somehow the mind-twisting distillation of Fungi di Santo in the bottle of wine that Benito would now be drinking might not affect a mind so already twisted.

“Then get the boy off his wagon and upon his donkey,” shouted Vincenzo in what would prove to be his last moment of glory for the day, “and let us race!”

17 According to Etruscan tradition, the heart’s arm was the left arm and was considered the peaceful side of the body that evoked the heart’s energy, while the right arm was called the sword’s arm and was used for wielding weapons and tools. Throughout Italy it was considered unmanly for a boy to be left-handed, and children who showed such inclination had it quickly trained out of them.

In Which We Learn

the Unusual Manner in Which the

Battle of the Hours Crowns a champion

The crowd loosed another “Bravo!” as they pressed in and around Davido, undoing the ropes that bound his donkey to the wagon. Others took hold of Davido’s arms and legs, until he found himself hoisted from his wagon seat and set onto the bare back of his donkey, with the wine bottle still on his lap. From the corner of his eye Davido saw his grandfather’s bewildered expresson as he too was lifted from his wagon seat and set gently upon the ground. Then Davido felt his body react against a tug on the wine bottle and suddenly realized the excessive firmness of his clench. Embarrassed, he looked to the Good Padre, who smiled back at him. Davido loosed his grip and watched the enormous bottle pass through the crowd until it wound up in the hands of Nonno. It was heavy and he hoped Nonno would not drop it. Then Davido felt something cool and wet upon his skin—a sensation he thought for an instant to be the precursor of great pain, but quickly realized it to be the coolness and wetness of paint as the Roman numeral thirteen was painted onto the front and back of his tunic in bright red. No sooner had that sensation receded than Davido’s body again twanged with panic; he felt a loop of rope tighten around his right wrist. But the act was done without brutality and Davido’s sudden rush of anxiety receded as he looked up and saw that all the other racers had their right hands tied behind their backs in a similar fashion. Thank God, thought Davido with a clarity that startled him, I’m a lefty.

“Merda!” gasped Mari as she suddenly remembered her mother sitting there. Though it nearly killed Mari to give up such a fine vantage from which to watch the action, she knew it was too dangerous a spot for her mother. With her attention so fixated on the boy and her hands so busy filling wine goblets, the area around her wine barrel was now precariously overcrowded. One good jostle of the crowd and the half barrel upon which her mother sat would no doubt topple over. Quickly, Mari closed the spigot on the barrel and saddled up to her mother. “Maggio!” (short for formaggio), Mari shouted, purposefully catching the Cheese Maker’s attention.

“Oh, goodness!” said the Cheese Maker, bushy eyebrows vaulted with concern as he shuffled over to Mari and her mother. “Uno, due, tre,” he nodded to Mari as he took hold of the crippled woman’s right arm and together they helped lift her to her feet and usher her out of the crowd.

As always, there were a few benches set up on the roof of the bakery so the old and infirm could have a safe place from which to watch the action. It would take an able-bodied person hardly two minutes to make it there, which meant it took her mother, even with help, at least twice as long. Mio Dio! Mari felt a cleaver of guilt and desire split her in half. It was just too long to be away. “Please?” Mari looked desperately to the Cheese Maker and then gestured to the bakery’s roof. “I’ve got to get back to my wine barrel,” Mari lied. “If Giuseppe sees it unattended, I’ll be in an awful heap.”

“By all means, love,” answered the Cheese Maker, both sweetly and urgently. “Go, go! I’ll see to your mother.”

Now Davido heard the strum and beat of the minstrels’ lute and drum, and the crowd pushed in more forcefully. A man whom Davido might one day come to know as Signore Solo Coglione, the tavern keep, smiled at him