This is my blood right.
My grandfather will be teaching me my first lesson.
I have heard things about my Nonno. Things such as…what a skilled opponent he is. How strong he is. How fast. How smart.
I want to be all these things.
The room my father left me in to wait is dim. It is inside the old barn at one of Nonno’s many properties. A farmhouse on the outskirts of Orvieto. He has a much grander villa there, but he chose this as the place of my first lesson.
My father says it is because Nonno believes money and power do not make the man. Character is grown from the seed being planted in the soil. We must get our hands dirty and fight to put roots down. Blood, sweat, tears, all must be sacrificed for the fight. Then, as we continue to grow, one day we will bear the fruit of our ancestors—he says this fruit is olives from the ancient olive tree.
This fight makes us humble, but it also teaches us what it means to be a man in our family.
I have the second of the third on the list checked—sweat.
It is summertime, and the inside of the barn feels as if it’s swelling with heat. Cool sweat drips down my face, and I imagine it making salty tracks along my cheeks. I lift my hand and wipe my brow, so the salt does not keep burning my eyes.
The door opens and sun oozes along the floor as my grandfather steps through it. My grandfather is a tall man with wide shoulders. My father and uncles all resemble him. I am told I resemble him too.
I see it, especially in the eyes. We share the same color. Nonno calls them olive-color, but my cousin, Rocco, says they are mossy. Whatever that means.
Nonno carries two swords with him. One is longer than the other, but both are about the same width. The handles are the same as well. A cross with the side profile of a lion. The difference is in the color of the two lions’ eyes. The bigger sword has gems for Nonno’s birthday. The other one has mine.
He is wearing boots, and I watch and listen as the hay crushes beneath them as he makes his way toward me. I stand taller, lifting my chin, ready to greet him respectfully.
“Nazzareno.” His voice is deep and rough.
“Nonno, sì.”
He touches my head, like padre at church does in benediction. He speaks to me in Italian. It is all he mostly speaks. “Tell me, grandson, are you ready for your lesson today.”
“Sì!”
“Ah.” He grins, patting my head. “Very good.”
He hands me the smaller sword, and I did not expect it to be so heavy. It weighs me down for a second before I adjust to its weight. I lift it up and turn it in the light. A spark of silver hits me in the eyes and I blink, running my hand along the blade.
I suck in a breath when it cuts me, blood welling up instantly, staining the blade. It burns like hot fire, especially when the salt from my skin gets into it. I look up at my grandfather, worried I did something wrong. He did not tell me to touch it.
He grabs my hand, lifting it up to the light. The blood runs down my arm, dripping onto the hay. He says something about a stitch or two, but then puts my hand close to my face.
“Allow this blood to dry on your blade in honor of what it has taught you—a lesson you will never forget, ah? Will you touch it again in the same careless manner, Nazzareno?”
“Nonno, no.”
He nods. “The words of a smart man who has learned his lesson. Smart men will avoid getting cut twice by the same blade, unless it involves a woman. If it involves a woman, rarely are men smart anyway.” He drops my hand and chucks my chin. “I will also be teaching you a lesson you will never forget today. How to handle this sword.”
He walks around me, eyeing me with focus.
“If I handed this weapon to you and did not give you instructions on how to use it, how would you hold it?”
Careful not to touch the blade again, I position my hands where they feel most comfortable. Lifting the weight, I swing it out. It comes down with a clank on the ground that almost sends me over.
Nonno stares at me for a moment before he nods. “We have work to do, but first, I am going to tell you what my father told me, his father told him, and so on. I also told my sons. Your father will reiterate these wise words of our ancestors to you as well. Do not forget them, Nazzareno.” He takes my bloody hand and presses it against my chest.
It stings, but I do not dare to move or make a sound. I allow the beat of my heart to speak to the cut and stop the bleeding.
“This is an age-old tradition our family decided to keep. It rarely lives in these times, but in us, it will live here.” He presses my hand against my chest more forcefully. “While boys are out using toys and acting like boys, we are men. We challenge other men who question our honor, who challenge our beliefs and disrespect our women. Who try to steal their hearts away from ours. This sword in your hands, and knowing how to use it, separates the men from the boys. You will no longer be a man with only a handsome face and riches, but a man with substance. A sword takes not only discipline, but skill. It makes us strong of mind, of heart, of body. In our family, it is a means to work out our issues like men.” He taps my temple.
