Adam smiled. He hadn't thought of it in those terms before.
"In twelve sixty," said Fausto, "Florence and Siena went to war. September third. It was a Saturday."
Adam's Italian wasn't up to catching all of the details, but as he understood it, this was how things unfolded. Siena was already a divided city, and the Florentines weren't fools. They waited till the different factions were at each others' throats before sending in their messengers, two horsemen carrying with them a simple yet stark ultimatum: If the Republic of Siena didn't surrender at once to Florence, then the city would be razed to the ground. It wasn't an idle threat. The Florentine army massing to the east was more than capable of following it through.
The one thing the Florentines hadn't banked on was the Sienese burying their differences overnight. Sworn enemies gathered before the cathedral that same evening and greeted each other like brothers. Then they called on the Virgin Mary to help them in the forthcoming battle.
The two armies clashed the following day at Montaperti. According to eyewitness accounts, there was enough blood flowing at one point to drive four watermills. By far the greater part of it was Florentine blood. That field near Montaperti was home to a massacre, and it was years before any animals ever ventured near it.
"Imagine it," said Fausto. "The next day was a Sunday. That's when the Sienese army returned. They dragged the Florentine banner through the streets behind an ass. You think those bastard Sienese have forgotten that day? Of course they haven't. It's what they teach their children in school. It's in their eyes every time we play them at football."
Fausto paused to light a cigarette.
"People think of Italy as an old country. It isn't. We're young, younger than the United States. We only united in 1870, not even a hundred years ago. We're not a country yet, and we won't be for a while. These things take a long time. No, those bastard Sienese haven't forgotten Montaperti. It's part of who they are. In the same way Hastings is part of who you English are. That's one of the great battles. You know why? Because a bunch of men fighting in that one field changed the whole course of your country's history."
Fausto took a slug of beer.
"But you didn't come here to talk about this stuff. Am I wrong?"
"No."
"So tell me."
"I have a question. It's about Gaetano."
"Gaetano?"
"The gardener who left last year."
"I know who Gaetano is."
"Where is he now?"
"Viareggio. By the sea. He owns a bar there, a fancy place—La Capannina."
"You've been there?"
Fausto spread his arms to indicate his disheveled appearance. "What do you think?"
"How much does a fancy bar in Viareggio cost?"
"Apparently he inherited some money from his family down south." There was a note of skepticism in his voice.
"You don't believe it?"
"How do I know? More to the point, what do you care?"
Adam gathered himself, then took the plunge. "The last time I saw you, you said Gaetano changed his story about what happened the night Emilio died."
"Was I drunk?"
"You lied?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just tell me what you meant."
Fausto sighed. "Look, it was something Gaetano's uncle told my father the next day."
"What?"
"He said he was almost run down by the Germans when they were leaving."
"Gaetano said that?"
"To his uncle."
Adam digested this news. "He turned up later. He wasn't there when it happened."
"It was a long time ago. Who knows what really happened? Who cares?"
"I do."
Fausto leaned forward in his chair. "Listen to me. The Doccis' business is their own. Who are you? You've been here—what—a week? You didn't know them before and you'll probably never see them again. Just leave it alone."
"How do you know I didn't know them before?" "What?"
"How do you know I didn't know the Doccis before?"
"You said."
"No I didn't."
"Yes you did."
"No."
"Porca l'oca! Look at you. Look at you! I'd chuck a bucket of water over you if the well wasn't dry. I warned you about that place. Didn't I warn you? Pull yourself together, this isn't normal behavior, you're acting like a crazy man. Just leave it alone."
Adam wanted to tell him that he'd tried to leave it alone—more than once—but he couldn't. He no longer had any choice in the matter.
"Did Maurizio kill Emilio?" he asked bluntly.
"I'm not going to answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because how the hell should I know?"
"But you think it's possible . . ."
"Anything's possible."
"Well, I think he did it."
"What if he did?"
"I think I can prove it."
"What if you can?"
"You don't believe in justice?"
Fausto gave a short, despairing laugh. "This is madness. You should go now. I'm serious. Go. Leave."
Fausto got to his feet to press home his point. He made no move to shake Adam's hand, so Adam turned and left.
Signora, are you awake?
Yes.
Shall I open the shutters?
Thank you, Maria.
Did you manage to sleep?
Not much.
Antonella called. She has bought fish for dinner this evening.
What kind of fish?
Does it matter? She knows I don't like cooking fish.
I'm sure she didn't do it to annoy you.
I'll mess it up. I always mess it up.
Maria, I've never known you to mess anything up.
Except the wild boar in chocolate sauce.
Yes, that was truly terrible. It was also twenty years ago.
Twenty-three.
It's good to see you've put it behind you.
Maurizio and Chiara have arrived.
Did they come by the villa?
No, I saw their car over at the farm.
We should invite them to dinner.
Antonella already has.
Oh, has she?
I like Chiara.
So do I, Maria. Where's Adam?
He went for a bike ride.
In this heat?
I was wrong about him.
Don't go soft on me now.
Signora?
In all the years we've known each other, I've never once heard you admit to being wrong about anything.
He's no fool.
No. But he's young, and therefore naive.
He's twenty-two next month.
He told you?
I saw his passport.
I'm not sure it's acceptable to go rifling through the guests' belongings.
I was cleaning his room. It was on the sideboard.