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a nearby well, and then returned to sleep. Frieda had kept a faithful vigil, changing the lad’s poultices regularly and washing his wounds in salt water. Pieter had instructed her to let the sun shine on the wounds for short spells, and so she obeyed. The young woman had been softened by many sorrows and now served others gladly.
    Wil had endured so very much as well, and he had endured it in a matter befitting one saved through blood and water, being healed by salt and light. The ghosts of past shame and failure were fast fading into his fever’s dreams, rendered weak by others’ love and soon to drift to the margins of his memory. But sadly, some old hurts had not yet been healed, and the lad was not able to turn a kindly eye toward his contrite father.
    Heinrich stood and sighed. His failings had made him a wiser, though sadder, man. His heart, exposed through time to the frailty of others and of himself, was often heavy with the felt knowledge of a world gone mad. Such sadness, Brother Lukas had once told him, was the cost of wisdom.
    “He’s doing some better, Herr Heinrich,” said Frieda softly.
    The man nodded. “You are his angel of mercy, m’dear. Thank you for your good care of him.” He turned and walked toward the comforting sounds of the surf. He looked thoughtfully across the deep blue and drew a long breath through his nose. The sun felt warm, the air delightful. Finally, the weary baker looked up and stared at the puffed white clouds hovering high above. His eye moved from one to another, tracing their shapes. At last he smiled. A plump one near the horizon had made him remember someone very dear.

     
    Pieter and his company followed the harbor road as it arced its way along the water’s edge. Back toward the city they marched, past the jetty of death and deliverance, past the brawling tavern, the sailmaker’s shop, along the wharves and the wall until they stood staring hopefully at the twin, cylindrical stone towers of the eastern gate, the Porta Soprana. Pieter winked at his companions and joined a throng of well-dressed merchantmen, coarse teamsters and their wagons, and a colorful procession of nobles, men-at-arms, and seamen funneling through the sixty-year-old portal. As they passed by, Pieter’s eyes fell upon an inscription: “If you come peacefully, you may touch these gates; if you come in war, you will leave defeated.” The old man grinned and dragged his hands along the rough stone. “I’m not sure yet!” he mused.
    Inside the city’s four hundred-year-old walls the group paused to stare. Otto called from the rear of the group, “It stinks like Basel!”
    “Aye! What city doesn’t?” answered Pieter with a laugh. The ancient city reeked of human waste and manure, of urine and garbage. But despite its terrible odor, wealth had begun to reshape the bawdy port. Competing with Venice and with Pisa, the Genoese had pilfered the Christian East as well as the coffers of Islam during various crusades. Their first patron saint, St. George, had been joined by St. John the Baptist, St. Lawrence, and the Virgin Mary in the city’s protection, and these new saintly alliances seemed to have provided every advantage to its residents. The old city of fieldstone and timber had fast given way to marble from Carrara and Promontorio. Master masons from Milan, sculptors, painters, and architects from Byzantium had joined with the finest Genoese craftsmen to form powerful guilds that had reborn the city as a vital, artistic jewel of the Christian Mediterranean.
    Pieter and his companions wasted no time in searching for city officials. The priest hoped to have an audience with the governor—the podesta. What he could not have known was that the Brescian-born governor, Manegoldo of Tettoccio, was unpopular enough already and had no tolerance for the stray waifs annoying his city.
    “Children, get in good order!” snapped Pieter. With his threadbare crusaders in queue and Solomon trotting at his