“Contain your anger, Falcone,” Lodovico said softly. “I agree that it would be best if we could post Benci back to Italia Federata, and the dispatch I sent with the Frenchmen requested just that, but until he goes, there is nothing to be gained from this show of hostility. It can only make matters more difficult for all of us. The Lanzi are bound by their oath and their contracts to obey the Podestà and la Signoria. We must have those Lanzi in battle. If, in order to have them, we must show a servile face to a frightened old man, where is the harm, so long as the Lanzi are with us?”
“If the frightened old man were my father, would you still say that?” Falcone shot back, and then ground his teeth, as if to mangle the words he had just spoken.
“I doubt if your father would be so paralyzed with fear that he would behave so. I did challenge Cifraaculeo when he could find no worth in our struggle. It must be the same for all of us, my comrade, or there is no point in taking to the field for death, as death will have already touched us.” He motioned toward piazza again, seeing the Onaumanient company talking easily with their cousins, the Cica Omini. The Onaumanien had unstrung their huge bows and were engaging in friendly arguments with the Cica Omini about the relative merits of the bow and the maul. It was the sort of quarrel Lodovico had heard many times before, In many lands, and as always, he took heart at this gallantry.
Alberospetrale interrupted Lodovico’s reflections. “I have not seen Coltellomelma,” he said as he approached Lodovico and Falcone. “Have you spoken to him, my son?”
Falcone’s brow tightened. “Coltellomelma, no.” He cast a quick, anxious glance over the piazza as if he might not have seen all the men there. “He is the great captain of the Cicora, and a famous hero. I assumed that he…” Falcone stopped, then looked toward the ranks of the Cicora. “Nembosanguinoso is there, but not Coltellomelma.”
“I have spoken with Nembosanguinoso, but he said nothing about Coltellomelma not being with them.” The King of the Cérocchi made a sudden, imperious gesture at a Cicora officer and stood, straight and commanding, while the man he had singled out stepped onto the cathedral steps. He addressed the Cicora in his language, and Falcone moved a little closer to Lodovico in order to tell him what passed between his father and Nembosanguinoso.
“He is saying,” Falcone murmured, “that we were expecting to have Coltellomelma to command the flanking forces, which he has done before with great success. Nembosanguinoso answers that he has not seen their great captain for more than ten days. He is telling my father that Coltellomelma set out then to meet with representatives from the Cioctau and Iustaga in the city of Naniaba. ‘We have had no message from him since he left us.’ My father is asking if there has been any attempt to reach him. Nembosanguino says that there has not been time, because the call to muster came before they could send runners after him. He also says that there were three men from Eiche-Ah who offered to carry a message to Naniaba, since they had planned to go that way.”
“And of course, there has been no word from the men from Eiche-Ah,” Lodovico added fatalistically. “How near to the forces of Anatrecacciatore are these cities?”
“It is hard to tell,” Falcone said softly, angry in spite of this. “If the warriors of flint and frost have come far, then none of the cities are safe, and that includes this Nuova Genova. Naniaba is well fortified but we know what these warriors can do.” He made a gesture of helplessness, then forced himself to be less despairing. He met Lodovico’s eyes. “It is a worthy battle, is it not? To face a foe of this strength, surely our stand against him is necessary?”
Lodovico’s smile was valiant and sad. “I know why you ask, and I suppose it is good to do so.” He paused a moment as he looked at Alberospetrale and Nembosanguinoso. “I believe that if I shirked my duty to you and this battle I could never deem myself worthy to hold a sword again. Surely there is no fight more honorable than this one.”
Alberospetrale had overheard this, and now he turned to Lodovico with an expression that was almost a smile on his noble face. “Yes, what you say is good, Ariosto. If you will bring this fire to the battle, then the warriors of frost and flint cannot stand against you, or against any who also hold that fire within them.”
Beside the King of the Cérocchi, Nembosanguinoso lifted his head, and though he obviously could not understand the words, yet something of their sense was communicated to him, and he raised his head with pride.
