“Yes. I have spoken with Damiano again, and I am willing to do what he wishes. He has also said that he will address the Pope on behalf of my King, which was more than I expected.”
It was so like Damiano, Lodovico reflected, to offer a man an unpleasant choice, and then, when it had been made to sweeten that choice with an unexpected reward. They stepped onto the Ponte Vecchio with its houses and shops.
“London Bridge is like this, but longer,” Sir Thomas said as he glanced at one of the tiny storefronts. “I have heard that there are men and women who are born, live and die on London Bridge without ever setting foot on either bank.”
Lodovico was longing to find out more about Sir Thomas’ second interview with Damiano, but decided he could not press the matter. “I have heard the same of the people here, but I confess I do not believe it. There are no priests on the bridge and they must attend mass at some time.”
“True,” Sir Thomas agreed, walking a little faster as they passed a tavern. “It will be dark soon, and we should not be abroad.”
“We have nothing to fear,” Lodovico promised him. “You are known to everyone in Firenze, and none of them would dare to touch you. It would be too dangerous for them. Now, if it were one of the lesser courtiers, or myself alone, perhaps there would be some danger, but not until night has fallen.”
“Damian is fortunate to have such law-abiding subjects.” The doubt in his tone was not disguised.
“Oh, they are not particularly law-abiding, and they are not his subjects. It is simply that they know that Primàrio does not want his guests abused, and if they are, some of the entertainments will be gone from Firenze. Damiano heads the Console of la Federazione, but that does not make these people his subjects. Firenze is a republic.”
“And that humble man lives more lavishly than the King of France,” Sir Thomas said with no condemnation.
“He has a large fortune,” Lodovico agreed. They were almost off the Ponte Vecchio now, and it was apparent that the dusk was fading rapidly into night. “I should call for a torch bearer, if you like,” Lodovico said. “It’s not far to the Palazzo Pitti, but if you would like the way lighted…”
“As long as you know the way, I can see no reason…” Sir Thomas never finished his sentence. There was the sound of running feet behind them, and a warning shout from a fisherman near the bank of the river, and then two men in long masks and carrying cudgels raced up to them, their weapons up.
“That’s the one,” the larger of the two men growled, and to Lodovico’s horror, pointed not at Sir Thomas, but himself.
“Catch the other!” the other muttered and with startling, terrifying swiftness, rushed at Lodovico.
There was a brightness before his eyes, and a sound of ships colliding, and Lodovico fell into a heap on the street flagging. The last thing he noticed was the distress in Sir Thomas’ eyes.
His head was bandaged and his face ached in a way he had not thought possible, worse than when he had had a diseased tooth rot in his head. He had a book before him, but his eyes ached too much for him to read in comfort.
“Well, Master Ariosto,” the physician announced after he had looked into Lodovico’s eyes and had a look at his chamber pot, “I will not bleed you today, since the last cupping appears to have done the trick. You must have a very thick skull, or your brain is so strengthened with study that you resist anything that can be given with a club.”
Lodovico tried to smile at this ponderous humor, but abandoned the effort. “I thank you for your care,” he muttered, recalling how much he hated physicians.
“Il Primàrio has been asking after you, and I know that he will be pleased with my report.” The physician was preening, taking a personal pride in Lodovico’s improvement. Lodovico wished he felt strong enough to pull his long nose off his face.
“When will I be allowed to get up?” he asked the physician through a tight jaw.
“I think that we will consider tomorrow possible. You will be allowed to sit in a chair for a few hours, and then you must return to your bed. If that is successful and there is neither fever nor flux, in a few days after that, we will allow you an hour in the garden, and if that is not detrimental, then in a week you should be able to resume your work for il Primàrio.” He folded his hands on his paunch.
“And Sir Thomas?” He could not recall hearing what had become of the Chancellor of England. If there had been murder done, he knew it would be his fault. He should never have exposed them both to attack in that stupid way. He had been warned that there were enemies in Firenze and had chosen to forget it. If Sir Thomas were dead, Lodovico thought that Damiano might well, and justifiably, hold him responsible.
