Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He is also richer and has no foreign border but the sea,” Lodovico observed dryly.

  “Oh, Gran’ Dio, not you too? What is this cynicism?” Damiano asked with more disappointment than disgust. “I had hoped that you would be the one man who would not be tainted by politics.”

  Lodovico wanted to defend himself, to explain t he was neither cynical nor sophisticated, but he dare not. “I have been listening, and you must remember that my first patron was Duchessa of Ferrara. Lucrezia Borgia never made any secret of the d’Este wealth, and Alfonzo used to drink to his only foreign border. I may not understand the subtleties, but I had eight years there, and even I learn, after a while.”

  “Don’t mock,” Damiano said, sounding suddenly very tired. “There’s been too much of it. And I’ve been one of the worst offenders.”

  In the last few days, Damiano had been subject to these erratic shifts in mood, so Lodovico did not feel the alarm he might have at another time. It was part of the burden of his office. “I wasn’t mocking, or perhaps only myself. I am too grateful to the d’Estes to mock them.”

  Damiano said nothing for a time. His pacing slowed to restlessness and the ire went out of his eyes. “The English party leaves tomorrow for Roma. It’s probably for the best, but…”

  “Speaking of English,” Lodovico interrupted, “I had word from a correspondent of mine in Ghent that he has heard that Mistress Boleyn has been delivered of a daughter. The news isn’t official, since he is not part of the English church or court, but it is a rumor.”

  “A daughter.” Damiano rubbed his chin. “That will mean he will try to betroth her to the Grand Duke of Muscovy’s heir. Poor Henry. He must be infuriated. He’s got that half-Spanish daughter, that sickly boy, and now another daughter whose legitimacy is questionable, to say the least. He might be wise to bury her off in Russia where she cannot be an embarrassment to him.” There was real interest in him and he came back to Lodovico’s writing table. “When did you get this? What else does your correspondent in Ghent have to tell you?”

  Lodovico was pleased at Damiano’s attentiveness. “Most of it has to do with books, I’m afraid. I’ve asked him to find me copies of certain volumes, though he has not had a great deal of luck doing so. He was offering me a volume of French letters purported to be by the monk Abelard, though he says he doubts they’re genuine.”

  “Have done with books!” Damiano said impatiently. “What is his news of the world?”

  “There is little of it. He told me about the daughter of Mistress Boleyn, and said that there was a group of Savonarola’s followers in the Low Countries, but that few were interested in their preaching. The old monk is rumored to be ailing, but you know that. The Low Countries are not sure how long their independence from Spain will last. The Emperor does not like his possessions chopped up into separate jurisdictions, but with Spain under interdict, there is nothing he can do and retain his title.”

  “If Charles had his way, he would march straight to Roma and cram the interdict down Clemente’s throat. I suppose I should be grateful that he and Francois hate each other. If they could work together, Italia Federata would be in more trouble than it is.” The gravity had come back to his face, and his momentary delight faded away. “The heralds left this morning with the full Console petitions to both Kings, offering to redress wrongs and provide for any inequities. I think the gesture is a mistake, but the Console voted for it. I have never before wanted despotic power, but when Ezio Foscari began his lurid tales of what would happen if the border guards were lessened by so much as one man, he could have suggested that each member of the Console crawl to Manrico and Rafaele to kiss their feet, and it would have been approved. You should have heard him. His imagination is vivid, I promise you: cities sacked and burning, ragged families fleeing the vengeful Turks, children spitted on swords, women ravished by hundreds of men in every conceivable way, churches desecrated, goods looted and destroyed—his invention was without bounds. Oh, I know there is genuine danger from the Turks. There has always been danger. But the truce is successful, and if we have a little time, we can reinforce the border patrols without using soldiers from Napoli and Sicilia.”

  “What soldiers?” Lodovico asked.

  “Well, we can get some from your precious Ferrara. There are two excellent companies of fighting men there who are used primarily now as military escorts. There are such companies all through the Papal States. If we use half of those, Napoli and Sicilia can withdraw their men and we will still be completely protected.” He slopped to look at a map of the world Lodovico had pinned to the wall. “There are many places where we can get troops, if we must have them.”