“I can only pray that God will give me the strength and courage to be worthy of your praise, good King.” He bowed his head and saw the jewels in his collar of the Order of San Basilio glisten in the sunlight.
Then the doors of Santissimo Redentore were flung open and the great procession emerged to the accompaniment of trumpets, organ, and the singing of sweet-voiced boys.
To the east of Nuova Genova the campfires of the warriors glared in the night like the eyes of wild animals. Lodovico paced the ramparts of the city with Falcone, his eyes looking beyond the ragged patches of light to the vast blackness of the great forest. “How close do you think they’ve come, my friend?”
“Close enough,” Falcone said. He was wrapped in a long cloak of white deerskin that was embroidered with his falcon insignia. He looked older in this uncertain light, as if the coming of battle had tempered and aged him between dawn and sunset.
“Do you think there will be more companies arriving? You have said that messengers went out to more than a dozen cities.” He remembered the way the runners had set off and once again he admired their boundless courage.
“We don’t know how many of them reached their destinations,” Falcone reminded him in somber tones. “And what they found when they arrived. We will not know for some time yet, I think. Until you are willing to get your mount and fly over the forests.”
The night wind smelled of the ocean, of distance and salt. It came fresh from the breakers that pawed at the beach, rushed through Nuova Genova, then ruffled the campfires of the warrior companies before hurrying into the trees, spreading excitement as it went. Lodovico drew his soldier’s cloak more tightly around his shoulders. “I must do that at first light,” he said, as much to himself as Falcone. “Bellimbusto has been fed and is ready to fly. I wish that there were time to get you another such mount. Two of us in the air would be better than one.”
“And I long to ride him,” Falcone confessed with a half-smile.
“I know. Well, we must hope that there will be time to get you your own horse.” He turned away from the fires and the dark toward the city. There were bits of carnival sounds in the night, and pockets of torchlight showed that the revels had not yet ceased. “It is good that the men have this chance for pleasure, but I hope that they will not drink too much,” Lodovico said a few moments later as he and Falcone passed over the roof of a busy tavern.
Falcone’s thoughts were similar to Lodovico’s. “I was just thinking that I wish it had been possible to marry Aureoraggio before we left to fight.”
At the mention of that name, Lodovico’s hands tightened and a tremor compounded of desire and rage shook him. “Yes,” he said when he was certain he could speak without betraying himself to his friend, “I know what it is to long for the embrace of love. When death is so near, then love is with it. I struck down a man in battle once,” he went on in a different tone in order to put out of his mind the shining vision of Aureoraggio, “who begged me to carry a message to a woman he had known many years. He said that he had always loved her, but had never found the chance to tell her, and now that he was dying, he wished that he had spoken. When I found this woman and gave her the message, she wept and asked me why he had remained silent, for she had loved him with her life and had been afraid to let him know.” He shook his head slowly. The thought of Aureoraggio had not left him. He saw her face in his mind even as he recalled the tears in that haughty Austrian woman’s eyes as he brought her the dying wish of her friend. Would he, he wondered, send such a message to Aureoraggio? Should he speak to her now, and be
g her to say nothing to Falcone? No, no. He knew he must not. It would be too great a burden to place on those fragile shoulders. His love was not welcome, was not lawful, and for that, he knew he must keep his silence though it gnaw like a rat in his vitals.
“Ariosto,” Falcone said sharply, and frowned as Lodovico turned his burning eyes on him.
“My mind…was elsewhere,” he said thickly, and forced himself to grin. “My wife, Alessandra, has often complained that in my worst moments, I am no better than those men below us.”
“Ah. You miss her comfort. She is a long way from here.” The sympathy in Falcone’s eyes was so genuine that for an instant Lodovico thought himself a traitor to this honorable Cérocchi.
“Yes, she is a long way from here.” Lodovico turned away to hide the expression he knew was on his face. His next words were muffled. “The comfort of love—how I long for it.”
“That is the poet in you,” Falcone said in an attempt to lighten Lodovico’s mood.
