Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The fantastically dressed wizard bustled up to the litter, making haste with his customary energy. He had been talking to the bearers and as he neared the litter, he spotted Lodovico with Nettocchio and called to him to join the rest. “We’re seeing disturbances,” he explained with gusto. “We’re within the area of force controlled by Anatrecacciatore. Half the ducks brought with us have died.”

  “Half?” Lodovico repeated, incredulous. “What killed them?”

  “The malice of Anatrecacciatore. It’s fairly obvious that he is vulnerable to ducks. He can’t manipulate them so he kills them. I wish I knew what force they control that he is so threatened by them. The secret is in his name, but try as I will, I can’t see the nature of it.” He sighed his exasperation and motioned to the litter bearers to move away so he could approach the white-haired old man. “Yes, he’s saying something, all right. I don’t recognize the tongues, but that isn’t surprising.” He leaned close to the high priest of the Cérocchi and gave the man his full attention.

  Cifraaculeo sat with legs tucked under him, his face blank as if in sleep, his eyes open and gazing at infinite distances. His mouth barely moved to emit the quiet gibber that had made his bearers distraught.

  “No, I can’t assess it,” Fumovisione said as he stood back. “Pity. He might have something worth understanding. I will say this, though, he added thoughtfully as he regarded his afflicted colleague, “I’d be careful about believing what I saw, if I were you. Spells like this one can manifest in some alarming ways. Anatrecacciatore has some skill with spectres and phantoms. You’d do well to be wary.”

  Nettocchio, who had overheard this, put his hands on his hips. “That is not encouraging with the flint and frost warriors only two hours away from us.”

  The priest shrugged. “You may not wish to hear it, but better to know than to be taken unaware. If your brother came to you and said that you must lay down your arms, what would you do? An honorable man would listen to his brother, and open himself to attack. Be certain that you carry an arrow fletched with duck feathers, and if such a form presents itself, offer the arrow to it. If it will not take the thing, then you know it is a spectre conjured by our great enemy, and deadly. The priests and wizards will be ready to deal with such, but you must be on guard or we will not be able to come to your assistance.”

  “The man is wise,” Lodovico said, for he saw the others doubting the bark-garbed priest. “In such a battle as we now face, we must overlook nothing, for surely we will be in the gravest danger the entire time.”

  Nettocchio supported this. “Listen to Ariosto. We should be the ones to tell him, but we are so filled with terror that we will not defend ourselves properly.” He tugged an arrow out of his jeweled belt. “See. I have such an arrow already and I would sooner part with my dagger and battle axe than with this arrow. We do not yet know if our weapons will harm the soldiers of Anatrecacciatore, but we have learned that the ducks have a virtue he cannot easily overcome.” He returned the arrow to his belt and looked at the others challengingly.

  Listen to the Cicora,” Fumovisione advised the men. “And hasten to get your arrows. The time is short.” He approached Cifraaculeo one more time, and said to Lodovico in a whispered aside, “This bodes ill, Ariosto. It bodes very ill indeed.”

  Farther down the slope the branches were snapping a groaning as the flint and frost warriors began their ascent. Lodovico stood beside Falcone behind a hastily assembled fortification of piled rocks. “I have never liked waiting,” he remarked in the dread-inspired silence.

  “Nor I,” Falcone agreed.

  Some distance down the hill there was a rending moan and a crack not unlike lightning. All along the front line, the soldiers, Cicora, Cérocchi, Onaumanient, Pau Attan, Cesapichi, Cica Omini, Italians, looked uneasily about while the priests began their most sacred incantations. Caged ducks huddled together, feathers ruffled as if against cold, though the afternoon was warm.

  “It was a tree,” Lodovico said quietly. “They break them and then kill them with frost.”

  Immediately there came more of the hideous crackings as the warriors of flint and frost encountered the wooded stretch of the hill. The sound of their marching was clear now; the most inexorable sound that Lodovico had ever heard.

  One of the scouts who had ventured down the hill to watch the progress of the enemy came streaking back to the makeshift ramparts and vaulted over the piled stones. His face was as pale as any Lodovico had seen in this land. The scout shivered, gave a cry and fell, foam on his lips and his limbs twitching. A Pau Attan wizard hurried forward to deal with the unfortunate scout.