  “Of course,” Lodovico concurred, and added helpfully, “If it were important enough, the Lanzi companies could be withdrawn from Nuova Genova.”

  “Lanzi companies? There are less than fifty Lanzi in the Nuovo Mondo.” Damiano gave his harsh laugh. “I know, to hear Ercole speak of it, we’ve taken half his army there, but truly, there are very few. What do we need them for?”

  “Well, Nuova Genova…” Lodovico began, trying to put his objection into words. Nuova Genova was large enough, prosperous enough to need protection.

  “San Benedetto! Nuova Genova! Six brick houses and a warehouse with a pier on a sandpit at the edge of a swamp!”

  Lodovico did not dare to give Damiano back his admonition against mockery, but he could not disguise his expression.

  “Have you been listening to Ercole’s extravagant fancies?” Damiano asked, more kindly now that he saw Lodovico’s shock. He came away from the map.

  “I…no…but I…” How could it be that Nuova Genova was as Damiano said? It was part of Damiano’s current difficulties, he decided. It might very well be wise to modify his enthusiasm for the city unless it became necessary to recall to the Console’s minds that the limits of Italia Federata were far-flung indeed. Nuova Genova had a cathedral and palazzos, piazzas and high walls. He knew it as certainly as if he had seen them with his own eyes. The pages of his new work were stacked on the table and he put a protective hand over them. He wanted to explain to Damiano that he understood when there was a discreet knock at the open door and Andrea Benci, perfectly groomed in burgundy velvet, came into the room.

  Damiano tightened his mouth to the approximation of a smile. “Yes? What is it?”

  “You must pardon me,” he said politely, though Lodovico felt each word was a calculated insult. “There is a messenger from England, and I thought perhaps you would wish to see him at once.” Benci had ignored Lodovico, but now he turned to the poet. “Unless this conversation is more important than il Primàrio’s obligations to la Federazione.”

  Damiano intervened before Lodovico could respond. “That will do! Undoubtedly the messenger comes with the tidings of Mistress Boleyn’s safe delivery of a daughter. Though what we are to do in answer to this news, I do not know.” He nodded at Benci’s annoyed surprise. “You see, there are things one can learn from poets.” As he reached the door, he called out, “Tomorrow, there is a leave-taking reception for Sir Thomas’ family. Quite small. After Mass.”

  “I’ll be there, if you like.” Lodovico was still smarting under Damiano’s cavalier attitude about Nuova Genova.

  “Of course I want you there,” Damiano said sharply, then gave his attention to Andrea Benci.

  Lodovico sat alone in his chamber, his papers untouched at his elbow. He had told Damiano that it was foolish not to clap his secretary in chains as soon as his treason was discovered, but Damiano had said that would be unwise. There were other men in the conspiracy, men who were linked with Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, and perhaps all the way to Clemente VII. With such men, it was best to be cautious, Damiano explained as he and Lodovico strolled past the vendors in the Mercato Vecchio. That had been several days ago, and at the time, Lodovico was dubious. Now, he was frightened. It was Damiano’s intention, he knew, to send a private letter to his uncle the Pope about the matter, and then to ac
t against Andrea Benci. That would mean Andrea Benci would have another six days to work his malicious plans. Lodovico rose suddenly, new determination in him. He would stay near Damiano, as near as he was able. That way, il Primàrio would have some genuine protection. He had suggested that the Lanzi should be alerted to the coming arrest, but Damiano had refused. “I might as well post an announcement in every tavern in Firenze as tell the Lanzi my intentions.” Though Lodovico understood this, he could not remain inactive. True, he was not much of a fighter, but he was better than no one. He weighted the papers on his writing table and left his chamber, trying to recall where he had put the hunting dagger his father had given him when he was a boy.

  There were four carriages drawn up in front of the Palazzo Pitti. They were large, covered vehicles with enormous rear wheels and bodies high off the road. Each was drawn by a team of four horses, from the Medici stables.