“That is the man in me, Falcone. As it is in you.” He choked back the confession that threatened to spill out of him. He would not share that burden, he reminded himself with inner fury. His passion was secret and must remain secret until his life was gone. Quite suddenly he turned on his heel and strode away down the ramparts, calling back to Falcone, “I must see to my men. I fear they will be too far gone in drink unless I am them now, and they must not begin a march with aching, dull heads. I will speak to you again at first light.”
Falcone did not answer, but stared after him, marveling at how well Ariosto carried his responsibilities, and wishing that he, too, possessed that calm, self-sufficient bravery that made Ariosto the hero he was.
La Realtà
Below and to the south Firenze lay like a child’s toy. Lodovico leaned on the wall that surrounded the villa’s garden and stared down at the red-tile roofs. The afternoon was hot so that the air sang with it, and even the breeze was still. Only the lazy splash of the fountain broke the high, singing silence.
Stripped to his stiff-padded hose and shirt, Virginio drowsed under an ancient laurel. A book lay open on his chest, the Latin title stamped on the spine declaring that the forces in nature cannot be denied. Lodovico read these words, studied his son’s sleeping face, noticing the first darkening shadow on his upper lip. Very softly, so as not to wake Virginio, Lodovico laughed.
A crunch of footsteps on the gravel path claimed his attention and he moved quickly to find out who had come to see him.
“Lodovico,” Damiano called, frowning as he was motioned to be silent. “There is someone here?”
“Only Virginio. He’s asleep.” Lodovico pointed to a bench some distance along the wall. He could feel the smile that stretched over his face, and tried not to be too delighted that his patron had come to talk to him. Over the last month he had seen Damiano but once before. That had been a hurried meeting in Firenze before he had left for the villa and at that time il Primàrio seemed distracted and brusque. Now there was a welcoming embrace and a Medici grin as well as a stifled laugh the sleeping youth.
“I hope that isn’t how he plans to study,” Damiano said softly as he allowed Lodovico to lead him to the bench. “I know he wants to absorb learning, but I doubt that’s the best way.”
Lodovico sank onto the bench, suddenly aware that his old guarnacca was not really suitable for entertaining il Primàrio, and he began to apologize.
“Sweet Virgin, don’t speak so. I’m dressed for hunting, myself,” he said, pointing out his drab giaquetta and straight-collared shirt. “I must say, I like this French fashion in high boots.” His were of soft doeskin that were held up by straps that tied to his belt. “We went through brush this morning, and I’ve learned the worth of these for my shins. Not a scratch on me.” He leaned back, propping his elbows against the top of the wall behind him. “A pleasant place, Lodovico. How do you like it now?”
Puzzled, Lodovico looked away over the little garden toward the fountain. “As you say, it is pleasant.”
“You are getting work done?” Damiano’s eyes were squinted against the sun, revealing nothing of his thoughts.
“A fair amount. Not as much as I had hoped, but…” He gestured inconclusively. “Alessandra is overjoyed. She likes raising poultry and growing herbs.”
“And Virginio, I see, is given over to study.” Again he gave his wide, thin-lipped grin.
“As you see.” Lodovico smiled because it was expected of him, but his eyes were vague.
“Have you decided which school he is to attend?” Damiano asked after a moment.
“Paris. I think it might be well for him to see another country and Germany is out of the question. They’re almost as bad as Spain.” What was it that Damiano wanted of him? Lodovico wondered.
“I had a report from Guicciardini last week. He says that the followers of that heretic Luther burned another one of Savonarola’s monks’ schools. I must say,” he went on with a hint of a sigh, “I am glad that grandfather had Savonarola thrown out of Firenze when he, did. He was quite mad. The Germans are welcome to him.”
“He’s very old,” Lodovico pointed out. “When he dies, his followers will lose heart or go over to Luther.” It was a popular belief, one espoused by Cosimo, Cardinale Medici.
“Where is the improvement? Instead of fighting among each other, they will be fighting everyone else.” Damiano’s voice had grown sharp and Lodovico saw the long-fingered hands tighten on his belt.
