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ladies? Were our songs too loud for you, our dances too sensual, our jokes too coarse? If so, I. apologize, Your Majesty. And, from the depths of my contrition, I implore you to consider our humble and inconvenient position.
    “It will require at least five days for us to gather together our equipment. And it was my dearest hope—surely this cannot disturb your pious and holy churchmen—that you Would allow us to perform for several weeks in the towns and cities of your glorious land, so that we might gain a few extra pennies to help defray the costs of our journey.”
    After five minutes of this disgusting display, even Flaminio realized that the king wasn’t listening. The Captain turned his back on the throne, and walked towards the door. His eyes were downcast. As he passed the stage, he couldn’t look at us. I cleared my throat and spat, right in his path. But an ocean of my spit couldn’t have conveyed half the contempt on Francesco Andreini’s face.
    Needless to say, the journey home made the trip out seem sweeter than crossing the Jordan. No one smiled, no one laughed, no one even talked except Vittoria, who harangued the Captain mercilessly. During the day, Flaminio stared straight ahead; as soon as we reached the inns, he rushed off to bed. The Captain still rode in front, but Andreini had moved to the very back; riding between them, the rest of us almost choked on the thickness in the air.
    Poor crazy Flaminio! Even I almost pitied him. “He’s finished now,” I thought. “His job is free for the asking. These actors would follow Peter the Hermit, if he came along preaching another crusade.”
    But late one night, at an inn just south of Turin, something happened which made me suspect that the old lunatic still had a few clever tricks up his sleeve.
    It was after a dinner of foul, greasy broth. We were all grumpy, waiting to digest that slop so we could go to bed. That evening, for the first time since Blois, Flaminio didn’t go straight to sleep. Instead, he walked over to the fireplace, then wheeled around to face us.
    “My dearest Glorious Ones,” he began. “It is my proposal that we return to Venice. And there, amid the comforts of that lovely city, we shall decide the future of our troupe. But, before that, I would like to give one last performance, tomorrow morning, at a spot not far from here.”
    “Why, Captain?” shouted Vittoria. “So you can kiss the ass of one last nobleman?”
    The Captain threw her an accusing look. “There will be no noblemen in the audience,” he replied. “I would like us to perform before a crowd of poor, deprived innocents, at the local convent orphanage.”
    It took me two seconds to figure out what that filthy blasphemer had in mind. “Flaminio!” I cried. “You’re like an open casket. We can see inside you, straight to all the rot and putrefaction in your soul. I understand your plan perfectly. You’ll do anything to revenge yourself on the church. You’ll corrupt babies, molest little children, scandalize a convent full of blameless nuns. That’s your idea, isn’t it—to pay back those pious friars, to make yourself our hero, our avenger, the upholder of our honor?”
    “Not at all,” he replied. “I have no more interest in being your hero, or even your leader. The only thing which concerns me now is the prospect of making my peace with God. I have suddenly come to understand why He has cursed me so cruelly, why my luck has grown so bad. For, if each of my sins were a single grain of sand, the Sahara would seem like a narrow shoal compared to the vast desert which would separate me from the Blessed Lord.
    “And now, I am hoping that this small act of piety, this pitiful performance in the name of charity, will persuade Him to turn His face towards me across the burning wasteland.”
    “Don’t flatter yourself, Captain,” muttered Vittoria. “Only in your wildest dreams have you sinned so often.”
    Ah, Vittoria. At moments like that, I