by John M. Ford
"What happened?" she said. He looked up sharply, and she realized it had come out as a shriek.
"Your father..."
Oh, no, no, no, she thought.
"He believed you had been taken hostage, I suppose. I don't really know. Giulian' had just come back from Pisa, and met him in the foyer. Ficino was in the next room... he heard Giuliano cry out, and came in." Lorenzo's hands gripped his knees. There was sweat on his forehead. "My poor lame poet."
"And my father?"
"Ficino returned with the Gonfalonier's men," Lorenzo said, as if he had not heard. "They found the house where the hostages had
been. They found a limepit. There never were any hostages, Cynthia."
"And my father?"
"The fast poison. The blue salt. Now I am done hurting you."
Cynthia's mind was empty; there was nothing to think, nothing to say or do or feel. The universe was a black bottomless funnel to nowhere, and there was no end to horror.
A sound like thunder rolled through the still, cold air.
One of the household troops came in. "My lord, the Ten of War require your presence. There are cannon, the light Byzantine guns, ranging on the walls."
"Please ask them to come here. It will save time." The guard bowed and went out.
"Is the Duke of Urbino coming to rescue us, Luna?"
Cynthia told him what had happened in the tent.
Lorenzo closed his eyes, in pain or prayer. "One stone is removed from the arch, and the arch falls; then the pillars buckle, the walls shake, the structure collapses The Archimedian—what was his name?"
"Leonardo."
"Leonardo once told me he could bring down Brunelleschi's Pantheon with a single swing of the pick. It troubled him, that something so great and beautiful should be so vulnerable. Where will you flee, Luna?"
"I am a Florentine, Messer Lorenzo."
"No. No more. Go north, through Milan. Milan's troubles will begin soon enough—the brick is already out of their arch—but now it is the safest way. If there's anything you need, money, a coach..."
"Lorenzo, I would rather stay."
"Bella Luna—do you remember the English story, of Arthur? Sending the one away, at the end, to tell the story?" He rested his eyes on the carved ceiling. She hoped he would not cry. He said "Madonna Lucrezia used to say that the incubus who brought Arthur down, was Theodora of Byzantium, after she turned vampire to save herself from death. But surely not... surely they would not succeed in ruining a king, and then fail to take his country."
Lorenzo pushed himself to a table, took two goblets. There was a keg of red wine open, for those paying their respects to the dead. Lorenzo dipped the goblets to fill them and gave one to Cynthia. The cups were of red quartz, engraved in gold with laur. med.
"You shouldn't drink trebbiano," she said. "It's terrible for your gout."
He smiled, put a hand on the side of his chair, and stood up slowly. He held out his cup. "To virtu," he said, "however little rewarded."
She looked at the palle on his doublet, red on red, as the wine in the cups. "To balls," she said, and listened to the Magnificent's laughter for the last time. The cannon thundered again, not as far away. She felt the strong fumy wine, and the touch of Lorenzo's lips against her hand, and wondered what would happen when finally she felt the pain.
PART TWO
Companions
of the
Storm
Is there a murder here?
—Act V, Scene 3
Chapter Four
ARRIVALS
THE mercenary put a coin on the bartop, spun it, and rapped his knuckles on the wood as the silver danced. After a moment the innkeeper appeared, very formal in his dark green coat and starched white apron. The other two men in the taproom had not moved at all, or made any sound.
"More of the hippocras," said the mercenary, in loud, thick French. The coin toppled and rang to a stop. The innkeeper picked it up, went to a kettle over a small fire, and filled a wooden pitcher with the syrupy wine punch.
Across the room where the two men sat, the fire cracked in an updraft, and snow drove against the windows with a rattling sound.
"Bad night," the mercenary said, into the air. "Do you suppose the coach will get here at all?"
"It has happened," said the innkeeper, without inflection, "that coaches have been caught in the high pass by these sudden storms."
"That sounds very bad for the passengers."
"Usually they do not survive."
"And do they eat one another? I've heard that."
The innkeeper wiped spilled wine from the bar.
The mercenary said "You speak good French. Are you Italian?"