“Is that what Guicciardini thinks?” He did not know what Damiano wanted of him, so he echoed what he heard, wishing he dared to ask il Primàrio what was disturbing him.
“He is not pleased. Those damned German princes are up to something again, and this time they’re talking to Spain about it, whatever it is. There’ve been meetings at some schloss in Saxony. Ever since the Habsburgs settled the Bohemian question, they’ve been pushing for an alliance with Spain. With themselves to head it, of course.” He added this last with unaccustomed bitterness.
“But Spain is under interdict. Surely Clemente would promulgate a Bull…”
Damiano drew a long, weary breath. “If Luther’s followers have their way, Germany will be under interdict as well. I don’t think we can hope that Luther’s followers will take on the entire might of the Spanish Dominicans.” He turned his eyes toward the fountain, his face blank. “Nails of Christ, what am I to do?”
That softly voiced question disturbed Lodovico more than any outburst would have. He tried to find a comforting phrase or two, but they eluded him.
“France has already sent envoys to the Sforzas in Milano. There is the gentle suggestion that Milano withdraw from la Federazione and ally with France. Il Duca hasn’t answered yet, but he may accept. He’s angry enough to do it. Venezia has refused to quarter Milanese troops. Foscari has said that he would as soon have the horse if he must have the Trojans.” He reached over absentmindedly and pulled a branch from the shrub by the wall and began to tear the leaves from it. “Genova has also been approached and il Doge is still fuming about what he thinks was a slight when the English were here. He was honorable enough to send me a note about the French. Ercole Barbabianca be a pompous ass, but he is an honest one.” One of the twigs was bare now and Damiano began on another. “I wish I knew who informed Foscari and Barbabianca about the English visit. Someone is working against me.” He flung the little branch away quite suddenly.
Though the afternoon was hot and still, Lodovico felt a chill go through him as he looked at il Primàrio. “Surely there was no secret. You stated that it was an unofficial…”
Damiano cut him short. “Yes. I explained my reasons, and I thought that the matter was obvious enough. But somehow my Ducas and Doges and Princes don’t believe me. And at least one of these men has hinted that he has his information on excellent authority.”
“The Pope?” His Holiness was the only authority in Italia Federata who wielded more power than his cousin.
“I don’t think
so. My various cousins in the Church don’t think so, unless they mention Cosimo, who is certainly feeding the flames. He makes no secret of that.” Damiano got abruptly to his feet. “There must be someone…German? French? Spanish? If la Federazione were ended, they could pick the bones of Italia together.” He began to pace, his feet grinding on the loose pebbles of the walkway. “This morning, Paolo brought me word that he caught the understeward passing notes to one of the d’Este’s grooms. D’Este! I can’t go to Ferrara and demand an explanation. D’Este’s my friend.” His voice caught and he stood still a moment. “Or he professes to be my friend. So does Barbabianca. Perhaps Foscari is the more truthful, because he offers no false.”
Lodovico stared at Damiano, thinking that he ought to do something or say something that would solace the man. He stammered a few words, then closed his mouth as Damiano began to speak again.
“All the time we were hunting, I was trying to make sense of this. I very nearly took a bad fall on a jump a novice could handle. That’s when I decided to come here. You won’t carry tales. Thank San Dismo you’re not a politician.” His hands slapped his sides. “I am to a point where I guard what I say in confession for fear it will work against la Federazione.”
“Damiano,” Lodovico said, unable to hide his shock. “You cannot do…”
“Graziella says that I do not talk in my sleep, and for that I am grateful, but Minetta told me once that I did. I have given her a house in Ravenna and enough money for her to be comfortable the rest of her life. What else could I do?” He ran one hand through his hair. “There are times I fear that I am going distracted. What sort of trust is it that cannot survive a visit of the English?” His laughter was a little wild and Lodovico felt a new sting of alarm within him. “Lodovico I pray you, with all my heart”—there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice—”do not doubt me. Don’t stare at me that way. And for the Passion, don’t pity me.”
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