No one inquires about his health or his general state of mind. People think giants are stupid, but we're smart enough to know that people don't give a damn about us."

"You got that right," Oliver said. "What about the back rub?"

"Okay," the giant said. "But do I gotta take off my shirt?"

"Not if you don't want to."

The giant lay down on the long slab of rock that he used for a bed. During the day, he made it up into a couch with boulders that resembled pillows.

Oliver pushed up the giant's shirt. He began to pound and knead the giant's back, gently at first, but then with more force as the giant complained he couldn't feel a thing. Oliver pounded and slapped and hammered, all the time trying to get a look at the ticket attached with a bronze staple to the left shoulder of the shirt.

At last he was able to make out what was written on the ticket: "This giant is vulnerable only under the left armpit, which is unarmored due to the need for ventilation. The giant should be careful not to let anything near this area." There was a manufacturer's mark under the writing, but it was blurred.

So that was something, but not really enough, because Oliver had no idea how he was going to get at the giant's left armpit. Even the right one was inaccessible.

A shadow crossed the cave door, and Oliver looked up. Standing there was a tall, well-dressed Italian-looking fellow.

"Hi, there, I'm Aretino," the man said. "Azzie sent me. If you're quite finished with your massage, do you think we could get back to work?"

"Who's that?" the giant asked sleepily.

"Don't be alarmed," Oliver said. "It's someone for me."

"Tell him to go away. After the massage I'm supposed to eat you."

Oliver rolled his eyes and took his hand from the giant's back long enough to make an imploring gesture.

Aretino now became aware of the giant. He walked slowly into the cave, keeping alert in case there were any more giants around. He whispered to Oliver, "Is he armored?"

"Yes," said Oliver. "Everywhere but his left armpit."

"You're going to have to catch him stretching."

"Sure. But how?"

Aretino whispered, "Are there any grapes around?"

"I'll ask," Oliver said, catching on at once.

"Grapes? What do you want with grapes?"

"Last meal before I die. It's the custom."

"I never heard of it. But I guess we could find you some grapes. That was a pretty good massage."

The giant heaved himself to his feet. "Come with me." He led Oliver outside. Quite near the cave was a very tall grape arbor.

"I can't reach them," said Oliver.

"Here, let me hand you down some." The giant stretched out his arm, in a movement that exposed his armpit. Aretino threw Oliver his sword; Oliver caught it. The giant's arm was still up there. But it was the right arm. Oliver hesitated.

"Go for it anyway!" Aretino called out.

Oliver gritted his teeth and plunged the sword into the giant's armpit. It was armored, just as he'd feared, but not very well armored. Aretino's sword passed into it.

"Ouch! What did you do that for?"

"I had to. You were going to kill me."

"I would have changed my mind."

"But how was I to know that?"

The giant fell to the ground. He gnashed his teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Whoever heard of giants winning? By the way, that candlestick you've been looking for. I've got it in the back of the cave." He gave a convulsive heave and was dead.

"Quick!" Aretino said. "Get the candlestick!"

Oliver ran back into the cave and found the candlestick behind a boulder. Now he had the ring, the key, and the candlestick. He took two steps forward and recoiled.

Aretino was gone. An entirely different man was standing in front of him.

Chapter 4

Who are you?" Oliver asked. "Your second-in-command, sir," the man said. "Globus is the name.

Serving greatness is the game."

Oliver's peripheral vision kicked in, and he realized he was in a different place. Picking up the candlestick seemed to have done the trick. The beach was gone. He was standing in a large meadow outside a village with mountains to one side and a wide plain to the other. A river sparkled in the middle of the plain; near the edge of the river was an encampment full of men and tents.

"The White Company," Globus told him.

The White Company was famous. Its original commander, Sir John Hawkwood, had led this group to many notable victories all over Italy. There were about ten thousand of them, fighting men from every corner of Europe — swarthy Letts, pixie-haired Poles, mustached Germans, Italians with rings in their ears, Frenchmen with marcelled hair, Scotsmen with tufted eyebrows. These troops were the finest, the merriest, the bloodthirstiest, yet also the most obedient to orders, of all the troops in the civilized—even in the uncivilized—world.

"Where is Hawkwood?" Oliver asked, inquiring after the company's famous commander.

"Sir John is taking a paid leave in England," Globus told him. "He didn't want to go, but my master paid him a price he couldn't refuse."

"Who is your master?"

"I'll not name him directly," Globus said, "except to say that he's a Hell of a good fellow. He bade me give you this."

From his haversack Globus took a long slim instrument and handed it to Oliver. Oliver recognized it at once as a baton of command, such as a field marshal might carry.

"This is your insignia of command," Globus said. "You will show this to the men and they will follow you anywhere."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"We are situated just now on the south side of the Alps." Globus pointed in a southerly direction. "It's a straight march down that way and along the river to Venice."

"All I have to do is lead the men there?" Oliver asked.

"That's it."

"Then let us go join the men!" Oliver cried exultantly.

Chapter 5

Oliver reached the purple tent that had been reserved for him. Inside, sitting on a campstool and filing his nails with a little silver file, was none other than Azzie.

"Hi, Chief!" Oliver cried.

"Welcome to your command, Field-Marshal," Azzie said. "Is everything to your liking?"

"It's wonderful," Oliver said. "You've gotten me a wonderful bunch of soldiers. I had a look at some of them as I came up here. Real toughs, aren't they? Anybody trying to stand against me is going to be very sorry. Is there anyone I have to fight, by the way?"

"Of course. On your march south, which I expect you to begin immediately after we finish this briefing, you will encounter the Berserkers of the Death's Head Brigade."

"They're not tough at all. I gave them that name because it sounds good to the press. Actually they're a bunch of disenfranchised local peasants, farmers from the district who have been put off their land for nonpayment of the exorbitant taxes. They are armed only with axes and scythes, have no armor, no bows and arrows, not even proper lances. Also there are only a couple of hundred of them against your ten thousand. Not only are these men poorly prepared, they are also guaranteed to betray their comrades and flee at the first clash of arms."

"That sounds okay," Oliver said. "And then what?"

"Then you'll march into Venice. We'll have the press prepared."

"The press? Surely I haven't done anything to warrant torture!"

"You don't understand," Azzie said. " 'Press' is our name for the various persons who make things known to other people: painters, poets, scriveners, that sort of thing."

"I don't know anything about that," Oliver said.

"You'd better learn if you expect to become famous for your victories. How will you become legendary unless the writers write about you?"