“Who were these soldiers?” the old sergeant demanded to know.
“I wondered that myself. At the time I was faint and I collapsed before I could see more. But later I awoke in their camp, and I was taken to the captain who had led the attack. And it was then I realized that these were the famous Amazons.”
“Amazons!” Massamo cried out. “I don’t believe it!”
“Nor did I, at first. But as I recovered from my wounds, they gave me more than ample proof that it was so. I could wish them with us now. I had the pledge of the captain, who is named Zaidorah, that if I should ever need a fighter to stand beside me, she would be honored to have it be her.” When indulgent mirth greeted this, Lodovico responded testily, “We have battled together since then. I have seen her face a line of Mandarin cavalry without flinching, and I cannot make the same statement for myself. I know that I faltered when the battle was most fierce and the sun was scorching the sky, when my troops were beaten almost to their knees and my head was filled with thirst-born visions. Then Zaidorah proved her worth beyond any price, for she castigated me and showed me by her example what it was to fight bravely. Her sword never stopped until she had cleaved a path of bodies that led from our lines to the very tents of the enemy.”
The few ribald comments that had been made at the beginning of his reminiscence had stopped and now the men stood in awed silence.
“A woman like that…” Massamo began, as if to make up for his earlier derision. “A rare thing. It would do my heart good to see her in battle.”
Lodovico grinned at that, his handsome features becoming more attractive, his fine white teeth neatly framed by his dark beard and curling mustache. “No man ever had a better comrade at arms, I will tell you that. It does my heart good to think of her.”
One of the older soldiers was not convinced. “I had heard that the Amazons gelded any male they caught. You haven’t the look of it.”
“They do occasionally castrate their enemies, but I was not that. Their Queen, in fact, said that I was almost brave enough to be a woman.”
The laughter this time was rollicking and the men thumped each other on the back and stamped on the floor at the thought.
“If you had seen those women fight,” Lodovico said rather sadly, “you would not laugh.”
The old sergeant was the first to speak. “Women on a battlefield, any part of a battlefield are bad luck.” He was supported by murmured agreement and a few of the Lanzi crossed themselves for protection. “I’ve seen many a fight ruined because there were women about,” the sergeant declared.
“Have you?” Lodovico made an unpleasant gesture. “You may wish before this war is over to have the advantage of just one Amazon. The only ones who suffered when I fought with the Amazons were Turks.”
This brought a flood of other questions, and Lodovico looked about for a bench where he could sit to converse with the soldiers. He set his mind to the task of recounting tales of adventure and battle, of exploration and glory, and found himself well-rewarded by bright faces of the soldiers who listened to him. It was a pity he had left his chittarone, since he thought, with sardonic self-mockery, that all that was needed was a little music to make his stories complete entertainments.
The bishop’s secretary was a gray-eyed Frenchman in a cassock which he wore as if it were sewn with pearl and diamonds. He gave Lodovico a haughty stare a addressed him in Latin. “The bishop is at prayers. You haven’t an appointment.”
“The bishop knows I must speak to him.” Lodovico maintained an attitude of respect in this vast Cathedral of Santissimo Redentore. While it was true that the man wearing the cloth was an arrogant fool, Lodovico knew that the cloth itself was worthy of homage.
“Perhaps tomorrow, after mass,” the secretary suggested with a slight curl to his lip.
“Perhaps as soon as you announce me,” Lodovico responded with forced good manners. “Devoted as you are to your faith, you have probably not heard that we are all in mortal danger. And though the promise of heaven is sweet and those of us who trust in the mercy of God will go gladly down to death, still, there is a powerful and malignant enemy who stalks even now. It would be wise, I think, to inform the bishop of this.”
The Frenchman had turned a pasty color as Lodovico spoke, and stammered a few words. “This way, Ariosto. Yes. The bishop. This way.” The long nave of the cathedral echoed with the sound of his voice, making the stammer come back in eerie whispers.
As the door to the bishop’s private quarters opened, that upright old man could be seen on his knees before a crucifix in a small chapel that adjoined his study. When the Frenchman called him in a discreet undervoice, the bishop crossed himself and got to his feet. “Ariosto,” he said in those vibrant accents that Lodovico remembered from his first evening in Nuova Genova.
“Eccelenza,” he said, kneeling to kiss the episcopal ring that was extended to him. “I fear I have grave intelligence for you.”
“As I thought.” The bishop motioned Lodovico to a chair before removing the stola from his shoulders, gave this into the Frenchman’s keeping. “You’ve been with the Cérocchi.”
“Yes, I have,” Lodovico said, and once again launched into the tale of his stay in their city. He strove to bring the bishop a sense of the terror that the Cérocchi lived with daily, and their courage in facing it. He told the Ambrosian prelate of the despair preached by Cifraaculeo and the stern bravery of Alberospetrale. He touched only once on the women, and the color of his face darkened as he spoke the name of Falcone’s betrothed of the Scenandoa. He told of the preparations for war and described the arrival of the runner from the Pau Attan, and the obsequies that were given him.