“He and the rest of the English mission leave today. He sent his regrets to you, of course, and said that he was sorry that you would not be able to speak with him again until he returns from Muscovy.”
“But he’s all right?” Lodovico could not keep the relief from his voice as he sat up in bed/ “He wasn’t hurt?”
The physician wagged his head ponderously, as if his skull were filled with jewels or, Lodovico added inwardly, lead. “No, by the Grace of God he was spared.” There were those on the Ponte Vecchio who saw the attack and came at once to aid you. There was a great cry set up and the Lanzi were sent for at once. A fortunate thing for you,” he went on sternly, “as the blow you suffered was severe.”
“But Sir Thomas was not harmed.” He felt foolish asking the same questions, but the physician seemed reluctant to answer.
“Not harmed, no. Had his dirk out in a moment, I understand. That was lamentable, because he should not have been carrying it at all. He claimed he’d put it in the sheath without thinking, and everyone’s willing to believe it, but Il Primàrio knows that it was not quite that way.” Again there was the slow, portentous nod. Just as well, really, but very awkward.”
Lodovico touched the bandage that wrapped around his head like a dubious wreath. “How long did…” You haven’t said how deep my swoon was.” If the English were leaving this very day, he must have been unconscious longer than he thought. He was certain he could recall being bled the day before, but that would not be enough for enough for the mission to plan its departure.
“Yesterday you wakened. I bled you for the first time the day before that. I wanted to do it sooner, but there was so much suffusion of the countenance that it could not be done safely. You had a deal of fever then, but it passed quickly enough, and delirium is not unusual at such times.” The physician sighed and put one large hand on Lodovico’s shoulder.
“I was delirious?” Lodovico demanded, ignoring the hand. “For how long?” What had he said? He felt a chill spread through him, for there was so much he might have revealed.
Apparently some of this concern was on his face because the physician gave him a kindly smile. “I know how you men close to il Primàrio are, always chary your secrets. Well, and that’s probably a good thing. Il Primàrio himself was aware of the danger. Andrea Benci sat with you while your thoughts and tongue wandered.”
Lodovico tried to picture that tall, old courtier sitting beside him while he tossed and mumbled, but could not. Surely such a task was beneath him. “Benci.”
“The rest of the time your wife sat with you. She, I may tell you, is a sensible woman, not like those flutter and whine when they see a little blood. She claimed she was distraught, but I could wish more of those I visit to have such distraught wives.” His rumble of laughter was like everything else about him, weighty and large.
Lodovico felt himself flush. He had not asked about Alessandra.
“You are fortunate in your wife, sir. Most fortunate.” The physician’s eyebrows rose significantly, then beetled; down for emphasis.
“Yes,” Lodovico agreed, but could not bring himself to say more. Alessandra was a blessing, he insisted his mind, and even as he admitted it was so, he was touched with irritation. Competent, affectionate, intelligent Alessandra, who had lived with him, marrie
d him, given him Virginio—she should have married a politician or a merchant or a professor, not a poet.
“There, you’re tiring already,” the physician said with gloomy satisfaction. “I knew how it would be. You’re to rest, Ariosto, and tomorrow we’ll see how you go on. I will tell the cooks that you’re to have barley broth and an infusion which I will provide them. Your wife can look after you. I know you’ll have the best care from her.”
“Yes,” Lodovico said again, feeling foolish.
“That was a nasty blow,” the physician added as he went toward the door with stately steps. “Men have died from less. Be aware of that, while you recover. This was no little thing. I’ve closed the gash with silk, and in a few days I will remove the threads.”
Lodovico felt a dizzy, sinking sensation churn in him. “How long was the…gash?”
“Nearly as wide as my hand,” he said, presenting a palm for his inspection. He was at the door and made no attempt to come back toward the bed. “I say this to you so that you will not treat my instructions lightly. I tell you for your own good that it could have gone badly for you.”
“I see.” Lodovico leaned back against his pillows and let his book slide to the floor. He told himself that the giddiness he felt came from his hurts, but he knew that it was from fear.
