Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “What is it?” Falcone inquired, looking impatiently toward the huddled group of Cérocchi warriors waiting for him.

  “This man Ariosto saved the life of my friend. Both of us would like to march with him. We know that you have every right to refuse this request, but I implore you to let us to do this. How else can we vindicate our honor, but to fight beside the man who has done so much for us?” He did not expect an answer to his question, for he knew that Falcone could not deny him.

  “You have two more men for your column,” Falcone told Lodovico after he had translated the request. “Nettocchio and Accettafosco want to fight with you. I advise you to take them. It’s a matter of obligation. They wish to pay the debt they owe you.”

  Lodovico had understood a few words of the Cicora and he weighed the problem. “There is the question language,” he said cautiously. “In battle I cannot wait for a translator to give them my orders.” He stared at Nettocchio. “My orders will be in your tongue or in Italian. They…”

  Nettocchio interrupted. “I know some Cérocchi. So does Accettafosco. Simple orders are no problem. Put us with a few Cérrochi and we will do well enough.”

  When this had been explained, Lodovico considered again. “It may be possible.”

  It was Falcone who hit upon the solution. “I will give you four of my men as your guard. It will be a great tribute to them. We will have Nettocchio and Accettafosco come with them, and everyone will be satisfied. If you are satisfied.”

  “It is fine with me,” Lodovico consented. “Have your men report to me as soon as possible. And, if you are willing, I would like to have Nebbiamente with my column.”

  “Not Fumovisione?” Falcone asked, surprised. “I thought you’d want…”

  “Nebbiamente,” Lodovico said firmly. “He is a strange one, no doubt, but I think that he see things the rest of us cannot. On the northernmost column, we may have need of his special gifts. And you will have to keep Fumovisione near Cifraaculeo or expose yourself to added hazard. There is no telling what Anatrecacciatore might try to do once he realizes what we’re attempting.” His smile was more of a courageous show of teeth than an expression of humor. “Let me have Nebbiamente. He will be better with us.”

  “As you wish,” Falcone agreed, and motioned to Nettocchio. “You will have your chance. Come with me.” Falcone nodded to Lodovico and turned away toward the waiting soldiers.

  Shortly thereafter, Lodovico had moved to the north side of the army and was busy with the job of getting his column in order.

  When the army had stopped at midday, it had regrouped while the meal was eaten and the captains conferred. Falcone had worried about the slowness of their progress, but Lodovico took a more heartening view of the matter.

  “These are rough hills,” he reminded the Cérocchi Prince, “and we have had to move more cautiously in this terrain. When moving in columns, progress is less apparent because the lines are strung out so far, yet, I assure you, we are doing well. One more range of hills and we will be at the valley where the warriors of flint and frost await us. By this time tomorrow we will all have tasted battle.” He looked somber. “Do well to think of that, my friend. Battle is the great test, the true test of courage. If you are to lead us, you must be ready for the fight.”

  “I am,” Falcone said without hesitation. “I long for this battle, to face at last this enemy who has been so deadly. It will give me true satisfaction to see his soldiers bleed and die.”

  “Do these warriors of Anatrecacciatore bleed?” Lodovico asked.

  “Or die? I will find out presently.” His mouth was set in a firm line, and he began to walk toward the fire where a meal of trout and pork simmered on spits.

  Lodovico hung back. “If you do not object, Falcone, I want to take to the air. It would be bad for us to encounter the warriors before we are prepared for battle, and I think it may be possible that we’re being observed more closely than we realize.”

  “Do as you must,” Falcone declared, and then softened his brusqueness. “I welcome any intelligence you bring us, for to be truthful, I am apprehensive about our position. An hour ago Cifraaculeo screamed out once and Fumovisione declared that we had crossed a barrier.”

  “What sort of barrier?” Lodovico wondered, and resolved to speak to Nebbiamente about it before he took, Bellimbusto aloft.

  “He could not tell me.” Falcone’s eyes grew hard.