  “You’re not to worry about changing horses,” Damiano was saying to Margaret Roper as the traveling party emerged from the palazzo. “I have teams all along the road to Roma. The drivers know where, and they carry full authorizations. Medici vehicles are familiar throughout la Federazione. I’ve also arranged for a small escort of Lanzi. Our roads are in general quite safe, but as you’re foreigners…”

  “Of course,” Margaret said in her forthright way. “Foreigners are easy prey, are they not? It is very good of you, Damian. We did not look for this courtesy.”

  “Nor did you look to go to Roma,” Lodovico said, a little sadly. “But His Holiness has need of you.” It was a polite lie, and he could tell that Margaret knew it. “Go safely, my dear. I never thought I would enjoy teaching a novice the Italian language, but you have shown me I was wrong.” They were nearly the same height and touched cheeks easily.

  “I will always be grateful to you. When you see me next, you will probably lament how badly I have done without you.” Her tone was light and her words were brave, but at the back of her eyes there was deepest sorrow.

  “When next we meet.” It was more difficult for the tall Damiano to touch cheeks with Margaret, but he did, his hands at her waist to lift her for this courtesy.

  “You have been very good to us, Premier,” William Roper said when Margaret had stepped back. “I’m certain Sir Thomas will be pleased when we tell him of all you’ve done.”

  “Are you?” Damiano said, this touching of cheeks more perfunctory. “You must ask him, then. Though , he may surprise you.” The irony was lost on William Roper, who had gone on to Andrea Benci to wish him well. Damiano’s secretary accepted the praises lavished on him with self-effacing condescension.

  The rest of the family made their thanks, Sir Thomas’ wife, Alice, saying that Italy had turned out to be more pleasant than she had heard it was, which was a great compliment for that stern and sensible woman.

  Footmen handed the travelers and three servants into the carriages, and Damiano walked to the first one, where Margaret Roper was seated. “I have a Hungarian carriage-maker, Margharita. He comes from Kocs, where the best are made. You will travel quite comfortably, I think.”

  She stuck her head out the square window. “It is, luxury, Damian.”

  They exchanged smiles, and he said, almost as an afterthought. “You have that note I gave you?”

  “I will see that it is delivered. If I can, I will do it myself,” she answered promptly. “I wish there were more…”

  “It is much more than I should ask of you,” Damiano said, cutting off her words. “If there were another way, I would use it, but…You are kind, Margharita. More than you know.” He stepped back from the carriage.

  “Damian…” she began, but he had already lifted his hand in farewell. She relented. “Damian, Lodovico, thank you. Until we’re toge—” The last words were swallowed up by the crunch of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the flagging, and the jingle of harness as the carriages got under way.

  Damiano stood watching the four splendid vehicles as they moved south along the Via della Santa Felicità. There were large numbers of people on the street, many wagons and carts, so the carriages went slowly threading their way through the traffic. “The Lanzi will meet them at the Porta Romagna,” he said to Lodovico, though he did not look at him.

  “It’s good of you to give them escort, Lodovico said because he had to say something and could think of no way to express the sudden loss he felt, a loss he sensed was much greater for Damiano de’ Medici.

  “I hated to send the note with her, but there was no one else.” The Kocs carriages were out of sight, hidden by the rise of buildings.

  Lodovico looked around guiltily to see if Andrea Benci had overheard, but the secretary was walking into the door of the Palazzo Pitti. “Why take the risk of telling me that,” Lodovico admonished Damiano in a lowered voice. “If you had been overheard…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Damiano said with an affectionate chuckle. “I have a lie ready for any question. Andrea Benci accomplished his own business with the second driver, and he would not expect me to transact the delivery of secret papers in front of my home. He thinks he’s the only one subtle enough to do that. Also, I made certain he learned that I had a packet given to the Lanzi capitano, and he’s convinced that is the important message.” He looked at Lodovico and patted his shoulder. “I was born to this game, my friend. I’ve been blind, but I knew the game was going on. Chide me for my lack of esthetic appreciation, not my clumsiness at politics.”