"My name is Jochen Kronig. I am Swiss."
"Ah, Swiss. Not too far for you to go then, when this damned Milan falls to pieces." The mercenary drank, wiped his black beard on his leather sleeve. "Will you go north, then? Back to Switzerland?"
"There will still be customers for my inn."
The mercenary laughed. "Right enough! There's always work for a man who's not particular, that's what I say. Pounds Milanese or gold bezants, who cares? Like your army, no? Swiss Army's always well employed, and they never put too fine a point on anything but their pikes." He laughed, drank. "Have some of this yourself. I'm paying. Come on, have some, against the chill. Never be too particular about who buys the wine, that's what I say."
The innkeeper glanced at the two other guests, who still kept to themselves. Then he stared straight at the mercenary. He raised a flat silver tasting cup on a chain, filled it, sipped. "Thank you, sir. Most gracious."
The mercenary burst out laughing. Then he picked up the pitcher and his cup and crossed the room to the two seated men. "Speak you French?" he said, in terrible Italian.
One of the men was young, dark. He wore a doublet of deep gold velvet, with metal plates riveted beneath the fabric, and high cavalry boots. On his sleeve was a band with the fleur-de-lis of Milan. He was staring at his muscular hands.
The other man was much older-looking, hair all gray. He wore a long gray gown with a plain white shirt showing at the throat, and a heavy black cloak was across his shoulders, though it was not cold in the taproom. He tilted his head up; his eyes were friendly, but penetrating. "Je park frangais," he said pleasantly.
"I am Charles," the mercenary said, with a sort of bow. "Charles de la Maison. Soldier in the service of Fortune. You?"
"Timaeus Plato," the old man said, then smiled. "Soldier in the service of Learning."
The other man continued to look at his hands. After a moment Timaeus Plato said "This is Captain Hector. Please excuse him; he has no French. He is in the same line of work as yourself, and—"
"I can guess," Charles said. "Duke Sforza's dead, Ludovico's dith-
ering, and his paymaster's Eris-knows-where. Hey, Captain!" he said, in his bad Italian. "Cheer up, we've all been there. Here, have some of this treacle, make you sick enough to forget anything."
Hector looked up slowly. He pushed a cup across the table, watched Charles fill it. "Grazie," he said.
"If you excuse my Italian, I can talk that we all hear, no?" Charles said. "Why sit you here? From Milan going?"
Timaeus Plato said "Eventually."
"Ah, you meet somebody, from the coach off. Francer? Swiss?"
"I wonder if the coach will ever get here," Plato said absently. "Is it true that sometimes they eat one another?"
"Eat, yes, raw. Why meet man in nowhere inn, in country falling under Byzantium?"
"I can't imagine," Plato said, "unless to kill him."
Captain Hector's eyes flicked sidewise.
Charles laughed. "Yes, kill him. Good way to pass time, think about if enemy come through door. How kill him? How get away? Keeps mind busy. And who know? We all got enemies; maybe one come through door, and better you be ready, or dead." He drank from the pitcher, with loud slurps and gurgles. "Say, where did go that magician? Italian?"
"I supp
ose he's in the barn," Plato said. "That's where he's sleeping, and the earlier he goes out, the less snow there'll be to wade through."
"Ah. I think, that thing to speak on, two wizards in same inn."
Plato said "Who's the other?"
Charles said in French, "And if your friend didn't take his pay in advance he has goat's brains." He moved the pitcher to tap Hector's cup, smiled broadly. "And probably other parts too."
Hector looked blank, drank. Wind rattled the windows.
There was a noise, a series of noises, from outside the taproom. Kronig the innkeeper came around the bar, a cloak over his arm.
"The coach?" Charles said. Kronig went on past. Plato stood to follow him; Charles and Hector looked at one another for a moment more, then went as well.
There was a coach in the innyard, snow piled a span deep on its roof, its lamps beating uselessly against the sheets of white. The horses stamped and snorted fog like dragon's breath.
