Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I don’t know,” Damiano was saying to one of the Strozzi youths. “I was not informed of the nature of the burial services given Davanzati. They are of the Orthodox faith, but I hope that God can translate from the Russian as He does from the Latin. Perhaps the Poles had a priest in their train, in which case, a Mass will have been said. I’ve already dispatched orders to Santa Trinità for Masses for Davanzati, and for prayers for my son.”

  “I’d think you’d be relieved,” another in the group said insolently.“A son like Leone must be an embarrassment.”

  “You’re drunk,” Damiano countered mildly, but Lodovico could see the white around his mouth, and heard the tremor in his voice.

  “Not so drunk that I don’t know a convenient accident when I see one,” the voice shot back, becoming more assertive and louder.

  “Renaldo Tommassini,” Damiano said pleasantly, dangerously, “if you repeat that again tonight, or at any time in the future, you will learn more than you want to know about convenient accidents.”

  At the mention of Tommassini’s name, Lodovico turned quickly, looking into the roistering young men for the speaker. He recognized the man at last, though Tommassini had frizzed and dyed his hair in the current fashion.

  Renaldo Tommassini started to take up the challenge but was quieted by his companions.

  “Damiano,” Lodovico said softly, “Ercole Barbabianca is in the adjoining room with several of his court. They will be eager to see you.”

  “Such tact,” Damiano said, sotto voce, before bidding the young men a pleasant evening. As they crossed the room, he added, “They were harder to face than I thought they would be. That Tommassini…”

  “Did you have a falling out with him?” Lodovico asked, puzzled by what had passed between Damiano and Tommassini.

  “Falling out? I never had a falling in with him. Men of that stamp are not…reliable.” He paused to nod to an elder Gaetani, saying, “You are a long way from Roma, Signor’.”

  “True, but here I am more content. He had the grand manner of the old aristocracy, and though his head was bald and more than half his teeth were missing, he conducted himself with a grace that enchanted Lodovico as he watched him.

  “You are very kind,” Damiano said, touching cheeks with the old man before continuing on with Lodovico.

  “But,” Lodovico said, resuming his question, “if you do not trust Renaldo Tommassini, why did you use him as a messenger?” He could still remember that high- handed young man demanding Sir Thomas’ letters, and he had to fight down the impulse to denounce Tommassini in front of all of Benci’s guests.

  “What do you mean, use him as a messenger? I’ve never employed him in any way.” Damiano had stopped walking and was looking at Lodovico with sudden intensity.

  “But…” Lodovico began, and then saw their host coming toward them. “Not now. We need privacy.”

  Damiano was about to protest, but changed his mind with one crisp nod as he allowed Andrea Benci to catch his attention. “Many of my guests have spoken to me about the signal honor you’ve done me, Primàrio. I wanted to thank you for this tribute. At such a time, it would be wholly understandable if you were to overlook such courteous gestures.”

  “It isn’t flattery alone that brings me here,” Damiano replied with a slight, cynical smile. “There are a few political matters that, like it or not, I must attend to before sunset tomorrow. It will be easier to manage this if I solicit opinions informally rather than wait for the meeting of the Console tomorrow.”

  “Quite sensible,” Andrea concurred, “and yet, I still am honored that you visit me, as you could have easily commanded the presence of the Console at Palazzo Pitti this evening.” He gestured to the banquet hall. “I am sorry that I had not the opportunity to remove the garlands and replace them with wreaths, but…”

  “Under the circumstances, it is not to be expected that you would make such a change.” Damiano indicated the French pinks set out on the sideboards. “It would be a pity to waste those blooms when you must have gone to great effort and expense to procure them.”

  Palazzo Benci was a fairly new structure built south of the Arno near the Porta San Miniato al Monte. It contrived to be both imposing and unassuming, for though the rooms were large, there were few ornamentations on the walls and the furniture was ostentatiously simple. The only displays of extravagance were flowers. Andrea Benci beamed at the sideboards. “Indeed, Primàrio. They were brought from Genova in special cases so that they would bloom at the right time. I am pleased that you noticed.”

  “I noticed,” Damiano assured him, and Lodovico heard the implacable coldness in his voice.