  “Do you see any of the others?” Falcone asked.

  “No,” Lodovico said, and the response was echoed all along the line of defense.

  “Ah.” Falcone turned away toward the verdant hills behind him, as if to assure himself they were still there. When he once again faced the approaching enemy, he said to Lodovico, “I wish you would take the cape offered you.”

  “I will,” Lodovico said as he drew Falavedova from its scabbard. “When I have earned it.”

  There was no time to say more: the warriors of flint and frost broke through the trees below and began to climb toward the crest of the hill where Falcone’s army waited.

  As his sword struck the first warrior, Lodovico nearly cried out in pain and despair. The metal clanged off the cold, stony creature and nearly flew out of his hand. He grasped the hilt with both hands and swung with the flat of Falavedova, aiming for the head. The impact jarred him, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the head fly off and roll back down the hill.

  The body of the warrior remained standing, its enormous, ponderous arms bringing a huge mace up to dash out Lodovico’s brains.

  Lodovico ducked quickly, his mind in turmoil at what he was witnessing. He could see the other men struggling with the forces of Anatrecacciatore, and many of them were being beaten by opponents who should have fallen still, but who continued to fight while any part of them could move. Eerie wraiths of steam rose from the bodies of the warriors of flint and frost, surrounding each of them with a halo of fog which only made them more horrible.

  “Break them apart!” Lodovico shouted, hoping that over the ring of metal on stone, someone would hear him. “You can’t kill them, you can only break them!”

  Nearby, there was an answering shout from Massamo Fabroni, and his words were yelled again to the Lanzi fighters.

  Falcone was beleaguered by two of the monstrous fighters, as Lodovico, in a desperate action, forced the flint and frost giant he was fighting back against the crumbling stone fortifications in a lucky move so that the headless figure overbalanced and toppled down, breaking as he rolled. Lodovico did not pause to enjoy this most ephemeral of victories, but plunged in beside Falcone to save him from the pressing strength Anatrecacciatore’s army.

  “We need hammers, not daggers,” Falcone panted, his arm bleeding from where one of his opponents had grazed him with the stone axe he carried. His white deerskin cape was dappled with rusty smears.

  Lodovico did not reply to this, but made a daring thrust at the shoulder of the nearest flint and frost warrior. The blow was true and the icy arm flew off, crashing down the hill and raising eruptions of dust, though the din of battle covered any sound the arm made.

  The warrior’s other arm was already swinging, and Lodovico could not entirely escape its fury. He was struck a glancing blow by an enormous fist, and the cold of it pained him more than the hardness. He staggered, almost blundering into Falcone, then, with a muttered prayer, he lunged again at the warrior, this time aiming for the joint of the knee. His first attempt was unsuccessful and the point of Falavedova clanged harmlessly on the stone. Lodovico recovered himself and let the full weight of the sword fall backhanded against the side of the joint as the warrior took an aggressive step forward. The stones parted and the warrior of flint and frost smashed to the ground, missing Lodovico by less than a hand’s breadth.

/>   “The joints!” Lodovico shouted at Falcone, who nodded as he brought his mace into play, slamming on his adversary’s elbow so that the lower arm cracked. Half of the flint still dangled from the body, but it had lost much of its volition and at Falcone’s second stroke, the entire limb shattered and the flint and frost warrior paused.

  That hesitation was enough. Lodovico levered his sword into the waist of the warrior and leaned on the hilt with all his strength. There was a grinding noise, loud enough to carry over the clangs and shouts screams around them. The upper torso wobbled, rocked and tumbled, the weight of it upsetting the legs as well.

  Another such warrior was in the place of the one that had fallen, and now Falcone and Lodovico mounted a double attack. Lodovico searched for weaknesses, chinks in the imposing figure, and where he found them, he pushed his sword deep and pressed it. Falcone was not far behind him, beating his mace on the frost-rimmed arms and legs. This time the warrior went down quickly.