The coach door was opened and the step kicked down before the coachman could reach them. A tall, slender man in glossy boots and a silk cloak stepped down, then reached up to assist another passenger: a woman wrapped tightly in yellow velvet. A gust pushed her hood aside, and gold hair blew out straight. The man's cloak flapped back as he steadied her on the steps, showing the courier's wings of Mercury on his jacket, the Rienzi wand in his belt. There was a large leather pouch slung across his chest.
Timaeus Plato spoke for a moment with the coachman. On returning he said, "Not the scheduled coach from the north. This is a special, from the south; just the courier and the gentlewoman."
"From Milan City?" Charles asked.
Plato did not seem to notice the question. "They've stopped for a meal, and to check the pass conditions with the southbound driver."
"They're not going any farther," Hector said, looking at the black and white sky.
Not a quarter of an hour later the regular coach arrived, the driver knocking inches of snow from his shoulders; he confirmed that the pass into Switzerland was closed until further notice.
As the new and old guests entered the inn, the innkeeper bustled, calling for porters, issuing orders to kitchen and chamber staff. Warm wine and mulled ale and herb tea appeared.
"I had an officer like him," Charles said, "thank Eris only one. The Swiss Army must be a Hell with pikestaffs."
There had been two passengers on the coach from Switzerland. One called himself Antonio della Robbia, a Medici banker. He wore a long gown of brown stuff, hose particolored brown and white, and he fairly dripped jewelry. Della Robbia's voice was thick, and he sneezed and apologized.
The other had on a severe, straight-lined gown of white linen with a loose cowl. His boots were practical, if unfashionable, and well worn. Perched on his large nose were eyeglasses with tinted lenses and fine silver frames. He introduced himself, in careful schoolbook Italian, as Gregory von Bayern, natural scientist.
Timaeus Plato spoke loudly in German. He took von Bayern aside, and the two of them spoke rapidly.
The courier's name was Claudio Falcone. Charles said "You are from the Sforza, yes?"
"Yes," Falcone said distantly.
"Maybe I then know your message."
Falcone turned sharply. There was a silence. Charles looked around for a moment, apparently enjoying the response, then tossed his head back and shouted "My dear Anybody: Help! Sforza." He laughed, alone. Then he said "And where is your companion? This is only an infantryman's sizing up, you know, but if I were on a journey, with threat of being showed up, nothing else to eat—"
"The lady," Falcone said coldly, "has business to the north. Naturally I offered my coach... and my protection." He touched the silver wand.
"So, I am in the wrong business," Charles said.
Jochen Kronig said "The signorina is changing. There are hot baths upstairs, for all travelers; there will be dinner shortly."
The main inn hall was warm, and brilliant with lamps and candles, the windows shuttered against the piling snow. As the guests descended from their rooms upstairs, having changed from traveling clothes into clean brocades and velvets, Kronig met each one at the foot of the staircase, asking after the quality of each accommodation, the handling of each bag, the temperature of each bath. As the interrogation ended the guest was presented with a mazer of hippocras, hot and strong with ginger and cinnamon.
In the hall, table servers in linen tunics walked silently on leather pattens, with plates of hot parsnip soup. There was Brie cheese with honey and mustard, and dried pears plumped in sugar syrup. In the gallery above the kitchen doors a lyre and recorder played, and innkeeper Kronig apologized that more musicians were not available.
Kronig turned. His eyes widened and his round face flushed. "You!"
In a corner of the hall, a man stood next to one of the servers. He wore a voluminous gown of dark blue cloth, coarse and patched, and a cylindrical Turkish cap with a yellow tassel. His shoes were undyed leather nailed over wooden soles, his hose heavy wool. He was busily loading a trencher with slices of venison, beef, and fine white bread from the tray the servant patiently held.
The man froze, staring at the innkeeper; then he stuck the slice of beef he held into his mouth, made a finger gesture, and pointed at the fireplace; the fire blazed up, throwing colored sparks. All heads turned. The man used the moment to snatch a pitcher of wine from the sideboard and get a good head start to the door.
Kronig fumed. "Nottesignore the mighty wizard," he said tightly. "I thought he was in the stables. Well, we'll see how he enjoys it after—"
"Here, my good host," Timaeus Plato said, holding out a silver penny. "Men must eat. Even wizards."
