And then, I
suddenly realized why his face was familiar to me. This was the man who in
a monkish robe had stared so insistently at me that day at Mondolfo five
years ago.
He was a sort of outlaw, a remnant of the days of chivalry and free-lances,
whose sword was at the disposal of any purchaser. He rode at the head of a
last fragment of the famous company that Giovanni de' Medici had raised and
captained until his death. The sable band which they adopted in mourning
for that warrior, earned for their founder the posthumous title of Giovanni
delle Bande Nere.
He was called Il Gran Galeotto (as another was called Il Gran Diavolo) in
play upon the name he bore and the life he followed. He had been in bad
odour with the Pope for his sometime association with my father, and he was
not well-viewed in the Pontifical domains until, as I was soon to learn, he
had patched up a sort of peace with Pier Luigi Farnese, who thought that
the day might come when he should need the support of Galeotto's free-
lances.
"I was," he said, "your father's closest friend. I took this at Perugia,
where he fell," he added, and pointed to his terrific scar. Then he
laughed. "I wear it gladly in memory of him."
He turned to Gervasio, smiling. "I hope that Giovanni d'Anguissola's son
will hold me in some affection for his father's sake, when he shall come to
know me better.
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