by Ken Hood
Power was the opportunity to make mistakes.
Benozzo squirmed. "If the Spaniard will see reason."
"I shall do my best to persuade him," Toby promised solemnly.
Marradi allowed himself a smile, which quickly spread to most of the onlookers. "Then I see no problem. Are there still knots in the wool, messer?"
"Cost, Your Magnificence. The size of the forces to be raised."
"Mm? And what does Sir Tobias think?" Marradi looked to Toby with no hint that the two of them had spent the entire morning haggling over this.
"Everything you can possibly afford, Your Magnificence! At least twenty thousand men." He felt a swell of protest rising around him. "With any less, Florence will have no hope and certainly no voice at the table—not when Venice is raising forty and Milan at least seventy. Only a supreme effort by all the states combined can stop the Fiend. We'll need a miracle to hold him at the Alps as we did last year."
"You expect us to let you march off and leave the city undefended?" bleated one of the younger men.
Toby looked down on him in exasperation, remembering days when Don Ramon had returned from the negotiations in near-homicidal frenzy. "If every city thinks like that, then the Fiend will swallow you one at a time! If Florence will not send its army north, why should Naples?" He wanted to add, "You idiot!" but managed not to.
Benozzo was looking pleased. "The don was talking of five thousand lances."
"I doubt that we can find that many now. They are all sworn elsewhere."
"A moment, signori," Pietro murmured. "Pardon the ignorance of a civilian. How many men in a lance, comandante?"
Now what game was he playing? That morning he had displayed an iron-fisted grasp of military matters down to the finest details.
"Usually six, Your Magnificence. Originally, of course, it was three—the knight himself, his sergeant to hold his spare horse, and a page. The coming of firearms has brought heavier armor and a far greater toll of horses, so now the knight requires more spare mounts, and hence more attendants to care for them."
"I see. But only one man in six is actually a fighter?"
"That is correct, although nowadays they may dismount, and then two men handle the lance."
"How about infantry?"
"Very much the same, about one in five or one in six."
"How many men in the Longdirk Company itself?" Either Marradi was using Toby as a ventriloquist's dummy to educate the men who would have to approve the condotta and vote the taxes to pay for it, or else he wanted Toby to demonstrate that he was more than an oversize thug capable of swinging a battle-ax. Either way, it was lecture time.
"Three thousand, but the most we can put in the field is about five hundred—five hundred helmets, we say. This seems a shameful limitation, but any condottiere will confirm it. Of the five hundred, about half are cavalry and half foot. Our infantry companies include pikemen, crossbowmen, and arquebusiers. The don leads our heavy cavalry in person, and we also have four squadrons of light cavalry armed with crossbows. Either may dismount and fight on foot when conditions require."
Marradi nodded solemnly, as if all this were new and wonderful. "I can understand a mounted knight requiring five attendants, but surely a common man-at-arms can sharpen his own pike?"
"He will be in considerable trouble with Marshal Diaz if he does not, Your Magnificence! But he requires the support of shield men, ammunition carriers, munitioners, fletchers, carters, pioneers, buglers, cooks, pay clerks, barber-surgeons, gunners, stonemasons, provisioners, and armorers. He travels to battle on horseback, so he needs farriers, saddlers—"
"Stonemasons?" one of the younger men demanded.
"To cut the cannonballs. We have six light cannons. In good weather on flat terrain they require only ten carts and twenty pairs of oxen apiece, but to take them across the Apennines, say, would require far more. To move the entire Company..."
Toby could go on indefinitely. He had just begun describing the casa, with the paymaster, quartermaster, hexer, chancellors, and other essential staff when an almost imperceptible nod from Marradi told him he had made his point. If any man present had thought that Florence was hiring a disorganized rabble of hoodlums, he should know better now.
"And how many men will Nevil bring?"
"At least a hundred thousand." A more realistic estimate would just frighten them out of their wits. "Schweitzer had about forty at Trent."
"Not fighting strength?"
"No, total. About seven thousand helmets. I expect Nevil to bring three times that many." At least.
"And how many can Italy raise?" asked a fat-faced man.
"Enough to defeat him," Toby said patiently, "if it can bring them all to bear at the right place and the right time. If not, he will pluck the goose one feather at a time."
"But Florence can only bear so much of the burden," Benozzo protested. "Naples and Venice are much richer and—"
Toby's scowl stopped him. "Will you risk letting the Fiend's horde loose in your streets for the sake of a year's higher taxes? Nevil's men are mindless puppets, suicidal, driven by demons. You cannot match them one for one. The Fiend himself is an incarnate demon and rejoices in causing destruction and suffering.
"What is the least amount you will accept?" Pietro asked quietly. The maneuvering was over; the battle was about to commence.
"Sixty thousand florins a month. Gold florins."
They did not gasp. They had known the news was going to be bad. They were not smiling.
"For twenty thousand men," Toby said. "If I can find them. The best companies are already signing with other states—Alfredo's with Venice, the Black Lances with Milan, and today word of Jules Desjardins with Naples. These are bands I hoped to enlist. Soon there will be nothing but dregs left."
Il Volpe studied him carefully, seemingly ignoring the audience. "At three gold florins a man? Eighteen florins a month for every helmet?" That was many times the pay of a skilled artisan. The brilliant red-brown eyes challenged Toby to back down, as they had that morning.
As he had that morning, he stood his ground. "For a six-month contract with a six-month option. That does not include the upkeep of your own provisionati, but I require that they be under my command. I cannot undertake the defense of Florence on any lesser terms."
