The Damiano Series by R. A. MacAvoy Read Free Book Online Page B

deserved another.
    â€œEh? Thank you, Macchiata, but it is nothing special.
    â€œSay, you know what I think I’ll do?—after finding Carla, of course. If the soldiers have robbed her, I’ll give her my money, and for those who catch the flux…
    â€œAnyway, I think I’ll cross over the Rhone to France, and maybe after that to Germany, for there is the heart and soul of alchemy, you know. Why not? I am young and strong.”
    And he did feel strong—strong enough to bend down a young bull by the horns, as the burly peasants did to show off during the harvest fair.
    â€œI have an intellect, too, and have studied hard.” Suddenly Damiano remembered that Carla Denezzi would not be in Germany but at home in Partestrada. “And then,” he concluded more soberly, “when I have a name and my words mean something to men of birth and education, I will use my power for Partestrada. I will return.”
    Macchiata had been listening with some concern. “What about me, Master?” she whimpered.
    Damiano glanced down in surprise. “Why you will be beside me, little dear. While we both live on this earth, we will not be parted!”
    After this promise they walked some while in silence. Macchiata’s robust little heart was filled with happiness and touched by the importance of her commitment to Damiano. He, at the same time, was busy with thoughts and plans. He would lead the people of Partestrada into the Valle d’Aosta, for Aosta was many times larger than Partestrada and also much closer to Chambéry and so to the Green Count of Savoy. There Pardo would not dare follow.
    Then Damiano would go on to France, where he would write a poem about the Piedmont and Partestrada. It would be called “The Sorrows of Exile,” and it would burn men’s souls. He could feel it within him now, stirring like a chick in the egg. It shouldn’t be a poem only, but a work of music, like the ballades sung by the old trouvères, and Damiano would play his lute as Raphael had taught him—France was far more musically liberal than Italy—till hearts bled for Partestrada as Dante had made them do for Florence, with its confusing lot of Guelphs and Ghibellines. Was not art, after all, the greatest weapon of man?
    Damiano considered, as his boot soles crunched down on snow. It was great, yes, but tardy, and Dante had never returned to Florence. Damiano sighed and shook his head, for the first energy of the morning was gone and so was the warmth of the wine. The snow was deepening as the road climbed; Macchiata cut into it with her breastbone as she trotted beside him, holding her head up like a nervous horse. The risen sun glinted in the corner of Damiano’s right eye.
    Perhaps Germany was a better goal. In Germany there was at least one emperor, and emperors can afford to be generous. But Damiano was not a fool; he knew what it meant to allow the ass’s nose within the tent or to ask help of a foreigner in settling a local grievance. It would be no great sort of fame to be known as the man who invited the northern wolf over the Alps.
    In Nuremberg there were said to be many scrolls written by Mary the Jewess, and students of the great Hermes Trismegistus himself, and in Nuremberg now dwelt the sage Nicolas, who was called the prophet. Though Damiano did not know what help the art of alchemy had to offer defeated Partestrada, he would like very much to visit Nuremberg.
    â€œMaster,” began Macchiata, as she leaned her shoulder against his calf.
    â€œUh. What? Macchiata, little dear, am I going too fast for you?”
    â€œNo,” she replied, with a dog’s inability to recognize weariness until it has throttled her. “But I was thinking… If I am your little dear, and we’ll never be parted until somebody dies, then why do you send me away all the time?”
    â€œI don’t!” cried Damiano, stung.
    â€œYes you do. Every spring