An orchard surrounded the formal gardens of Palazzo Pitti so that the morning was filled with the scent of apple blossoms as well as that of roses. The morning was warm and promised a hot, lazy afternoon.
Lodovico sat by the high, clipped hedge, a writing case open on his lap, a half-filled vellum page before him, his quill clogged with dried ink. His eyes were dreamily fixed on the Fortezza di Belvedere higher up the slope, and beyond it, crowning the knoll, the Romanesque splendor of San Miniato al Monte. He hummed occasionally, though he was not aware of it.
A shadow fell across him and Lodovico looked up, thinking that he had been forgiven at last and that Damiano had sought him out. But the face was framed by silver hair, and that lean, elegant figure was not il Primàrio, but his secretary, Andrea Benci. Lodovico swallowed the disappointment that flooded him and regarded the old courtier.
“I understand that you sat with me while I had fever. I thank you for that.” He closed his writing case and attempted to smile.
“It was necessary. Since il Primàrio has seen fit to take you into his confidence, someone has to be certain that nothing he has told you reaches the wrong ears, even by accident.” The asperity of these words startled Lodovico.
“It was not my intention to be attacked or cudgeled, believe me.” He did his best to keep his tone even, but his breath came a little faster and he could feel color mount in his face.
Andrea Benci sighed. “Of course not. But you behaved very stupidly, exposing yourself and Sir Thomas to great danger.”
“I realize that,” Lodovico responded sharply. “I was terrified for Sir Thomas when I came to myself. I didn’t want to…” He stopped abruptly and looked away once more.
“Well,” Andrea said in a more conciliating tone, Thomas was not hurt and there was no serious trouble after all.”
Lodovico wanted to object to that, but held his tongue. He put one hand to his newly-trimmed beard and gave Andrea a measuring look. He knew that would draw attention to his face, which was what he wanted to do. A few hours earlier his mirror had shown him eyes surrounded by purple that was fading now to yellow-green as well as three abrasions, on his cheek, his temple and brow where his face had struck paving stones as he fell. “No,” he said after a moment when he was sure that Andrea had looked at his face. “There was, as you say, no serious trouble.”
Andrea Benci had the grace to cough, but there was no other indication that Lodovico had embarrassed him. “Sir Thomas asked that he be remembered to you. He said that he enjoyed your company.”
“I enjoyed his,” Lodovico said at once. “It was honor to meet him. I look forward to his return.”
“For San Stefano’s Stones!” Andrea burst out. “Be a little thoughtful in what you say.”
Lodovico frowned. “The mission is coming through Italia Federata after the visit to Muscovy, is not? That was what I was led to believe.” His expression was ingenuous but under his assumed innocence, Lodovico was angry. He may have babbled while in the grip of fever, and he had never before cared much for the political maneuvering that was meat and bread to Andrea Benci, but he knew enough to keep his silence on Damiano’s behalf. He gave himself the pleasure of adding, “You were the one who made the plans for that visit, weren’t you? I seem to recall Damiano saying he had given that task to you.”
There was a moment of silence between them, then Andrea sighed. “Yes. But, Ariosto, guard your words. There is too much at stake here for you to speak unwisely.”
“Because I am a poet does not necessarily mean that I am also a fool!” Lodovico remonstrated, getting to his feet as he spoke. “I would also suggest to you that the garden is not a place for this discussion. If you wish to carry this talk further, we should retire to a more private place.” There was a high, clear sound in his skull, but he did his best to ignore it. “I am at your disposal, Benci.”
The courtier looked about uneasily. “You’re right. I will talk with you later. It will not do for us to be together for too long. The wrong assumptions might be made.”
“Oh, come,” Lodovico said, beginning to think the whole thing had gone too far. “With Sir Thomas gone, where is the danger?”
Andrea Benci crossed his velvet-clad arms and gave Lodovico a hard stare. “We’re assuming, naturally, that the men who attacked you were after Sir Thomas. But what it if they weren’t? What if you were their target, Arioso? What then?”
The sun dazzled behind Andrea Benci’s silver head, and Lodovico could not see his face to discover whether he was being mocked or not.