  Apparently Andrea Benci did not, for he went on, “There are not many here who recognize the worth of those flowers, and though it does not become me to say it, I believe that the staggering cost was worth it.”

  “Staggering cost,” Damiano repeated. “You have been more successful than I realized, Benci.”

  At that, Andrea Benci chuckled, though Lodovico thought it rang false. “Not successful, merely careful. I do not waste my gold on fripperies, he said, running his hand down the velvet panels of his long giornea. “I allow myself occasional luxuries, such as those flowers, and for the rest, I keep strict household. I’ve told you my thoughts on the matter before.”

  “Yes, you have.” Damiano moved restlessly, his fingers beating out a tattoo on his leg. “Benci, I wonder if you will be good enough to aid my purposes this evening?”

  The smile that Andrea Benci gave in response to this was genuinely delighted. “Of course, Primàrio. It is my function, is it not, to aid you?”

  “It is,” Damiano agreed at once. “Then, I would appreciate it if you would assign me a withdrawing room or antechamber where I may speak with the Console members attending your festa. That way, I will not interfere with your pleasures and there will be no awkwardness about my mourning attire.” He waited, his face set in mendacious good fellowship, while Andrea Benci considered his request.

  “Yes,” he said a few moments later, “there is a room which is not in use this evening. You have seen it before, I think. There are two tapestries hung in it. It’s on the west side of the building.”

  “I know it,” Damiano said at once. “The room with the tapestries. Excellent. With your permission, I will go there now, and shortly I’ll send Lodovico to summon whomever I need to consult. That way, there will be few interruptions.”

  Benci frowned. “I will gladly put one of my staff at your disposal. There is no need for Ariosto to…”

  “I would prefer that Lodovico do this for me. He has more address than you or I do.” It was blatantly untrue and all three men knew it. Yet there was no way for Benci to deny it without setting himself in opposition to Damiano.

  “Of course, Primàrio,” he said stiffly, and gave a bow. “I will not detain you.” He turned on his heel and strode swiftly away.

  Lodovico watched him, feeling a certain reprehensible triumph within him. He could tell by the set of Benci’s shoulders that the old courtier was furious and dared not express his wrath. He was gloating a little when he saw Renaldo Tommassini approach Andrea Benci. The distance was too great and the company too boisterous to hear what was said, but even Lodovico’s near-sighted eyes could tell that Tommassini was upset. That did not surprise Lodovico, considering what had passed between Damiano and Tommassini such a short time before, but what startled him was the manner in which Andrea Benci responded. It was obvious that Benci did not want to speak with Tommassini, indeed, not want to be seen with him. Il Primàrio’s secretary cast one anxious glance around the room, and then hurried away from the rowdy young man.

  “Lodovico; quickly,” Damiano whispered softly, pulling at Lodovico’s voluminous sleeve.

  “At once,” Lodovico said, blinking to recall himself. He fell into step beside Damiano as they left the banquet room through a side door. “Damiano…” Lodovico began, wanting to put his thoughts into words.

&n
bsp; “In a moment,” Damiano insisted. He looked up and down the hall they had entered. “It’s too easy to be overheard. The room with the tapestries. How convenient!”

  “Damiano,” Lodovico said again, determined to make his friend listen. “I will speak softly. But you must listen. It’s important.”

  “Yes. I am listening,” Damiano said. “It’s about Andrea Benci, isn’t it?” He pounded one fist into the other palm. “Benci. Benci. French pinks.”

  Lodovico was very nearly distracted by this. What had French pinks to do with anything? But he resisted the urge to ask and said, “That man Renaldo Tommassini, when I was at your villa in the country. He came there once and asked for Sir Thomas’ letters. He said that you had…” Then he remembered. “No, he said that your secretary had sent him. Damiano…”

  “I know. I know.” They started up a narrow stairwell. “Benci. So he sent Tommassini. Did you give him the letters?”

  “No,” Lodovico said with a spurt of satisfaction, and though he knew it was not his perspicacity but his offended pride that had stopped him, he permitted himself a moment of self-congratulations. “His manner insulted me, and I said that I would give the letters to you myself.” Which, he knew, was more or less the truth.

