Away to the left there was the sound of other waders and in a moment it was possible to see a party of Cicora soldiers coming along the edge of the marsh. There were six men, two with sacks giving ample evidence that the men had caught a great many ducks. One of the men lifted a hand in lackadaisical greeting. The others were less cordial.
“We’re still foreigners to them,” Massamo growled to Lodovico, with no attempt to lower his voice. “I know they’re good enough fighters, but what will happen in battle, that’s what I want to know. I don’t mind taking on these wizards and supernatural warriors so long as there are loyal men at my back.”
Lodovico watched the Cicora men in the gloom and kept his thoughts to himself. If only he did not share Massamo’s fear! It was well enough with most of the Cérocchi, but there were so many others, and Lodovico could not deny the apprehension that very nearly overwhelmed him. He tried to recall the problems he had had with the Turkish fighters he had taken with his expedition against the Great Mandarin, but had to admit that he could not offer these troops the plunder that had so attracted the Turks. He did not want to burden Falcone with the problem, for the Cérrochi Prince had much on his mind, and was still new to battle.
There was a shout from the Cicora band, and a flurry of activity. Then one of the men screamed out for help. Lodovico exchanged a quick look with Massamo, then sprinted out of the water. “You take the ducks back to camp and bring help,” he called to the Lanzi captain. “I will do what I can here.”
Massamo started to protest, then shrugged massively and began to slog off toward the shore, his high boots making a sound not unlike large frogs.
By the time Massamo had set foot on the bank, Lodovico had reached the Cicora, calling to gain their attention as he approached. “Good fighters he addressed them as he lessened his pace. “What has happened here?” He was hampered, he knew, by his inexpert command of their language, but he had already decided that it would be better to speak in their tongue than in Cérocchi, in which he had by now become quite fluent.
The nearest of the Cicora turned, distressed. “Our companion,” he cried, pointing out a dim figure thrashing in the mud some little distance beyond them, “has been seized by the sucking earth.”
The others nodded in agreement and the man in the mud cried out in a doleful wail.
“What is the sucking earth?” Lodovico was not entirely certain that he understood the word correctly. Sucking earth sounded very strange to him, though it did remind him of the dangerous sands in the desserts of the Orient where he had wandered not so long ago. There he had seen those stretches of sand, in no visible way different from any other area of sand, where, if man or beast set foot, he would be dragged down to a slow and terrible death of suffocation. He went quickly to the edge of the mud, heedless of the warning of the Cicora. In the desert, he had learned that it was possible to save men from the sands, and so it might be possible to save the man in the mud.
“Do not, Ariosto…” the nearest of the men cautioned him.
But already Lodovico was pulling off his scaled guarnacca. It was a cool night and he was half soaked. “Hold my feet,” he ordered tersely.
Two of the Cicora glanced at each other as if to disavow any idea this clearly deranged foreigner might profess.
“If that is your wish,” the man beside him assented dubiously.
“I’ll need one man on each leg,” he went on, ignoring the protestations that rose from the warriors. “Hold them firmly, and if I tell you to pull, then pull me hard as you can away from the mud.” He did not wait any longer, but dropped to his knees and began to stretch out in the direction of the man who was by now deeper than his waist in the hideous bog. Carefully Lodovico slithered forward until he could feel the consistency of the mud change to a treacherous, jellylike, smooth and unstable surface. He stopped at once and lay spread-eagled on the clammy mud.
“Ariosto.” The Cicora who had spoken to him before sounded impossibly distant, as if speaking over miles of open water instead of two arm lengths of marsh.
“My feet!” Lodovico shouted, and murmured a brief prayer that the warriors would do as he told them. “Hang on. Now!”
The Cicora obeyed him, reluctantly.
The next maneuver, he knew, was the most difficult and the most essential. If he failed in it, he would not only lose the man flailing at the air not far from him, but he might be trapped the same way himself. He clutched his guarnacca, and, holding the cuff of one sleeve firmly in his hand, he swung the rest of the garment so that it might reach out to the man.
