Pieter and his companions wasted no time in searching for city officials. The priest hoped to have an audience with the governor—the podesta. What he could not have known was that the Brescian-born governor, Manegoldo of Tettoccio, was unpopular enough already and had no tolerance for the stray waifs annoying his city.
“Children, get in good order!” snapped Pieter. With his threadbare crusaders in queue and Solomon trotting at his side, he began approaching numbers of guards, strolling men-at-arms, and other minor officials. “Si, si, I understand,” pleaded the old man, “but we must be taken to the podesta or a magistrate … perhaps the captain of the city guard?”
Again and again his pleas were met with scoffs and threats and even one awful wad of spittle in the face. Discouraged, Pieter climbed the hills of the city until he finally led his trudging company to the gates of the governor’s palace. He had barely opened his mouth before lowered lances chased him away. Returned to the streets, Pieter pointed to a wall. “See, there? A fresco of incredible value! Yet they will not spare a pittance in charity.”
“Should we forgive them, Father?” cried a voice.
The old man spat. Reproved by a child! he said to himself. He leaned on his staff and faced his column. “What say you?”
The children shrugged, most wrinkling their noses.
“Our Lord said, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’ Think about that in this place.” He turned and whispered to Solomon, “And if they can forgive the devils, I hope they teach me how!”
Thoroughly discouraged, Pieter led his weary children on a wandering trail through the alleys and byways of Genoa. Eventually the frustrated crusaders became utterly lost among the arcades and markets, the courtyards and gardens of the city. They tramped through the neighborhoods of the nobles, past marble portals, lovely colonnades, and arched windows of colored glass. They trudged by fountains and into a spectacular piazza where Pieter finally paused to preach.
A growing group of curious onlookers listened to the old man crow in his poor Italian, pleading with them to offer one last gesture of Christian virtue for the welfare of the little ones. He preached of the compassion of Jesus, the love of Mary, the faithfulness of the saints, and the hope of the angels. He promised them that he would lead his broken lambs far away, that the foreign children would “no longer stain the beauty of fair Genoa with their wretched presence”—if only some could fill their baskets and their opened palms with pennies or scraps of food or even rags for their bleeding feet.
With arms spread wide and his face tilted toward heaven, the old man begged the gathered citizens on behalf of his starving waifs. He entreated, he implored, he beseeched, coaxed, petitioned, and finally fell to his knees weeping in a final, desperate supplication.
He then fell silent, exhausted and without words.
The audience murmured, then tittered, and then returned to the tables of wine, cheese, and fruits scattered about the piazza, a few tossing pennies for the pleasure of seeing the desperate children scramble for them. Pieter stood quietly and finally gathered his little ones. “Come, my lambs, follow me.” The old priest smiled at his flock and took his position at the fore of their column. With a firm grip on his staff, he lifted his head proudly and led his young crusaders through the square, elbowing his way past ample women adorned in all their finery, past protesting gentlemen in velvet doublets, and past gaping churchmen boasting fine vestments.
With little more than a shilling for their troubles, the company stumbled upon a kindly cluster of nuns who pointed them to the monastery of St. Andrea, where they fared a little better, leaving with baskets now half-filled with bread and some cheese.
Croaking like a veteran beggar, Pieter strained through the narrow streets of the city, passing by countless ruins of imperial Rome, along the crowded edges of piazzas and under the watch of the city’s many towers. He scolded one of his young boys for pilfering a blind man’s basket but ignored the quick hands of a little girl who plucked a lemon from a passing cart.
Pieter’s crusaders passed the palaces of noble families with names such as Alessi, del Popolo, Sale, and De Martini. Begging as they went, they marched through the rutted streets along the ancient wall until they arrived at the city’s cathedral—the Cattedrale di S. Lorenzo—where they paused to gawk. “Inside, children, are the wonders of conquest. I am told it is filled with gold and silver chalices, jewel-studded crosses, the finest vestments, and breathtaking reliefs. Crusaders have filled its reliquaries with miracle-working icons, including the ashes of St. John the Baptist. Humph, pity to have all that yet no food for the poor.”