  The power of fear, Lodovico thought, and in his heart he prayed that God would lend him courage and fortitude to face whatever lay ahead. He no longer had his guarnacca with the metal scales, for the sucking mud had ruined it, but he had donned a breastplate and hoped fervently that it would be enough. He could not expect Bellimbusto to carry more weight if he were to able to fly in battle. “Perhaps if you ask him again or ask the others?”

  “Perhaps.” Falcone walked away toward the fire.

  Nebbiamente stood beside Bellimbusto, his hand caressing the feathered neck. “ He is a wonder,” he said to Lodovico without turning around.

  “That he is,” Lodovico concurred. “It is one of the great joys of my life that I have had such a mount.”

  “Surely there are other joys?” Nebbiamente protested gently, his long, thin arms moving expressively. “One who has seen as much as you have must have learned…”

  Lodovico’s brilliant eyes filled with stern amusement. You’ve traveled in realms far stranger than any I have known, and what have you learned: to enjoy the few treasures of life, as I have. You value honor and the love of comrades. Bellimbusto is such a comrade.”

  “An excellent point,” Nebbiamente said rather vaguely, “You will fly today?”

  “Yes. We must know how much nearer the warriors of flint and frost have come. Your special sight would be useful now, good man. I need every advantage I can find.” He moved around the hippogryph to check the girths and bridle. “Any protection your skill might bestow would be most welcome.”

  There was an amused turn to Nebbiamente’s lips. “I understand that your god is known for his jealousy. Might not my aid work against you in his eyes?”

  Lodovico had pulled a portion of dried meat from his ample wallet, and this he offered to Bellimbusto, who took it in one gilded claw and nibbled at it daintily. “There are those who think that, certainly, but I hope that the other opinion is correct. It is also said of God that He is merciful and forgiving. I doubt that He could object to my arming myself with all the protection available.”

  “In that case…” Nebbiamente stood back and made a few, peculiar passes with his hands. A dreamy look had come over his face and he whispered bits of words as he began to circle Bellimbusto and Lodovico. His smile became beatific.

  Bellimbusto raised his head from the morsel clasped in his talons and gave Nebbiamente a long, even stare. Then he finished the meat and lowered his head, as if in tribute. His bronze-and-black wings were held bowed out from his body and his large eyes glittered.

  “He approves of whatever you’re doing,” Lodovico observed, and saw that Nebbiamente had not heard him. He shrugged and reached for the reins. Then, with a lithe and graceful movement, he swung up into the high-fronted saddle. From this vantage point he looked down at the sweet-faced priest. “I thank you, Nebbiamente. It may be that I will not return, for our enemies grow stronger. If I do not, will you do what you can to see that the priests of my God know I am lost so that they may offer their prayers on my behalf?”

  Some of the somnambulistic vagueness left Nebbiamente’s face. “Yes, I will do that, if I am alive.” He made another strange gesture, then stood back as Bellimbusto spread his wings.

  Bellimbusto flew quickly, sensing his master’s urgency, his enormous wings resonant as drums as he clove through the sky. Twice he shied when birds drew near, each time giving a distressed cry that was echoed in Lodovico’s heart.

  The last ridges were quickly traversed, and then Lodovico could see the wide valley of two rivers where thought the battleground would b
e.

  But at first he did not recognize it. Gone were the beautiful fruit trees and the gardenlike tranquility. Now the place was arid, blighted by the awesome, unnatural beings that fought for Anatrecacciatore. The earth beneath him was barren and the few trees still standing were like the flayed victims of the cruel Moors of old, for they had been stripped of fruit, flower, leaf and bark. Lodovico gazed down in horror at the desolation that had so utterly blasted the beauty of that broad valley. His chestnut eyes grew dark with anguish and tears as he saw the inexorable annihilation of the land. Off to the south, a straggling group of the warriors of flint and frost razed the last of the flowering shrubs, and as they passed on, the grasses withered.

  Quite suddenly, Lodovico came to himself. It was necessary that he return at once to Falcone. The battle could not be fought here, for the splendid valley was already lost. The only hope now was to occupy the highest ridge and defend it to the last man. He twitched the rein, and Bellimbusto, eager to obey, canted down the sky and soared over the grim line of Anatrecacciatore’s hideous army.

