woman’s feet, knees and ankles, Davido drew a deep breath and, though motivated more by curiosity than courage, rose up from under his stand to face his many attackers and lone defender.

“Vincenzo,” Mari said with a confidence that made him feel a bit like a little boy, “did you actually see this man throw his fruit at you?”

“What?” said Vincenzo indignantly as he lifted himself up from the ground.

“Did you actually see this man throw his fruit at you?”

Vincenzo’s lips pursed. “No, but need I more proof than what lies lodged in my ear and resting in his hand?”

“Vincenzo,” said Mari, “do you think anyone so foolish that they would attack the locals with the very fruit they wish to sell?”

“Foolish?” Vincenzo repeated. “Surely those who nailed our Cristo to the cross could be so foolish as to give their fruit a toss.”

Good God—Nonno rolled his eyes—must it always come back to that?

The villagers erupted in agreement. Even the more open-minded and sensitive among them, like the Cheese Maker and Signore Coglione, could not rightly doubt the depths of evil and foolishness to which an Ebreo could stoop.

“Vincenzo,” Mari said calmly, adopting a new tactic, “in which direction does your stand face?”

The question flustered Vincenzo as he regarded his stand. He was prepared to argue about Judas and Cristo and the profound injustice dealt to the pig, not about direction. “West, I think. But what has that to do with anything?” Vincenzo said brusquely.

“Mmm, west, indeed,” repeated Mari. “And in what direction does this stand here face?”

Vincenzo took in the angle of the tomato stand. The market row had a slight bend. “North, split with west,” he said, not sure what Mari was getting at.

“Mmm, north split with west,” Mari said, parroting Vincenzo. She had never done anything quite like this before. What prompted her to speak from her heart had become an equation for her head and she now strained mentally to organize her point. “Now,” said Mari, “in which ear were you hit with their fruit?”

“My right ear,” Vincenzo said,