And then, bang in the center of the campo, showstopper number three: the most superb equestrian statue ever wrought, Verrocchio's sculpture of the condottiere (mercenary general) Bartolomeo Colleoni, who claimed to possess three of what normal gentlemen have only two of. Colleoni left a vast bequest to Venice on condition that the republic erect a statue of him in the Piazza San Marco. This put the Venetians in a quandary. They shuddered at the thought of any individual being so commemorated—and Colleoni was not even a Venetian. On the other hand, they couldn't bring themselves to refuse the money. Then someone had a brilliant idea. "No, no," they said, "he didn't mean the Piazza San Marco, he meant the School of San Marco." Though palpably untrue, the statement was accepted without demur—and up went the statue. It was a monstrous piece of casuistry, but I think Colleoni might have found it in his heart to forgive. He is superbly placed, and for sheer, shameless swagger the statue is in a class by itself.

On now to the little jewel that is the Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. Once again, the polychrome marble inlays proclaim its date to be 1475–1500; inside, the high chancel, approached by a longish flight of steps, makes it a favorite church for weddings. But everybody loves the Miracoli, and it is made all the more special by the superb quality of the marble carvings—mostly by Tullio Lombardo—on and around the altar. Best of all for me is the little friar on the balustrade just to the left of the staircase.

Leaving the church, wander through the Campo Santa Maria Novella to the Campo Santa Maria Formosa, where an unusually buxom (formosa) Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to incredulous Venetians in the eighth or ninth century. There are some lovely old Gothic palazzi, especially on the eastern side—one of them has a plaque identifying it as the home of Sebastiano Venier, victor of the great battle of Lepanto, in 1571, when Venice and her allies clobbered the Turks once and for all—and an enchanting little museum, the Querini Stampalia, at the southern end. The church itself has some fine pictures, among them an astonishing Saint Barbara by Palma Vecchio and a superb polyptych by Bartolomeo Vivarini, but for many people, Santa Maria Formosa's most memorable feature is the hideous, scowling face on the western outer wall. In all Venice you will find nothing more grotesque. It aroused John Ruskin to a fury: "a head—huge, inhuman, and monstrous—leering in bestial degradation, too foul to be either pictured or described, or to be beheld for more than an instant."

Go south from the square and follow the yellow signs; within five minutes, you will be back at St. Mark's. Of course, there are countless other Venetian walks—Joe Links alone offers you six. You might, for example, cross the Grand Canal at the Accademia Bridge, then turn right and make your way up through Dorsoduro and San Polo to the Rialto. If you do this, check with the map so as not to miss the Campo Santa Margherita, one of my favorite squares. When you get to the Church of San Pantalon (with its incredible painted ceiling), look inside the tiny Campiello Angaran, just to the right of it. There, clamped to the wall, is a huge stone roundel depicting some unnamed ninth- or tenth-century Byzantine emperor. It is, so far as I know, unique—and important enough to have been lent to the great "Glory of Byzantium" exhibition at New York's Metropolitan Museum some dozen years ago.