  As the shadow of the hippogryph touched the soldiers, a number of them looked up. Lodovico could not hear if words were exchanged, but in the next moment, three stone-tipped arrows were soaring aloft.

  Bellimbusto shied and evaded the arrows, but he had lost altitude in the maneuver and was well within range of bow shot. The warriors below did not wait, but launched another volley, and Lodovico heard the cry of Bellimbusto as an arrow grazed his flank. A moment later, his own cheek stung as another arrow shot by. Lodovico put a gloved hand to his face and drew it away. There was a great deal of blood on the embroidered leather. He wiped impatiently at his face and dragged on the rein to bring Bellimbusto around and out of danger.

  More arrows raced skyward, but by now, Bellimbusto was in a steep upward climb, hooves, talons and wings all seeming to claw their way higher into the sky.

  A last, spent arrow nicked Lodovico’s shoulder, and then they were beyond the reach of the bows of the unnatural army. Lodovico eased his pressure and shifted his seat so that Bellimbusto could fly horizontally. He turned in the saddle to watch the warriors of flint and frost as they started to make their way up the first line of hills, and he realized with a sinking heart that they would move quickly, ruining all in their path, leaving nothing but bare earth behind them. Lodovico had to admit the advantage of that, for surely Falcone’s army could not advance to fight Anatrecacciatore in his stronghold of the Fortezza Serpente if there was no forest, no cover, no food, no game to support his troops on the march.

  The steady beat of Bellimbusto’s flying was broken and the hippogryph wavered in his course. One wing was dragging, moving sluggishly, and Bellimbusto was beginning to pant. His movements were labored and he began to make an eerie wail with each breath he drew.

  Lodovico tried to calm the great beast with his voice, but Bellimbusto seemed hardly to hear him. At last, as he stared at the wing, he saw that an arrow was lodged in it, and that blood coursed down it, staining the feathers a crimson as intense as the sunset sky before an east wind. Slowly, so as not to give Bellimbusto greater hurt, he signaled him to descend. The hippogryph gratefully slid lower.

  How far was it now to Falcone’s camp? Lodovico asked himself. In all the evasion of arrows, he knew that Bellimbusto had moved off the line of flight Lodovico had tried to maintain, and now he feared they were much too far to the south. He nudged Bellimbusto and the stalwart mount swung to the north, flying painfully as he strove to carry his master to safety.

  La Realtà

  There were three heralds in the Camera della Signoria: one was in the full regalia of Milano, the city arms and the Sforza arms sharing the embroidered splendor of his tabard. The second was from Napoli with the rampant blue lion of the king. The third was from Sicilia, but wearing the arms of the Duca of Calabria—a black wing wielding a red sword on a gold field. They stopped before the dais where Damiano sat, and bowed in recognition of his office. They then performed the same courtesy to the men gathered there. To the far left, the Lion of San Marco identified the Venetians, and the ship and keys to the far right marked the Genovese contingent.

  “What is it you want?” Damiano asked icily. “You’re interrupting a proceeding of la Federazione.”

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” said Muzio Maggio, the herald from Napoli. “I don’t know what the task of our Milanese brother is, but I know that my Siciliano counterpart and I come on a similar errand.” He had the herald’s carrying voice, and in this high-ceilinged room his words were as clear and understandable as if they sat at table. “I come at the behest of my king, who bids me inform you that it is the intention of Napoli to withdraw from la Federazione.

  Damiano regarded the herald Muzio Maggio with amazement and disbelief. “Withdraw from la Federazione? What is this nonsense?”

  “No nonsense, de’ Medici. It is the intention of my master, the King of Napoli, to join with the King Sicilia for the purpose of forming a separate state. My master respectfully submits that the needs of Napoli are not the needs of Firenze or Venezia or Milano. Our fighting men are forever at the beck and call of the north, our merchants are always in competition with those of Genova and Roma. I t is not to our advantage.”

  “And Manrico forgets so soon how the Genovese ships protected his trading fleet from pirates?” Damiano asked gently before turning to the assembly. “This unexpected…development is not part of our agenda, but if you will all agree, I think it would be best to hear these heralds out.”

