He is looking towards the south, at the crowds milling between the square and palazzo reale (the royal palace), and from there to Via dell’Arcivescovado. The only military elements are his cuirass and boots. With his hands on his hips, he appears to be waiting for someone. Perhaps he is on guard together with Spire 25, the Sentry of the South. Maybe the two are taking it in turns: three centuries me, three centuries you. These are the timescales of the Cathedral and its stones, so different from human timescales. Is he coming? The warrior has been waiting for over six centuries. for someone or something, or maybe it’s a woman. Strange, it’s usually the women who wait for the warriors to return, if they return. Perhaps he’s waiting for new arrivals, after all it’s a constant flow: each new entrance into the city is only the prelude to another entrance, a process without a beginning or an end, a continuous cycle that regenerates the city like a living organism. This is yet another aspect of Milan: like waiting in a station for the train to arrive, for the one we must catch at all costs, for the one that will bring the person we’re waiting for. We are Waiting Warriors. We wear armour to protect ourselves from the unexpected but we cannot live without meeting tomorrow, because that’s where new experiences await us.