At first the garment fell short, but, undaunted, Lodovico mustered his strength to try again. He felt his skin growing cold from the wet that had soaked through his shirt and hose and calzebrache. He tossed the guarnacca again and almost lost his hold on it. He could hear the men behind him mutter among themselves, and it seemed as if the grip on one of his ankles lessened.
“Hold fast!” he shouted and swung the guarnacca with all his might.
The garment arched through the air, the metallic scales shining in the muted light from the Cicora’s lantern. It fell swift and true, the cuff of the sleeve landing within reach of the man caught in the mud.
The Cicora gasped and one of them uttered words that, though Lodovico did not understand them, could only be an oath. “We are holding you,” the leader of the group assured Lodovico, and the tightness of the hands on his knees and ankles attested eloquently to this.
“You,” Lodovico said to the trapped man, not allowing himself to be distracted from his purpose by the enthusiasm of the men behind him. “You must take the end of the sleeve, just there.” He waited, tense, while the man scrabbled for the cuff. His chest was growing icy from the dampness. “Have you got it yet?”
The man nodded frantically, and rasped out a few garbled words. “He has it,” the spokesman of the group interpreted.
“Very well,” Lodovico said, deciding that it would be best for the man in the mud to hear the instructions plainly and in his own language. “Tell him that I am going to start to pull him toward me. I will pull very slowly at first. Tell him that he must do nothing. All that is necessary is that he maintain his hold on the sleeve. Be certain he understands.”
The Cicora relayed this, and there was an anxious burst of words from the trapped man. “He says that he is still sinking.”
“I am aware of that,” Lodovico responded as calmly as he could. “Tell him that it is not important and that it will not be for long.”
The man did as he was told, then said to Lodovico, “What must we do now?”
“Hold me until I tell you otherwise. Do not let me slip.” It was perilous now, he realized. The first tugs were the most difficult, and the most essential. If the mud had not gripped him too completely, it would be a routine matter to pull him from it. Lodovico knew that it was senseless to jerk at the guarnacca. It would not help the trapped man and it might tear the sleeves off the garment. He drew the sleeve toward him until he felt the cloth grow taut, then he began slowly increasing the pressure. “Don’t let me move!” he ordered the men holding him. He felt the first, slight shift that told him the man was no longer sinking. Lodovico took heart and dragged on the guarnacca with more force than he had dared use at first.
The trapped man shouted something, shook his head wildly and tried to scramble out of the mud.
“No!” Lodovico cried out, and felt himself start to slip toward the ominous stretch of quivering dampness. “Hang on!”
There were frantic hands on him and a hubble of voices.
Lodovico slid a little farther and he felt his elbows start to sink, a gentle, seductive plucking from the ravenous marsh. Then he very nearly released the cuff he held. He could hear the trapped man shriek terribly, but it was a temptation that came from his fear. To sink down in that! Only the knowledge that he would condemn the man on the other end of the guarnacca to just such a hideous death kept his fingers closed tightly on the fabric. He had stopped movin
g now, but for the sliding of his elbows. “Do you have me?” he called, glad that he could keep his words steady.
“Yes,” came the prompt answer, from a voice that was strained and unnaturally high.
“Good. Now, tell that man that he must not move again. He must lie still. If he moves again, I don’t know whether I will be able to pull him out.” He gradually pulled the guarnacca taut again while the Cicora explained to his trapped friend what had been said. “Are you certain that he will not move?” He asked the question in trepidation. He doubted if he could sustain another such disruption.
“He will lie still,” the man behind him said with cold authority.
“Excellent. He wrapped the end of the sleeve more tightly around his hands. “We try again.” The sweat on his brow was as gelid and slimy as the mud around him, but Lodovico hardly noticed it. All his concentration went into the strength of his arms, of that steady pressure that would mean the difference between life and death to the horrified Cicora warrior in the sucking mud. His breath hissed over his clenched teeth as he strove to keep up the hauling force.