  From his place at the rear of the room, Lodovico could see the hard glitter of Damiano’s eyes and his throat grew tight in sympathy. Damiano had been prepared for treachery but not for this. He wished he had seen the heralds before they entered so that he could stop them, so that there might have been time to warn Damiano, so that he might have found a way to change their minds. He reminded himself that was foolish for heralds acted at the behest of their masters, not from their own convictions. It might well be that all three men in their heraldic uniforms felt that their mast were mistaken, but it was not the function of their office to say so. Lodovico sunk his chin on his chest and watched.

  There was general assent from the delegation, though Cesare d’Este of Ferrara raised an objection. “If we refuse to hear these men until tomorrow, it could be that our actions will anticipate their grievances and this…gambit will not be necessary.”

  Damiano glanced over the men before him. “D’Este has a point, but I think that it might be well to let to let them speak now. If the Kings of Napoli and Sicilia have already made up their minds, it would seem any redress we might offer comes after the fact.”

  Lodovico wanted to object, though he attended only on Damiano’s sufferance. He wished to plead with the men in the chamber that it was too cruel to ask a man to preside at his own destruction, for without doubt the loss of the south would disrupt la Federazione completely. Italia Federata was Damiano’s faith and sustenance and family. The disgrace of Leone, Arrigo, and Regato was nothing to this.

  Muzio Maggio bowed to the chamber. “In the name of my King, I thank you for granting me the opportunity to deliver the message I am mandated to present.” He looked toward Damiano.

  “Speak, then.” He had leaned back in his chair, an abstract frown creasing between his brows.

  “After consulting the wisest and most experienced men in his realm, and having given the entire question his whole attention, the King of Napoli has, with the knowledge and consent of his advisers, decided to demand the return of his army from the Venetian borders and to withdraw his kingdom, militarily, mercantilely, legislatively and scholastically, from Italia Federata and to form with the King of Sicilia a separate and distinct alliance under terms more satisfactory to the King’s Majesty.” At the conclusion of this speech, Muzio Maggio offered a lavishly sealed scroll to Damiano. My master commands me to present this document to you, saying that it contains precisely the same message I have just delivered
and carries the full weight of his will.”

  Damiano stared at the scroll as if he had never seen one before and did not know what to do with it. He laid his staff of office beside the sealed document and said distantly, “I will inspect it…later. I will have to consult my Console, for unlike your King, I need more than my own will in order to act for la Federazione.”

  In the Venetian delegation, Ezio Foscari had been listening with increasing agitation. In the silence that greeted Damiano’s remark, Ezio got to his feet. “So Napoli wishes to withdraw her troops from what calls the Venetian borders. Those are Italia’s borders. They are perilous. We have Slavs and Turks and Bulgars to contend with there. We need an army twice the size of the one we have now. And I remind all the delegates and the heralds that it is Venetian gold that pays the soldiers.” He looked around him, turning from one group to another. “Do you remember what it was like before the truce? We keep that truce with honor but we protect it with arms.” His next appeal was to Ercole Barbabianca, who was dressed in his robes of state. “How many skirmishes did you have with France before la Federazione made it possible for you to defend your borders? Genova was in danger of being a French province, a vassal of a foreign King. If any kingdom principate, duchy, county, republic or municipality is intact in this country, it is because of la Federata. If you are all so short-sighted that you cannot see that, then we are lost.” He stared at Damiano as if he might say more, then sat down and refused to acknowledge the cheers that greeted his words.

  “And you? Is your message the same?” Damiano asked, his voice slightly thickened, of the Sicilian herald.

  “Essentially it is the same,” the herald affirmed.

  “Is any detail significantly different that it would require you to recite the contents of that scroll you are unquestionably going to present to me?” His hand had tightened on his staff of office and Lodovico wondered if Damiano might be tempted to use it as a cudgel.

  “The documents are very nearly identical, de’ Medici. If you like, I will forgo the recitation if I am assured that the Console will be formally presented with the scroll and it will be read before sunset tomorrow.” He offered the scroll to Damiano, who took it as if it were venomous.