Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy

temperature inside the shelter.
    Damiano continued. “If you haven’t seen them by now, it means they either passed along the West Road unnoticed...”
    â€œWe’ve kept a sentry at the road,” interjected Belloc.
    â€œThat’s how I found you,” added Denezzi.
    â€œWorse and worse.” Damiano rubbed his face with palms hot from the flames. “Then Pardo’s men must have turned back and headed north, either by mistake or intent, and come upon the carriages of the women.”
    The shelter erupted in noise and movement. Half the men cursed, while the other half rose to their feet, knocking snow-damped wood into the fires.
    â€œImpossible,” roared Denezzi, then added in calmer tones, “When would they have passed the fork in the road?”
    â€œOn horseback? Two days, perhaps. I know they stopped at Sous Pont Saint Martin.”
    Cries, sobs, and gasps followed one another down the huddled line, as Damiano’s news was relayed.
    â€œGod... help us. They may have caught them,” whispered Belloc, and Denezzi stared dumbly into the fire. “Perhaps they will only take the money.”
    â€œWill they resist?”
    The blacksmith did not understand.
    â€œSignor Belloc, this very morning I buried those who dwelt at Sous Pont Saint Martin. A peasant threw a pitchfork at a soldier, you see...”
    Muscles tautened in the blacksmith’s massive jaws. “Jesu! Boy, do you come to kill our hope?”
    â€œI’ve come to help, if I can,” said Damiano.
    Denezzi stood, and all eyes looked to him. Damiano felt a hot pang of envy toward this man, whose strength and brute temper had won him more respect among his fellows than had Damiano’s selfless dedication. “We’ll have to take the chance he’s right I will lead a party of horsemen back to the North Road.
    â€œBut tomorrow. There’s little light left today.” He glanced down at Damiano. “For men’s eyes, anyway.
    â€œIn the meantime, if you want to help us, then find us food. Else we will have to draw lots to see whose horse is butchered.”
    Damiano glanced sharply at him. “What do you expect of me: loaves and fishes? I have a jug of tonic in my bag; it’s the reason I missed the evacuation, you know. I was minding the pot.”
    Despite the worry in his face, Belloc grinned. “Ah, yes, that pot.”
    â€œWhat did you expect to eat,” continued Damiano. “Coming out here with little more than the clothes on your backs.”
    Denezzi growled, throwing tinder into the flames. “We expected to go home!—when Pardo had passed through: perhaps a week’s time. And I expected the shepherds to drive the flocks home as soon as they heard of the advancing army.
    â€œBut they never showed, though I held up the march a day and a half to wait. Probably they are long since in Turin, and have sold the sheep as their own.”
    â€œGive them the benefit of the doubt,” grunted Belloc. “They may have been overrun, and all our mutton sitting in the bellies of the southerners.” Denezzi was not comforted.
    â€œYou gave the order to march?” mused Damiano, idly fingering the slack strings of his lute. “Yourself, not the mayor, or the council?”
    Denezzi gestured as though to brush away flies. “I’m on the city council. My opinions are heard. Besides, most of the councilmen are not of military age; the mayor himself went to Aosta with the women.”
    Damiano peered through the lacework of the ivory rose that ornamented the lute’s soundhole. Was there dampness within? “I have neither meat nor bread, Paolo. Nor can witchcraft create them. You’ll have to kill a horse, I’m afraid.”
    â€œThat will be a sore burden on some poor fellow,” replied Denezzi. “And unnecessary. I think you can help us, Damiano.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou can call us meat from out of