Assisi
25 March, 1230

                                  SIMONE DELLA ROCCA PAIDA scanned the alley where the friars would emerge. Come on; come to me now, you verminous church mice. Let’s be done with this sorry business. The knight straightened in his saddle and loosened his sword in its scabbard. His tongue had gone dry as wool.

The crowd made him edgy. All morning spectators had streamed into the piazza, ignoring the ankle deep muck and the hint of another downpour to come. The chief administrator of the city, Mayor Giancarlo, had declared a holiday and no mere spring shower, nor even the barrier erected overnight, could spoil their festive mood. Giancarlo’s civil guards had dragged timbers and marble blocks from the new basilica’s half completed upper church to create a low wall across the square. Now, the guards shunted the townspeople behind it like fish into a holding pond, where they squirmed and wriggled for a prime view. The din increased with the congestion. Those who strained to hear the chanting of the friars above the noise wasted their effort. They could only fix their eyes in the same direction as Simone.

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