Through it all, the bishop listened in silence, his old eyes revealing little, as if he were hearing confession. He was of a noble house in Brindisi and allied by marriage with the Ducas of Ferrara, and there was as much warrior as priest in him. Once, when Lodovico described the marshaling of the Cérocchi troops he had watched, the icy eyes had flared with reminiscent warmth.
“There you have it,” Lodovico declared at the end of his narrative. “I have tried to make Podestà Benci understand, but his fear is in him like a rot that devours his vitals. Without your help and your alliance, I fear that the Cérocchi must suffer. I have with me a mandate from il Primàrio empowering me to take command of all troops, but I know that if la Signoria were to oppose me”—he shrugged and averted his eyes—”what can we do alone?”
“You are not alone,” the bishop said resonantly. “You have the might of God with you, and nothing will prevail against His strength.” The old face was set in militant lines. “Those who war for the Right will be upheld and those who are in the ranks of Satan will be cast down into the Pit forever.” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again there was an impishness in his demeanor that Lodovico had not seen before. “I think Andrea Benci will be convinced: he will not have you alone to contend with, but me.”
La Realtà
Alessandra was delighted at the news. “The villa at Fiesole? It’s wonderful. I was there with Graziella once, and it is quite charming. It sits on the brow of the hill, you know, and has a beautiful garden with two fountains.” She beamed at her husband. “Think of the work you can do. No more need to find something to rhyme with Wessex.”
Lodovico was not listening to her. He sat on the edge of their bed and stared toward the window which faced the back of the Palazzo Pitti where gardeners were working on pruning the formal shrubbery. He put up his hand to shade his eyes, hating to admit that it was short-sightedness and not the sun that made the distant figures blur. “Yes,” he said remotely when he realized she had spoken. “I’ll be close enough for him to reach me on short notice, of course.” This last was said slowly, uncertainly, as if to reassure himself.
But he won’t have to, will he?” Alessandra asked, becoming anxious. “Lodovico, you need time to do your work, and you won’t get it here. Il Primàrio demands so much of you.”
/> “I don’t mind,” he said, looking at her at last. “Your new dress is very becoming. I like that color green.”
She smiled at this, then looked away. “La Duchessa wore this shade, I remember. It went so well with her yellow hair.”
Lodovico recalled Lucretia Borgia, Duchessa of Ferrara vividly and with as much real affection as Alessandra did. “Yes. There was that one silk gonella, with the Venezian sleeves edged in sapphires and emeralds. She always wore it when she presided at the great festival at Easter.” She had been his first real patron, and though he privately had thought her somewhat stupid and weak-willed, he had felt that her enthusiasm for his work was genuine and it had meant a great deal to him when he was younger. Even then he had admitted to himself that the beauty that had been so famous was fading, that her bleached hair was an ugly color and that her reputedly seductive voice was merely a little hoarse. He forgave her all these shortcomings because she had been kind to him. Fleetingly he wondered if that was the same reason he liked Damiano.
“Your new clothes will be ready in another two days,” Alessandra was telling him, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s a pity that you won’t have the new giornea for the last banquet for the English. Well, there will be other times, and the English have no taste in clothing anyway.” She rose and went across to the window, taking an obvious delight in the new camora she wore. “You’re deep in thought, my husband. Will you tell me?”
Lodovico looked up. “What?” He smiled as if to pass this off. “I’ll have to do another few ballades the consort and I have my verses in my mind.” He got to his feet slowly. “I hope you don’t mind my preoccupation.” Making a vague gesture with one hand, he added, “As you say, the English will leave soon and Damiano has many things he requires of me before we leave for the country.”
Alessandra’s expression changed to one of indulgent tolerance, such as mothers show to clever children. “Surely poets are not given the same tasks as courtiers.”
The image of Andrea Benci, tall, smooth-spoken, capable, wholly contained, filled his mind. “No,” he said in a strange tone. “There are other tasks given to courtiers.” He went to the door, attempting to whistle the new tune Maffeo had written, and cudgeled his brain for words to set to it, but found none.
“I’ll give orders that our belongings are to be packed,” Alessandra called after him, as if expecting to be contradicted.
“Certainly,” he replied. “I won’t be able to give it my attention for a few days yet. You might ask Virginia to help you.”
“Boys are useless at packing. Give them a flower a shield, and they’ll put the flower on the bottom every time.” She gave an exasperated shake to her head but there was an undertone of pride in her voice.
“And poets, I assume, are worse?” His chuckle gentle and she took no offense at this challenge, but waved to him as he left the room.
Twilight had fallen by the time Lodovico had prepared the new verses for the musicians, and though he not satisfied with them, he knew they were polished to be acceptable to Maffeo. He drew a breath and let it out slowly. At least in the country he would have time to rework his poetry again, which he longed to do. It had long become something of a joke with the writers and scholars in Firenze that Ariosto was revising his great Orlando again. He smiled a little sadly, and turned his thoughts to his new Fantasia. Would it ever be ready, good enough, recognized? He was not certain that it mattered.
There was a sound at the door, and then it was opened a little and Lodovico could see the back of Andrea Benci as he stood there, one hand on the latch, his back to the library, his voice lowered in curiously furtive conversation.
“…if there’s a reconciliation, it will come too late if you act now.”