  Damiano clapped one hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You humble me, my poet-friend. I do not know what inspired such loyalty in you, but I will thank God for it on my knees every day of my life—however long that may be.”

  This addition stopped any protestation that Lodovico might have made, and he felt the apprehensive cold, which he had kept at bay with assumed confidence, return with bone-numbing keenness.

  At the top of the stair, Damiano motioned for silence, and led the way down the hall. He stopped at last before the curtained entrance to a corner chamber. “The room with the tapestries,” he said caustically. “But who needs doors in the house of an ally?” He pulled the hangings aside and gestured to Lodovico to enter. “It will take him a few moments to dispatch ears to this room,” he went on softly, then flung one of his jeweled rings across the room. “Political whore!” He said the words softly but with such vehemence that Lodovico reacted as if Damiano had shouted. “Cozening, recreant traitor!”

  “Damiano!” Lodovico stepped back, horrified.

  “Benci. Benci. Benci. It was there all the time and I could not see it. My secretary! By all the devils in Hell!” He rounded on Lodovico. “Self-effacing, submissive, willing…!” There were three chairs in the room and Damiano sank into one of them and put his clasped hands over his eyes. “Blind, blind! Christ forgive me for my unpardonable stupidity.” His voice broke. “Jesu, how could I not have seen it? How?”

  Lodovico crossed himself and felt his eyes brim. He tried to find a few words of solace, but his tongue would not obey him and his mind stubbornly refused to provide him with what he wanted. Instead, he could feel a part of himself—and at that moment, he loathed himself for it—step back from this appalling room and watch it, cataloguing the weight and color and sound of despair so that later he could remember it in his writing. He bit the insides of his cheeks deliberately, forcing his attention to immediate action. With unsteady strides he crossed the room to the chair and Damiano. “Oh, my friend,” he whispered, and he crouched beside the chair to put his arms around Damiano.

  When the worst of his torment had passed, Damiano opened his hands and looked down at Lodovico with reddened eyes as he drew a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. With his thumb he sketched a blessing on Lodovico’s forehead. “You deserve more from me than this, but it is all I have.”

  “Then I am richly paid,” Lodovico said as he stood once more. His knees cracked, and he was able to chuckle at it. “Age,” he explained unnecessarily.

  Damiano nodded. “Age.” He straightened himself in the chair. “Well, let us play this travesty through to the end. Who knows, I may even accomplish something.”

  Lodovico wanted to tell Damiano that he had already subjected himself to enough, but he knew it was useless. “Whom would you like to speak with first?”

  “If Cesare d’Este is here, it may be wise to bring. him first. Otherwise I will have to choose between Ercole and Ezio, and no matter which one is selected, the other will feel slighted.”

  “And Benci?” He hated to ask the question, but could not bring himself to return to the banquet room before he knew what Damiano intended to do.

  Il Primàrio’s face tightened as he took a deep, hissing breath. “Benci. Yes, Benci. There is nothing I might say that he will not be privy to by morning. He is for later, my friend. For the moment, I will have all I can handle with Ferrara, Genova, Venezia, and Milano.”

  La Fantasia

  As he neared the edge of the Cérrocchi encampment, Bellimbusto suddenly faltered and plunged. Lodovico was thrown from the saddle to fall heavily, stunning himself as he struck the earth. He had a vague impression of men running toward him before he lost consciousness, and when next he opened his eyes, Nebbiamente was holding burning feathers to his nostrils and Falcone had his hand on Bellimbusto’s reins.

  What happened?” the Cérocchi Prince demanded of Lodovico without preamble.

  Lodovico shook his head as if to clear away the reddened swirls that crowded his mind and sight. He motioned awkwardly for Falcone to draw nearer, and then forced himself to speak. “The warriors…the flint and frost warriors…they’re coming…I’ve seen them. They’re closer…through the valley already…We’ve got to get to the…highest ridge and secure it. Anatrecacciatore’s army travels much more rapidly than I thought it could…They are on a fast march and I do not think they will rest until after they have fought us. If they rest at all.” He attempted to get up, but Nebbiamente restrained him.