First there was a sound like a kiss, then another, more like a belch. The jellylike surface of the marsh shuddered, and the trapped man began to reappear. His hands were locked in the sleeve and his face was set in a grimace worse than the rictus of death.
At last the man was out as far as his hips and Lodovico, seeing this, yelled with all the energy left in him: “Pull!”
The Cicora who held him obeyed at once. They dragged him back, over the mud and marsh grass, towing him and their comrade away from the mud and well onto the solid ground, coming to rest only when Lodovico’s shin bounced against an exposed tree root.
The man who had been trapped lay on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest. He shook as if gripped by ague and in the feeble light of the lantern, his skin appeared to be the color of slate.
A commotion nearby attracted the attention of the little group before Lodovico could suggest ways in which the rescued man might be revived. There was a clatter of breaking branches and twigs trod underfoot, and then a large company of men burst upon the scene.
First of their number was Massamo Fabroni, his wide face shiny with sweat and worry. Immediately behind him came Falcone, who, judging from his well-soaked leggings, had just returned from catching ducks himself. Lodovico could also make out Nebbiamente’s benign features, and Lungobraccio’s distinctive armor.
“Ariosto!” Falcone shouted, and hurried forward.
In the next moment, everyone began to speak, after the cacophony had crescendoed unbearably, Lodovico shouted for quiet. “There is a man hurt here!” He raised his arms as he shouted and now, he saw that his shirt was caked with mud. Looking down, he had to laugh. “Nome del Dio,” he said. “I look as if I just crawled out of the grave.”
“That isn’t humorous,” Falcone snapped.
“Of course it is. It is only when you cannot laugh that the joke is gone.” He turned toward the man huddled on the ground. “This man knows that better than any of you, but he came too close to be able to laugh. He’s a very brave soldier.” Lodovico went down on one knee beside the man. “It is over,” he said gently, and tried to pry the straining hands from the sleeve of his guarnacca.
“We foolishly had not brought our nets,” the Cicora who had spoken to Lodovico was saying to Falcone. “When we were returning from the hunt, we grew careless and Accettafosco was caught by the death-well.”
The rest of the Cicora party, hearing this, added their impressions and then let the man continue. “We were at a loss, for in the dark we did not know how far it was to be safe to venture without being similarly trapped.”
“Accettafosco,” Lodovico said quietly to the fallen man, “you are safe. You are free.”
“If it were not for Ariosto, surely our comrade would already be hunting with his ancestors. While we debated among ourselves how best to proceed, this good man stripped off his garment and was crawling toward Accettafosco.” At this confession, he looked abashed.
The men with Massamo and Falcone stared at Lodovico as he rose from the prostrate figure. “I know I am a fright, covered with mud as I am,” he said with a hesitant smile, “but I trust you will excuse me.” He looked at all the warriors gathered in the narrow clearing. “Accettafosco must be bathed and warmed, and I would like the same for myself. And,” he added diffidently, “if one of you would be kind enough—though I would not blame you for refusing—to lend me a cloak. I am soaked through and I’m quite cold.”
Falcone signaled imperiously. “Any man here would be honored to have you accept his cloak.” He turned to the Cicora warrior. “Nettocchio, I charge you with the task of caring for Accettafosco. See that he is bathed at once. We will march at midnight, so he must be ready by then.” As he rapped out these instructions, he drew his own cloak from around his shoulders.
“My Prince,” Lodovico said as it was held out for him, “I cannot. It will be ruined.”
“Take it, take it,” Falcone insisted before turning to those who had accompanied him and Massamo Fabroni. “I have heard mutterings from some of you, whispers that we are not to trust the Italians who fight beside us. There are those of you who think that they would abandon us at the first real danger. Is there any of you who believe that now?” His piercing eyes challenged them all to answer. “Come, I give you the opportunity. He extended his hand as if offering consent to any who came forth. “No one? Not one of you thinks that Ariosto is a fraud and a coward? Yet I have heard those words, I thought. How was it I was so misled?”
