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blood-spattered Paolo, who still lay on the ground, moaning. “Come on!” I challenged, gesturing with the sharp point of the blade. “Who wants to feel my broken stick now? Wary and suddenly unsure, the boys stood frozen and mute. None of them wanted to feel the dagger’s prick. It was a standoff.
    “Come, boys, you’ve had enough fun; your master will want to school you,” the old man called dryly, allowing the boys to stand down with dignity. They muttered sullenly but dropped their swords and knelt to help their comrades. The sword master, a big, bearded man with hulking arms and thighs, walked by and thumped my chest so hard that I rocked back on my feet.
    “Clever.” He smiled. “You can come watch whenever I’m training these dunderheads. From a distance, though.” He bowed his head to the old man and murmured, “Master.” The old man inclined his head, and then turned to me.
    “What’s inside you is the gate to everything.” The old man smiled. “Remember that.”
    “Maybe God won’t laugh at me so much if I use my ingegno,” I said shyly, awed at the attention from this stranger who commanded even a famous sword master’s respect.
    “God just laughs, boy, it’s not about you. It has something to do with how life is a divine comedy.” He stroked his beard. “Now give the dagger back to the soldier, or your ingegno will win you some fine blows to the head.” I laughed and ran over to the hapless condottiere, who hadn’t even felt me lift his dagger. I offered it to him hilt first, and he took it with an elaborate bow to me, hand over his heart and head swept low. I bowed back, copying him, and the condottieri laughed again, this time with approval. Almost dizzy with pride, I ran back to help Paolo, who was struggling to sit up. I gave him my hand and he rose to his feet grinning.
    “Bastard sword, that’s funny,” he said, having only just understood the joke. I exchanged a glance with Massimo, who, until now, had been standing off to the side, well out of the fray.
    “Let’s go by the river and play at dice,” Massimo said. “I lifted some off one of the condottieri while they were watching you. He won’t miss them for a long time!”
    “Oh no.” Paolo groaned. “I hate playing against you, Massimo, I never win!” His lower lip pushed out in a pout and his dark brow furrowed.
    “Yes, but you always win at wrestling.” Massimo smirked. It was true, and I thought that Paolo’s victories would be harder won now that I had in my thoughts the old man’s advice about ingegno. Then I realized I could use the old man’s advice against Massimo, too; ingegno was a tool fit for many occasions. I looked around to thank the man, but he was distant, having passed along the beautiful green-and-white marquetry arches of the unfinished Santa Maria Novella. He must have felt my gaze, because he twisted around and raised a hand in farewell. I waved back, and he disappeared into the church.
    Massimo leaned forward, his ears waggling. “I also lifted a few soldi, so we can buy food to eat while we play!”
    “Sure, since you’re buying,” I said slyly, and Paolo laughed again.
    “Sure, today I’ll buy!” Massimo agreed. He was generous when the mood struck him, though he would hoard his take when it didn’t. Today he would share, as long as we were playing one of the board games he loved. He had rummaged his chess board and various pieces of Alquerque and chess from the garbage piles behind
palazzi,
and he had taught us to play, though Paolo didn’t have the wit for them and I preferred to work to earn money for food. Massimo himself had learned the games from gypsies, who were amused by the combination of his contorted physiognomy and his clever mind. They took him up as an object of fascination one season, and then they moved on, as gypsies do, leaving him behind. Massimo liked to tell stories about his time with them, and he persisted in their habits. He and I would squat down