The other speaker said something, but Lodovico was unable to hear it. Fascinated, he rose from his chair and approached the door, taking the precaution of removing a book from one of the slanted racks and opening it at random.
“…it need not be dangerous for…and the end of summer might be better…if there is suspicion later…” Benci’s tone had grown quieter still and Lodovico wondered if he dared to press his ear to the door to listen.
Again the unknown and garbled second voice spoke, this time more vehemently. Benci gave an irritating laugh. “You’re fleeing from shadows,” he said nastily and pushed the door open a little more.
Lodovico barely had time to jump back and spread the book he carried in his arms before Andrea Benci saw him. Il Primàrio’s secretary stopped a moment and regarded Lodovico with a strange, angry expression. “Ariosto,” he said after a moment.
Benci,” he responded, affecting surprise.
I did not know you were here,” Andrea remarked and Lodovico felt his face grow cold, though the room was pleasantly warm on this spring day.
“I was reading,” he said unnecessarily, holding out the book as proof. For the first time he noticed that it was on the breeding of farm animals.
For your next epic?” Benci inquired gently.
“Oh, no,” Lodovico said with a laugh that sounded like a death rattle in his own ears. “Damiano is lending me his villa at Fiesole, and I thought perhaps I’d better learn something of the livestock there before I have to live among them.” It was a rather neat lie, he congratulated himself as he thought it over.
“A practical poet. Amazing.” Benci had come a little farther into the library. “Il Primàrio is not here?”
“As you see.” Lodovico indicated the room with a nod of his head. “I think he’s closeted with the Venezians and Genovese at the moment. He mentioned he had to postpone his meeting with the d’Este boy arrived yesterday night.” He thought it odd that Damiano’s secretary was unaware of il Primàrio’s activities for the day, but did not want to mention it.
“Of course. He should also be spending time with Cardinale Medici. We must get through this ill-advised English visit with as little offense to the Pope as possible, but now, with all these delegations…” Andrea’s hauteur became more marked. “I can’t think what il Primàrio can be doing, extending his courtesy at a time like this.” His mouth closed sharply, as if he wanted to trap all the words behind his teeth. “I’ll leave you to the breeding of…swine.” He pulled the door again and left the room abruptly.
Lodovico stood for some little time, watching door. He was certain that his presence had made Andrea Benci leave. He knew that the elegant courtier was angry with him, but no matter how he thought, could think of no good reason for it. True, the night before Lodovico had made a number of jokes a Andrea’s expense, but none of them were disastrous and all of them, he had to admit, he had made before and Andrea had endured them with a patient, contemptuous indulgence. Why had Andrea left the room? What had he interrupted or prevented? Was it only the secretary’s arrogance that made him leave, or was there some more sinister reason? He put the book on farm animals back on the rack and sank into a chair near the longest writing table. It was foolish to think there was any malice in what he had overheard. Courtiers were always involved in various petty intrigue and that had been the case for as long as he could remember. To whom had Andrea been speaking? He had said that there might be a reconciliation, but it would be too late? Was some hanger-on anxious to gain the attention of one of the women? Had one of the Ducas asked about a feud with another, or between two different noblemen? Was it a husband concerned for his wife? A father for a child? Was Andrea part of another attempt to bring Damiano and his son Leone together again? The young man was living in Austria, and it might be that with the English going to Poland there were those who would wish to convince the father and son to speak again.
The day was advanced into the late afternoon by the time Lodovico left the library, discontented and more perplexed than when he began to puzzle out what he had overheard. He had thought he might mention it to Damiano, but at last had rejected the idea. What would he tell il Primàrio? he asked himself sardonically—that he had overheard a courtier saying something about dang
er? He could hear Damiano’s kind, condemning laughter in his mind and he flinched at it. No, he could not endure that.
He resolved to put the matter out of his mind and went in search of Sir Thomas More.
Lodovico found the Chancellor of England near the Mercato Nuovo watching a troupe of acrobatic dwarfs performing. He laughed heartily at their antics and when they had finished, threw them a handful of coins before turning to speak. “I have a dwarf of my own in England,” he confided. “A good enough jester, but nothing like these splendid little men.”
“Indeed,” Lodovico said, because a response was clearly indicated. He locked his hands behind his back and fell into step with Sir Thomas.
“We English do love our grotesques, but not in the morbid way that the Spaniards do.” He turned toward the Ponte Vecchio. “It’s nearly sunset, and yet the hills are full of light. In England, you know, the sky is not this vital blue and our days fade gradually. In summer, our twilight continues for hours, but in winter, in winter there is little more than a few hours of light in the day, and most of that filters through rain and snow.” He smiled. “When I first thought of leaving my home, it filled me with sorrow. Now, though I know I will miss the gardens and our pale sunlight, I can see that there will be real pleasure here, and that this beautiful land is not the prison I feared it might be.” He looked toward the hills on the south side of the Arno. “I have been assured that my family may live quietly here, though it hardly seems possible. Considering what Damiano has done these last few days, I cannot imagine this place being the place for retired living.”
“Then you are set on returning here.” Lodovico was somewhat startled to realize that he took so little satisfaction in learning this.
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