Nearby, the driver of a carriage, a sparrowy man with a tall hat, dropped his newspaper and was at Giorgio's side in an instant. "For one thousand lire I take you to the Vatican," he offered.
"One thousand lire!"
Suddenly the driver saw in the young boy a pilgrim come to the Holy City, a boy all alone with trouble. A strange resemblance to his own grandson made him say, "Jump up! You sit here beside me. We fly together." He waved Giorgio onto the high front seat, slapped the lines over the rump of a bony mare, cracked his whip, and the cart took off with Giorgio sitting alongside the grinning driver.
Up and down the streets of the great city the gaunt creature clattered at a lively pace. The time clock in her head told her it was almost time for the nosebag. The sooner she delivered her passenger, the sooner she could plunge her muzzle into a bagful of cut-up greens. Onlookers laughed and cheered them on as if they were in a race. Nearing St. Peter's Square, the driver tried to pull her down to a sedate walk, but she was no respecter of religion. And so, lathered and blowing, she swung at break-neck speed through the gates of the Holy City.
The wide piazza of St. Peter's with its obelisk and gushing fountains was alive with movement—nuns sailing in their starchy wimples, priests billowing in black robes, sailors and soldiers and pilgrims from everywhere clicking cameras, feeding the pigeons, gazing up at the great dome of the church.
The driver pulled up in front of the basilica. He shook hands with Giorgio as with an old friend. "Boy," he directed, "that way you go! No, not up the center to the church. To the right wing! Up the steps and through the bronze portal. To you I wish best luck; and now, arrivederci, my son."
Inside the grilled door two Swiss Guards, resplendent in striped livery, blocked Giorgio's entrance with their halberds.