  They were strong, they were deadly, they were heavy and huge, but they were stupid as well, and Lodovico hoped for the first time that there might be a way to prevail against them. He shouted toward the band of priests, and to his surprise, in very little time, Nebbiamente stood beside him, his face wide with a grin. By that time, Lodovico and Falcone were striving to bring down yet another of the foe. Between grunts as he thrust Falavedova deeper into the hip joint, Lodovico shouted instructions to the little priest, who nodded at each specific.

  “It’s the joints! The joints! Don’t try to best them—break them in pieces!” His throat ached with shouting and his hands were red with cold as his sword cooled in the frosty stone.

  Nebbiamente hastened off, and somewhat later Nettochio hurried up. His left arm hung uselessly at his side and the white of bone protruded at his shoulder. “The priests!” he cried out. “The priests are coming!”

  Lodovico could take no time to ponder the meaning of it, and decided that it was the senseless maunderings of one dreadfully wounded. He had not looked about to see what had become of the defenders of the ridge, and he forced himself not to do so now. He pressed on the hilt until the sword sang and saw Falcone stumble, upset by a rolling hand of one of the broken warriors. “Don’t stand on them!” he cried out, his voice a ragged caw.

  Falcone dropped to his knee, and Lodovico could feel the flint and frost warrior turn slowly to deliver the fatal blow. There was nothing he could do to prevent it, he feared, but he realized he had to take action. He had only his sword to fight with, and it was thrust deep into the enemy soldier. With the power that comes only in extremity, he began to twist the hilt of Falavedova, to turn the blade and throw the foeman off balance. The steel thrummed and squealed, and then began to move. Encouraged by this accomplishment, Lodovico summoned all of his inner strength and increased the pressure.

  The warrior of flint and frost stopped his attack on Falcone and moved toward Lodovico, mighty arms swinging into a deadly curve.

  Falcone tried to move away, but one of the fragments of the fallen flint and frost warriors had pinned him to the ground and the Cérocchi Prince was unable to free himself.

  “San Michele, San Giorgio, San Vladimiro, aid me, aid me, aid me,” Lodovico prayed as he strained against the hilt of his sword. He watched the massive arms coming toward him, he felt the first weight of their impact, and then Falavedova wrenched the last bit and Anatrecacciatore’s warrior broke into pieces, shattered from within by the twisted sword.

  And a twisted sword Falavedova certainly was. Now the long steel blade bowed and turned. Lodovico lifted it to look more closely and felt all the intensity of the blow he had been given catch up with him. His vision blurred and he thought he could see Accettafosco coming toward him, a maul in his hand. Lodovico had a definite impression that there was more danger, but he could not respond. His mind was filled with dire warnings and every sense told him that his peril was graver than ever. Yet he could not stop himself. The inner clamor went unheeded. His knees buckled and he fell forward.

  A hand touched his, gently. He opened his eyes and through the haze that hovered, smoke-like, around him, he thought he saw Aureoraggio bend toward him, a smile curving her beautiful mouth, her lovely form lithe as a willow in a spring wind. He could not hear what she said, but he knew she wanted him to rise. For some reason it was more difficult than he thought it would be. Some force held him down, some weakness he feared was enchantment made water of his bones. Yet Aureoraggio motioned to him to come, and he felt the sweet longings of his unspoken and unavowed love well in him. He reached to take her hand, and though she was too far for this, he willed himself to overcome the incomprehensible lassitude that held him in thrall. She moved ahead of him, pointing the way to a place where they would be together.

  It was delightful to follow her, to walk beside the most lovely creature. He was troubled that he could not see her clearly, but it was all part of his weakness and would pass. He realized that he should have some remorse for this betrayal of Falcone, but he could not find it within himself, and did not look for it.

  How lightly they went! How gracefully she moved! How full of joy he was! The only blight on his pleasure was that he could not get close enough to gaze on her more fully. The glamour was radiant about her, so splendid that she herself was indistinct…

  And then he saw the six warriors of flint and frost coming up the slope toward him, and Cifraaculeo lay at his feet, Accettafosco’s lance transfixing him to the earth. Duck feathers, secured with twine to the long shaft shuddered still from the impact that had felled the high priest of the Cérocchi.

