A cold fog blew into Milan, one so thick it clogged Carlo’s throat and kept visibility to no more than an arm’s length. The superstitious believed such a gloomy sign to be a portent of bad tidings, which would surely befall Milan for the act of wickedness that had occurred the previous night. From those gathered in the tavern the rumour quickly spread that ‘Jesus of Milan’ had met an unfortunate end, murdered by bravados. Carlo felt pangs of guilt, and when questioned on this by the woman he called his wife, he pleaded ignorance. When she pressed him further, he lost his temper.
‘Jupiter’s c**k woman! Just because I once shared a drink with the man doesn’t mean I wipe his arse and know whether he lives or dies.’
Mopping the sweat from Alessandro’s brow, Sister Anna, a young nun with full
