The Scar by Marco Denevi

translated from the Italian by Susan Ashe

Towards the end of the fifteenth century, on the outskirts of Alba (when Alba was still independent and belonged neither to the Dukes of Milan nor to the Marquises of Monferrato), a twelve-year-old boy, then called Giambattista Crispi, saw a column of soldiers marching by under the command of a condottiere.

Hidden in the undergrowth, the boy gazed in admiration at the uniforms, the plumes, the banners, and the caparisoned horses. But what he admired most was the scar that the condottiere bore on his face. The scar was long and jagged, livid in colour, and it ran from his right eyelid down to the middle of his chin, crossing the plane of his cheek like a meandering river.

The condottiere rode along half drowsing, his face sunk in a grim scowl, musing. But his scar kept watch for him, spoke for him, made him vigilant and fearsome. The scar advanced along the road like a battle standard, stunning the afternoon like a blast of gunpowder, like a fanfare of trumpets. The scar passed by, and all the other faces seemed to pale, just as during an eclipse the light pales, until the procession disappeared in the mist and dust.

For a long time, Giambattista Crispi did not stir from his hiding place. He thought about the condottiere and his scar. A scar like that would ensure (or at least promise) impunity, fame, and the fear and respect of everyone. Giambattista was thin, weak, and cowardly. He believed that to flaunt a scar like the condottiere's would protect him better than a suit of armour, would clothe him from head to foot in the steel and leather of heroes. He believed that if he could sport an identical scar he would inspire in the louts who teased and bullied him the same surge of admiration that the condottiere had inspired in him.

The boy vanished from his home and from Alba for a length of time. On his return, a scar exactly like the condotierre's (but no one in the city knew this) disfigured his face, preceding and following him like a cry of horror. People looked at him and shrank back. Those who had bullied him hid themselves. Giambattista grew into a wild young man.

Thirty years later he had became known as Giambattista d'Alba, nicknamed the Invulnerable, and he was a condottiere of Pope Adrian VII, as previously he had been of Duke Sforza and before that of Pier Paolo Cruscalini, Prince of Volterra, and before that of the Mayor of Alba. Often when riding through cities and villages at the head of his mercenaries, the Invulnerable heard the fearful hush that fell on either side. Behind his back, pointing at him, the rabble whispered, 'That's Giambattista d'Alba, that's the Invulnerable.' His soldiers, proud of their captain, grinned boastfully.

With secret satisfaction, in secret agony, the Invulnerable told himself that all this was owing to his fierce scar, but if his fraud were discovered, a sinister fate, mockery, scorn, perhaps death at the hands of his own troops lay in store for him. Now and again he toyed with the temptation to glance from side to side to see whether among the rabble of onlookers or hidden behind a tree some puny boy was studying him. If so, he would have called him over and, out of earshot of everyone else, disclosed the truth about the scar, saying, 'Look, get yourself a scar tattooed like mine and you'll have nothing to worry about.'

But at once he repented and rode on without turning his head, because he could not disappoint the boy - if he really existed and was there watching him. For the boy, he must continue to be the same sombre, implacable figure - who did not allow himself even a sidelong glance - that the condottiere had been for him on the outskirts of Alba so long ago.

In 1527, the armies of Adrian VII and of the emperor met at Valdinero. The papal troops were commanded by the Invulnerable. They were superior to the emperor's in experience and in number. Yet they were defeated. What threw the Pope's troops into disarray, it was said, was the extraordinary behaviour of their captain, who, without offering the least resistance, let himself be slain by an obscure condottiere on the opposing side, an old man of over seventy.

Outraged, Adrian VII attributed the deed to witchcraft, in as much as the emperor's followers spat upon the coward's name, which, in view of the Invulnerable's past, seemed a boastful piece of insolence.

Perhaps we can guess at the truth. The condottiere and Giambattista Crispi met and stared at each other. Identical scars blazed on their faces. But the condottiere must have seen at once that both scars could not be genuine, that one must be a fake, a copy of the original. Or could it have been that the Invulnerable - realizing that his courage, like his scar, might fool everyone else but could not fool the condottiere - sensed the utter ignominy of their confrontation? So that, turning back once again into a weak, cowardly boy, he let himself be killed by the one man who could have killed him.