Selvaggio and Amaria were married in Pavia in the church of Saint Peter of the Golden Sky. The gilded ceiling arched overhead and the priest’s solemn Latin rolled around the golden firmament and back to its children on earth. Never were two happier than those joined here, and the icon of Sant’Ambrogio witnessed the scene, and was glad.
Nonna sat at the front of the church, black lace on white hair. She leaned her forehead on her clasped hands as she prayed. She had known that Father Matteo would oblige with this ceremony, for he knew Amaria well as he had come to know Selvaggio. The priest had no hesitation to join two of the same name – Selvaggio was married under the name Sant’ Ambrogio too – for it was not the first time the priest had joined two of the Saint’s orphans. He knew the groom’s story and was comfortable that there could be no consanguinity in the case.
As the kind old man intoned the lesson that groom and bride had chosen for their own special reasons, Nonna found the words imbued with new meaning as she saw her two dear children lock eyes and clasp hands.
‘Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways. For you will eat the labour of your hands. You will be happy, and it will be well with you. Your wife will be as a fruitful vine, in the innermost parts of your house; your children like olive plants, around your table. Behold, thus is the man blessed who fears the Lord. May the Lord bless you out of Zion, and may you see the good of Jerusalem all the days of your life. May you see your children’s children. Peace be upon Israel.’
The words seemed to be written for them, and the family they had become, the family they might one day have. During the prayers Nonna shut her ears to the words and thanked God in her own way, sincerely and reverently. She had ever been devout, even through the dark days of Filippo’s death. But today Nonna had been moved to cut a measure in the square where Filippo had burned. For God had given her Amaria, and now Selvaggio, and their children would grow like olive plants around her table. Her heart was full.
The bride and groom looked as shining as the Saints that observed from the walls. Amaria was in the new green of spring leaves, her dark hair twisted with seed pearls that Nonna had prised from the mouths of their suppertime oysters. Amaria’s erstwhile friend, Silvana, stood by as a handmaid, with an expression as sour as the bride’s was joyful. Who would have thought that an orphan of the woods would have preceded her to the altar?
Selvaggio was in the dark red feast-day doublet of Filippo himself, and though it was a mite tight, no-one would notice, so handsome did he look with his beard trimmed and his hair slick. Yes, Amaria looked like the queen of May and Selvaggio was her king. Nothing, not the handfasting of the two with silver ribbons, nor the laying of hands on the Holy Book, nor even the Latin cadences of the lesson that the priest read regularly at marriage services, penetrated the groom’s memory; to prompt him, gently, that he had done all this before.