Lodovico felt a great humility possess him. He held Falcone’s cloak in front of him, staring at the fine doeskin and splendid ornaments on it. He felt that his presence sullied it, and turned to Massamo. “My friend, may I have your cape?”
The Lanzi captain goggled. “A Prince’s cape is better than mine,” he sputtered.
“But I am a soldier, not a Prince,” Lodovico pointed out with a gentle smile. “Your cape is more fitting.”
Falcone began an amazed protest, but Lodovico handed back the beautiful cloak. “If, at the end of the battle, you wish me to have it, then give it to me. For the test of valor will be passed and we will be wholly aware of whether such an honor is merited.”
Reluctantly, Falcone took his cape. “It will be as you wish. At the end of the battle, if we both are both still alive, it will be yours.”
Lodovico smiled gratefully at the Cérocchi prince. “I thank you, Falcone. He was already sliding Massamo’s cape about his shoulders. “Soldiers’ cape endure much abuse, and this will make little difference.” Then, quite suddenly, he wiped his hands as clean as he could on the sides of his thighs, then put one hand on Falcone’s shoulder, the other on Massamo’s. “Look at us,” he said, amusement glinting in his fine chestnut eyes. “What foe can overcome men like you?”
“Or like you?” both men responded at once, and, all three caught in the heartening glow of brotherhood, they went together through the crowd out of the clearing by the marsh, accompanied by the cheers of their men the muffled quacking of ducks.
La Realtà
Amid the gorgeous velvets and brocades, the man was conspicuous for the absolute simplicity of his white woolen lucco. Carmelo di Lozza walked the length of the banquet hall of the Palazzo Pitti, looking straight ahead, apparently unaware of the susurrus of whispered speculation around him. He was not more than twenty-five; his hair was clipped raggedly short to demonstrate his humility and renunciation of worldly vanities. Yet what there was of his hair was flaxen blond and it glistened like a halo. His face was as aloof and as beautiful as a Botticelli saint, and his eyes were deep, serene pools of cerulean blue.
“Why doesn’t he complete the allusion and wear a crown of thorns?” a voice in the crowd sniggered loudly.
From his place by the sideboard where he was pouring wine for Margaret Roper, Damiano spoke sharply. “I have given instructions to you all that there will be no disrespec
t. If you cannot abide by that, you must leave.” He let his voice drop back to normal conversational levels, though in the sudden quiet it carried throughout the hall. “There you are, Margharita. Italia Federata has no finer vintage to offer you.”
Margaret was already flushed and the rosy hue deepened. “I am sure it is superb.”
“God rewards true faith,” Damiano responded impishly. “I trust our vintners can do as well.” He was resplendent tonight in a long farsetto of sea-green silken damask over narrow, knee-length slashed Venetians. Two years before, the high Spanish ruffs had been all the rage, but since Clemente had put Spain under interdict, the fashion had changed and now Damiano showed himself at its forefront with a wide, ruffled collar of French lace. His silk leggings were held by embroidered garters fastened below the knee, and he was shod in soft, duck-billed slippers. He allowed Carmelo di Lozza to catch his attention at last.
“I was summoned,” di Lozza said. He had a beautiful voice, as well, and he was clever enough to use it.
“Yes.” Damiano regarded him steadily. “I’ve heard amazing things about you, di Lozza.”
“And I of you,” was the answer.
Damiano studied the man more closely. “What am I to infer from that remark?” He indicated the impressive gathering. “I have no secrets from these people—and could not have even if I desired a few—and anything you might say to me in private can as well be said here.”
Carmelo di Lozza reluctantly looked around. “I would not change my answer for the convenience your followers, de’ Medici. I am only a tool in the hands of God.” He cast his eyes down. “You cannot awe me with your fine company and your riches and your luxurious viands. I have seen the flight of angels and I know that earth has nothing to compare to it.”
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