  “A bit longer, Ariosto,” he cautioned. “You’re badly bruised by your fall.”

  “Badly bruised,” Lodovico said contemptuously. “If bruises are the worst I suffer this day, I will count myself the most fortunate of men.”

  “Then you think it will be today?” Falcone asked, his face quite serious.

  “I think it must be today.” He hated to lie on the ground when there was so much to do. “I have no time for this” he declared impatiently, but allowed the priest to smear a vile-smelling grease over his forehead and wrap two lengths of cloth around his brow.

  By the time he was on his feet again, he was feeling more himself, and was able to answer Falcone’s questions coherently and with greater lucidity than he had been capable of when he had come out of his swoon. Already warriors were hurrying on tasks set them by the Prince, and there was the unique exhilaration that is the prelude to battle. Each man moved with purpose and there was a shine in their eyes that revealed their dedication more eloquently than any words could.

  “And the valley is completely desolated?” Falcone was asking.

  “Yes, sadly. It was a beautiful place when I first saw it, but now it is as wasted as the desert, sere and barren.” He felt anger on behalf of the blasted valley, two days ago a near-Eden, and now devastated.

  “The warriors do more than take lives, then.” Falcone looked over his shoulder at Bellimbusto who limped after them. “They have hurt your mount, as well.”

  “They have.” A deeper rage ignited within him, for Bellimbusto was his prize, the one token of victory that was dearer to him than any medal, honor, or gory that had been awarded him. He stopped and reached the bridle.

  “What are you doing?” Falcone asked, sincerely concerned.

  “I am letting him go,” Lodovico said as he began to unbuckle the girths of the saddle. “I can’t let him fall into Anatrecacciatore’s hands. I will send him off, and when the battle is over, if I am still alive, he will come back to me. He has done it before.” He tugged the high-fronted saddle from the hippogryph’s back. “As soon as I am finished and he is in the air, I will give you all of my attention so that we may prepare for the battle. But I must…” He was drawing off the bridle now, and Bellimbus
to pressed his gilded beak against Lodovico’s shoulder, a distressed sound like a mew accompanying this touching gesture of affection.

  “If you do not survive, what will happen to him?” Falcone was clearly more distressed than callous, and the abruptness of his question was prompted by affection.

  “There is a legend that says when such a creature gives his fidelity, he will return to his fallen master and carry him to their unknown haven for a hero’s burial.” Lodovico rubbed the gorgeous feathered neck. “I would like to think that such a destiny awaited me, but I doubt I’m worthy of such tribute, if it does exist.”

  Falcone put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You underestimate yourself, Ariosto, for if you do not belong in such a place, then there is no one who can aspire to it.”

  Lodovico smiled sadly as he hung Bellimbusto’s bridle over his arm. “Perhaps that is why the place is a legend,” he suggested. Then he patted his mount and checked the wound on his wing one last time. “You’ll do well enough without me aboard,” he told Bellimbusto. “Very well, then, off you go!” He slapped his mount’s rump, but Bellimbusto did not rise in the air. He turned his enormous, reproachful eyes on Lodovico and gave a little, scornful snort.

  “He has a will of his own,” Falcone observed.

  “Don’t defy me now,” Lodovico said to the hippogryph as his eyes stung with unshed tears. “You cannot fight with such a wing, and if you were here, I would worry for you, and not care for my men and the ordering of the battle as I should. You must go, Bellimbusto. When it is over, come back, but for now, get you to safety.” He laid his hand on the beak as he would have patted a horse’s nose, and then he once again slapped the rump.

  Reluctantly Bellimbusto spread his great black-and-bronze wings, and slowly he rose into the air, wheeling once over the camp and then turning eastward.

  Though he knew he could not spare the time, Lodovico stood for a little while watching until the hippogryph was nothing but a smudge against the glowing sky.

  Cifraaculeo had been muttering unintelligibly for more than an hour by the time the troops of Nuova Genova and Falcone’s army had reached the highest ridge of the hills. His bearers had exchanged anxious looks and at the first opportunity, Fumovisione was sent for.