Kronig was instantly mollified. "Of course, Professor Doctor."
Falcone the courier was wearing a sharply tailored black doublet and tight silk hose, his courier's heraldry prominent on his breast. The banker, della Robbia, had changed into a fur-trimmed gown of red and gold, with red hose. The hot bath had done wonders for his cold. Von Bayern still wore white linen, but had exchanged his boots for white leather house shoes. Around his neck was a light silver necklace, with a convex black disc pendant: a pellet, a heraldic cannonball.
"Where's the French.. .fellow?" Captain Hector said, taking a sip from the silver-footed mazer cradled in his hard hand.
"You're right," Plato said. "He's not here."
Falcone said "The lady is still upstairs," and looked suddenly murderous; he put a hand on the stair rail, looked up. Then he smiled, turned back. "Gentlemen... the Lady Caterina Ricardi."
She descended with an easy, precise step, expertly controlling her long skirt of cdessandro silk, the color of sword steel fresh-blued. The gown's collar was quite low. Her yellow hair was bound up with gold rope and fixed with a long golden pin, in the Grecian style.
Even the wind fell briefly silent.
"Lady Caterina," Claudio Falcone said, "is of the theater in Milan, one of its foremost—"
"Please, Messer Falcone," she said in a dry-humored voice, "you will have the gentlemen thinking too much of me... in any of several wrong ways. I worked with costume and makeup. My acting was limited to the crowd scene and the chorus."
"The lady is too modest, of course," Falcone told the others. "I know she appeared on stage many times—"
"Really, Messer Falcone; for a courier you are not very close- mouthed! Very well, yes, in Plautus I was a favored knockabout"— she smiled as the others tried to control their expressions—"and in the great production of the Odyssey I was Penelope's understudy, and for two hundred performances I had to be ready..." She glanced at Falcone. "... to put my suitors off."
There was laughter, and Falcone turned pink. Timaeus Plato said "Our host looks distressed. Perhaps we should sit down to this remarkable dinner, before it cools." Then Kronig laughed too.
The musicians played sweetly over the herbed beets and bacon, the gingered fish; it was, in fact, a remarkable dinner for a small inn in November, but mouths were
not free to remark much. The Sforza courier made a few more attempts to break through the lady's reserve, but her wit was not as brittle as it had appeared at first.
Dessert was Damascus-plum funnel-cakes, fantastical and delicate as lace and dusted with sugar; Jochen Kronig insisted they must be eaten with black herb tea instead of wine punch. As the diners relaxed, Timaeus Plato said "Signorina Ricardi, I am reminded of the cook's line, in Pseudolus. Do you recall it?"
Her look might have been challenging, or merely amused. "I do know Plautus, Professore Dottore." She raised a spoon like a scepter, and declaimed, "I... am the savior of mankind."
Antonio della Robbia, who had talked mostly of how bad the exchange rates were at the Medici branch in Bern, turned casually and said "Lady Caterina, were you involved in the production of Vita Juliani, written by my late master, Lorenzo de' Medici?"
"Yes," Caterina said. "Of course. I remember it very well."
Falcone spilled sugar on the front of his black doublet. He looked discontented.
"I am sorry," della Robbia said. "I was not thinking of the late enmity between our cities. In Bern we were all far removed from that. I was only remembering Ser Lorenzo."
"I knew him somewhat," she said, with a soft edge in her voice, as near drunkenness produces.
"Would you drink to him?" della Robbia said quietly.
"And to the Duke Sforza as well?" Falcone said.
"Of course." Della Robbia stood, raised his cup. The musicians paused. "To the Medici, and the Sforza. To the lords of Italy." Cups were raised, emptied. The storm howled through the shutters and the candles flickered.
Claudio Falcone stood, and the wine butler hurried to refill the cups, but Falcone waved him away. "Signorina, Signori, I must confess that I am not used to such hours and such fare, and I am quite done for today. I must say good night."
"Your rooms are quite ready," Kronig said.