  Lodovico was immobilized, disgrace and disgust engulfing him. He had been unwary, he knew, and the shame of it overcame him. The very thing he had warned against had happened to him. He had known the hazard and had succumbed. The enchantments of Anatrecacciatore had found out his desires and worked upon him, as all sin must work to the detriment of the soul. From up the hill, behind the broken fortifications, Lodovico could hear men shouting to him. He could not respond to them in any way, though he knew the battle continued by the sounds of wood and steel striking stone, and the shouts of the wounded. He was the one who had made these brave men vulnerable. He had led them and failed them. Bitterness more profound than chagrin rose like gorge in his throat.

  Anatrecacciatore’s warriors lumbered nearer, the leaders of the second rank of fighters who were certain to prevail if ever they reached the summit of the ridge.

  In the depths of his soul, Lodovico knew he had to expiate his folly, his transgression. Perhaps, if he could catch the approaching warriors of flint and frost at a weakened moment, they could be bowled over and sent plummeting down the hill into their fellows. Lodovico smiled now, satisfied that he could make amend for his culpability. Taking up his twisted sword, he looked over his shoulder one final time at those great-hearted, valiant men of Falcone’s army. Massamo Fabroni had just brought one of the flint and frost warriors to its knees and was smashing the stone head with repeated poundings with his steel flail. Falcone himself stood at the top of the rickety battlements, his bloodstained white cape flung back from his shoulders. He answered Lodovico’s farewell salute with one his own.

  Then the great Italian captain and poet, Lodovico Ariosto, with his battle cry “Omaggio!” on his lips, a prayer of gratitude in his soul, with exhaustion, wounds, dishonor forgotten, rushed down the hill toward his enemies.

  La Realtà

  Lodovico overset his brass inkwell as the door to his chamber slammed open, the handle leaving a long impression gouged in the wall. He moved quickly to push his pages aside, then looked about helplessly for a rag.

  “I am not going to play into my cousin’s hands so easily!” Damiano announced to the air in fury.

  In desperation, Lodovico took the pillow from his chair and dropped it onto the pool of ink. “Your cousin…” he asked as he righted the inkwell.

  Damiano’s tightened jaw worked, then he answered, “My cousin. Who else? I sent a m
essage to Graziella in France, to tell her about…Leone. She will have heard by now from others, but I couldn’t let her have it on rumors…” The softening of his expression was gone and he turned on his heel, starting to pace the length of the small chamber. “And now I hear that I have written to ask for asylum in France, that I am going to flee Firenze! Cosimo will have to do better than that.”

  “You mean that the Cardinale is saying that you will leave?” Lodovico said incredulously. “Impossible. You are a part of Firenze.”

  “I would prefer torture to exile,” Damiano said, so quietly and so firmly that there was no doubt that it was the truth. “If they want me out of Firenze, they will have to remove my coffin, for I will go no other way.”

  Lodovico patted the pillow to be certain it soaked up all of the ink, then he picked it up and set it, blackened side up, on the wide windowsill. “Cosimo isn’t so foolish, is he?”

  “Not foolish—ambitious. I was foolish to underestimate his ambition.” He paused at the far end of the room and peered into the next chamber. “Alessandra is not here?”

  “She’s gone to the Mercato Nuovo. She wants to buy a cloak to send to Virginio. She’s worried that with winter coming soon, he won’t be able to find a woolen cloak in all of Paris.” He smiled at this and hoped to see a similar amusement in Damiano’s face, but could not find it.

  “Mothers believe such things,” Damiano remarked, not at all interested in what Lodovico had said. “Did I interrupt you?”

  “I was very nearly finished for the day, in any case. If I have time tomorrow, I’ll do the rest…”

  “Tomorrow Cesare d’Este is planning to leave for Roma. There’s a ceremony planned for the occasion.” He stopped at one of the bookcases and negligently began to read titles. “I will miss him. I don’t always agree with d’Este, but I have been grateful for his presence. He’s more reasonable than Foscari and less vain than Barbabianca.”