PART II
La Fantasia
For three days the warriors had been gathering. There were many of the Cérocchi from their various, far-flung cities in the forests; Pau Attans in their thick leather armor, greedy for revenge; Scenandoa spearmen breastplates of porcupine ivory and collars of cat claws to indicate merit and rank; Cesapichi with their long lances and stiff shields of boars’ hide; the Cica Omini cousins of the Pau Attan with their great maces and mauls: Cicora in high, jewel-studded boots and armed with javelins and bows; pikemen from Annouaigho to the south; Onaumanient, more of the Pau Attans’ cousins, these men carrying tall bows and wicked knives in their wide belts; and a small band of fighters with short curved daggers from the city of Giagaia in north. They were a stirring sight, these proud and dedicated men, coming together, old feuds forgotten, that they could meet the real enemy, Anatrecacciatore and his terrible, unhuman army.
Lodovico and Falcone stood together on the steps Santissinio Redentore and watched while the warriors filled the piazza. Two rows of Lanzi flanked the great companies of these forests. Alberospetrale waited somewhat apart from his son and the great Italian hero. His old face was thoughtful as he stared out at the armed men. To Lodovico’s chagrin, Andrea Benci had refused to attend the ceremony and was in the Palazzo del Doge, sulking.
“Is there word from Italia Federata yet?” Falcone asked in an undervoice. “I have heard that a ship put into port today.”
“A French ship, unfortunately,” Lodovico sighed, one hand resting on the hilt of Falavedova. “I spoke to the captain earlier, but he has been trading for furs much farther up the coast, and has seen few other ships these last three months, so my news is more current than his. I have sent a dispatch with him, telling him that it is urgent that it be delivered, and pledging my word that he will be rewarded for delivering it promptly. But how soon can that be?” He tried to keep his own apprehension from his tone, but knew that it was reflected in his fine, bright chestnut eyes. “I have not wanted to tell our fighters this. At such moments…” He shrugged.
“Yes, that is wisest,” Falcone said heavily. “I will admit that when I saw the shi
p, though I knew it was impossible, I hoped that it brought us men and weapons.
“Well, we will have to do with what is here,” Lodovico said, putting one hand on Falcone’s shoulder. “Surely it is possible for men such as these to defeat Anatrecacciatore.”
“Defeat him or die,” Falcone muttered, then looked into Lodovico’s face. “Don’t chide me for my fears, Ariosto. I’ve had less time to learn to accept them than you have.”
Lodovico’s face filled with compassion. “And you have a great deal more to lose. That’s very true. I have asked myself whether, if this were Italia Federata, I would be doing more.” He paused and looked over the troops with narrowed eyes. “I have not been able to answer that question, but I give you my word that I want this land to be as sacred to me as my own.”
“But why?” It was the only time Lodovico had heard real doubt in Falcone’s voice.
“Because, my friend, if I cannot uphold my honor here, then I can uphold it nowhere. The coward who says that he can fight only on his native soil gets no respect from me. How could I feel otherwise?”
“There is Podestà Benci to give you an example,” Falcone said with a nod toward the Palazzo del Doge.
“He’s an old man,” Lodovico said, but the words did not sit well with him. “He is like those who have, been in battle too long and find it difficult to move, let alone think. I saw a battle-toughened captain in such a state once. He sat on the ground and let the dust through his fingers, like an infant at play. Something very like that has happened to Benci, I fear. Everywhere he turns he sees defeat.” He had shut the memory of David Campolargo’s collapse out of his thoughts until now, but the image returned as sharply as if he had just looked away from the scarred veteran as he sat in the dirt, a vacant smile on his weathered features.
“If he cannot or will not fight, then he should make way for those who can and will,” Falcone burst out. “The first officer of the Cesapichi was insulted by Benci’s attitude, and he will not be the only one feel so.” Falcone’s jewel-studded leather armor flashed as he moved in the morning sun. His handsome countenance was brooding and his eyes seemed to darken to black. Deliberately he turned his back on the Palazzo del Doge.
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