different; if there was one thing that could bring Augusto Po to mix with the locals, it was the fear of having his business impacted. Po had been to Venice; he had witnessed the Ebrei prowess in banking and money-lending, and with his uncle, the old padre, dead and gone, he was without protection from the Church. It was challenging enough to have Giuseppe gaining such property and wealth, and he had no desire to see a clan of money-grubbing Ebrei welcomed into the village.

“Neighbors,” said Po, “unlike many here, I have traveled and know firsthand of the world. I have dealt and bartered with the unscrupulous Greek and know the forked tongue with which they speak. I have dealt with the Gypsy trader and the silk-selling Moor, and can attest to greater scruples in a three-penny whore. Idolaters, sodomites, be dubious of what’s in store, for these are people who prefer the back door.”

“They’re not the only ones!” the bosomy barmaid who’d just served Cosimo and Benito yelled out.

Much to Po’s surprise, the tavern broke out in laughter. He had meant back door from an ethical standpoint.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” shouted Vincenzo, throwing his arms in the air. “Barmaid, mind your place.”

The barmaid raised a hairy eyebrow to Vincenzo. “You sure have mined my place. You’d think my ass were made of truffles with all the burrowing you’ve done.”

And with that, a pigpen of laughter and snorts exploded through the tavern as crusts of bread and suds of ale and droplets of wine splattered and bounced all about Vincenzo. He had broken the tavern’s golden rule and he knew it: never, ever, should a whoremonger attempt to best his whore in public.

“Basta, basta,” said Vincenzo dropping his hands in defeat. “Can we just get on with it?” The tavern quieted.

“Thank you.” Vincenzo gestured to Po and took his seat.

Augusto Po looked around in disgust. “As I was saying,” he continued, his garments speckled with ale and wine, “the Greeks have done the world little favor, but at least they have sense to share our savior. But the Gypsy, the Moor, the money-lending Ebreo, what quality of theirs do we know? Do not be so foolish as to place an ounce of hope upon he who denies both Cristo and Pope. I tell you, long and hot shall be hell’s penance, to the Cristiano who turns our Eden into Venice. For be it a pound of flesh or ten percent, the Ebreo bleeds the Cristiano from money lent.”

“Ha,” laughed the Cheese Maker, undercutting Po’s grumble of support. The Cheese Maker was not an educated man, but he knew the difference between what smelt like cheese and what stunk like shit. “T’would be a pleasure for which I would thank,” he said in his full tenor voice as he rose to his feet, “to do my business in an Ebreo bank. For while I know not, it must be so, Po’s far cheaper than any Greek, Gypsy or Ebreo.”

It was not often that one got to witness a well-deserved humiliation of Augusto Po, and the tavern-goers took full advantage of the opportunity, rejoicing in a chorus of anonymous laughter. Augusto Po tilted his chin upward and feigned a smile, but it was obvious he did not take kindly to ribbing, which only sweetened the laughter, and he took his seat.

“You confuse the message with the messenger,” said Vincenzo in Po’s defense. “I take his words to heart.”

“Come now,” the Cheese Maker continued good-naturedly, “you make too much of this. We are country folk and have not the spleen to hate so many sight unseen. I would think in the name of commerce we’d all be supporters, yet you make sharing our market tantamount to sharing our daughters.”

Giuseppe’s ears perked up. Now, there’s an idea!

“Ay,” shouted out Mucca from the corner, unable to help herself, “you’d think Vincenzo’d be happy to sell such bruised and ugly fruit.”

The tavern crowd loosed a noise akin to that of a wrestler at the Easter Feast when he takes a low blow to the coglioni. Mucca was referring to Vincenzo’s pair of daughters, who, though approaching marrying age, by looks and demeanor would seem to have few prospects. It was exactly the kind of comment that made Mucca the only female to be tolerated at the tavern.

“By God!” Vincenzo said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “You flea-bitten harpy, have not you had enough of me today? You’d think a man need be married to a