  “Would you listen?” Lodovico wondered aloud.

  “Most certainly,” Damiano answered at once. “I would be happy to hear you out. You don’t know how much I miss wrangling about philosophy and art. My grandfather always made time for it, even when the old Repubblica was on the brink of war. I’ve lost sight of it, which I never meant to do…” He started for the door which a footman held open, waiting for il Primàrio to enter.

  Lodovico followed him. “Would you like to have such a discussion? Tell me.” It was not the time to ask Damiano, he was sure, but there was no time that was right, so he seized the opportunity and salved his conscience with the assurance that if Damiano rejected the idea, it was because it had been put to him at the wrong time. He passed through the door a few steps behind Damiano and almost ran into his friend, who had halted in the vestibule.

  “Yes, I think I would like to have such a discussion,” he said after a hesitation. “San Jacopo knows that I need a diversion.” He glanced speculatively at Lodovico. “All right, we’ll do it. Come to my study tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got to meet with the local Gonfaloniere and some others for comestio, and there is to be a discussion after the meal, but I have time after that. I was going to spend it riding, but this will be better. Come to my study an hour after comestio. If I’m not there at once, wait for me.”

  “I will,” Lodovico promised, satisfied that he could fulfill both his obligation to Damiano—who, after all, was his patron—and his private vow to stay close to his friend.

  “An hour after comestio tomorrow,” Damiano stated, pointing a finger at Lodovico in punctuation.

  “In your study. Yes.”

  “Good.” Without another word, Damiano turned away and went off down the long hall toward the state drawing rooms leaving Lodovico grinning with the first real hope he had known in days.

  “You’re not working,” Alessandra said as she looked up from her sewing.

  “I’m thinking.” Lodovico had propped his elbows on the table and his quill was bridging his hands as he stared out into the night. There were only two lanterns in the room, one by Alessandra’s chair and the other hung over Lodovico’s table so that he sat in a soft puddle of light.

  “The ink on your quill is caked.” It was not an accusation. Alessandra set the shirt she was stitching aside. “You’ve been lost all evening. Is anything wrong? Are you well?”

  “Of course I’m well,” Lodovico assured her, answering the easiest of her questions.

  “Then what is
it?” Her old buff-colored camora was golden in the feeble light, and the harsher signs of age in her face could not be seen. She looked very much the way Lodovico remembered her when they had met at the d’Este court. As he recalled, she had been wearing a damask the color of jonquils that made her light- brown hair seem to be lunar gold. She had read one of his plays, he remembered, and asked him intelligent questions. They had not been allowed to marry, but she had come to live with him before the summer was over.

  “I’ve always liked you in yellow,” he said inconsequently. He was pleased that she was intuitive enough not to ask for an explanation.

  “It was sad that Donna Margharita had to leave,” Alessandra remarked a little later. “I had wonderful talks with her. It’s so refreshing to meet a woman who isn’t boring. She was interested in more things than children and households and Saints’ Days. I hope it’s possible for her to return one day.”

  “I hope so, too,” he said, and could not shake off the melancholy suspicion that it would never happen.

  “She’ll do well in Roma, but it will take her time to learn. Roma is a special place.” Alessandra had started to work on her sewing again.

  “You’ve only been there twice,” Lodovico reminded her gently.

  “It was enough. Margharita Roper will hate it at first, but she may have the talent for…” She gestured aimlessly, her needle a shining point of light in her hands.

  “Not intrigue?” Lodovico asked, hoping that he had not found the correct word. It was true that Margaret carried a letter for Damiano, but that surely did not mean that she would learn to fawn, flatter, lie, coquette and manipulate with the lamentable gusto of so many Roman women.

  “No, not that,” Alessandra exclaimed, exasperated. “No, I mean that she might find a place in that other Roma, where learning and antiquity and virtues are treasured. There are a few of the old families who have such a life, and should Donna Margharita be fortunate, she will discover them before the rest of Roma engulfs her.”