Less than three years ago he had been a penniless outlaw. Now he was bullying the richest city in the world.
Benozzo's snort would have roused a herd of mares. "Captain-General Vespucci, may his spirit find—"
"Was not hired to fight this war. Costs of arms and supplies, of fodder and armor, have risen enormously. Warhorses are trading for three hundred ducats."
Mention of prices caused the company to explode:
"The wool trade has collapsed!"
"The price of silk..."
"Taxes are already higher than..."
One large man managed to shout down the others. "A three-month condotta? The crisis will surely be over by then!"
Absurd! Toby folded his arms. "The men have to arm themselves, mount themselves, travel here from winter quarters. On a shorter contract the price goes up. No. Those terms, or I offer my sword elsewhere." Pull no punches!
Marradi spoke into the deadly silence. "This is your last word, comandante?"
"It is, Your Magnificence." The night had become even more unreal.
The despot looked thoughtfully around the group, one man at a time, and did not seem pleased. He pursed his lips.
"How much is Milan offering you now, messer Longdirk?"
The onlookers bristled in alarm. Toby should have known that no one kept secrets from Marradi in his own palace. A truthful answer would not be believed.
"Enough to buy the don if he hears of it, Your Magnificence."
"You would go with him?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I see. You leave us little choice. Paolo? Giovanni?" One by one, Marradi queried the onlookers. One by one they pouted, squirmed, then nodded. "So we are
agreed?" He turned to Toby and offered a hand. "You have your condotta, messer."
Toby released a long breath and bent to kiss those delicate fingers. As he straightened, Benozzo made his snorting noise again.
"But you will not allow us to hail you as captain-general?"
"That title must go to the don, Your Magnificence."
"He is a raving madman!"
"And he would chop me in cutlets if I dared belittle his status in the Company. He is your condottiere, Your Honors. I am his high constable, no more. We share the duties—he takes the glory, and I do all the work."
One advantage of a total inability to lie was that one was believed when telling the truth. The audience looked puzzled, but not disbelieving. If anyone could understand how a man might wield power in the background while using another for a figurehead, it ought to be these Florentines.
"You were elected capo at Trent," Benozzo complained.
"The don graciously allowed me to accept the title. He prefers to fight as close to the enemy as possible, and he knew so large an army could not be led from the front line." That was true. It was also true that the other commanders would sooner have blown themselves out of cannons than ever elect Don Ramon to anything.
"We all realize," podestà Origo said with a smile that would have left an oily shimmer on the Mediterranean, "that you needed the Spaniard's name and reputation when you founded the Company. But why do you bother to hide behind him now?"
Toby needed a moment to work out the logic again and make sure he had not misunderstood the first time. Then he needed more time to calm himself lest an explosion of anger waken the hob. Finally he said, "It is true that I have refused offers of continued employment from Verona and Naples and others. When they paid me, I served them as well as I knew how, giving them full value. That was business. But I do not throw friends away when my need for them is past, Your Excellency!" He had not totally masked his disgust, for Origo flinched.
Il Volpe contrived a thin smile without showing his teeth. "Yet the citizens would be happier if the famous Longdirk were their official protector."
"My regrets, Your Magnificence." Toby set his jaw to indicate extreme stubbornness. That was something else he was very good at. It required no deception at all.
Pietro sighed tolerantly. "The baton to the don, then. We shall issue two silver helmets, though."
"You do me great honor, but again I respectfully decline. I am an easy enough target without that." Now the onlookers' bewilderment was becoming affront and suspicion. These men spent their lives chasing trappings of grandeur, and most of them would sell their own mothers for much less than what he was refusing. He was insulting them and their values. "Signori, in my native land we believe it is unlucky to count chickens still in the shell. Offer me prizes after the victory, not before the enemy is even in sight." Besides, he was a foreign-born stripling—how would seasoned Italian troops feel if they saw him in a silver helmet? He was also a lowborn bastard, although the bastardy part did not seem to matter in Italy.
"You will swear the oath?" Benozzo demanded truculently.
"I will gladly swear allegiance to the noble republic of Florence." He wondered if the oath-taking ceremony would be held in the sanctuary. His participation there would only be possible if the tutelary agreed that the hob was not a demon. If it decided otherwise, it might blast him to ashes. Worse, it might try to exorcise the hob and destroy his mind in the attempt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The congratulations Guilo babbled as he herded the comandante to the door went unheard. Toby's mind was soaring far beyond the seventh sphere of heaven. In reality, if not in name, he was now Captain-General of Florence and held the fate of the city in his hands but no one could save Florence if Italy fell so he was in effect undertaking to save the whole peninsula but Nevil would never rest until he controlled all Europe so Toby was really undertaking—
Whoa! One lifetime at a time!
He would have to repeat the miracle of Trent. It was fortunate that Benozzo and his fellow commissioners did not realize how much of an incredible fluke Trent had been. The assembled captains-general and collaterali had elected the big foreigner comandante that day only because they thought the cause was hopeless, and he would be an ideal scapegoat. The cause had been hopeless until he had tricked Schweitzer into drawing up his forces on the downwind side of a pine forest and then been ruthless enough to exploit that mistake. Nevil would never fall into such a trap. Guilo closed the door with himself on one side of it and Toby on the other. The lock clicked. Nevil would—
The lock had clicked!
Surprise snatched Toby back from dreams and sent his hand groping for a nonexistent sword. He was alone in a long gallery, its heavy darkness salted with a very few candle flames gleaming like stars. One wall bore a parade of gilt-framed portraits, but the bronze and marble statues set between them provided a dozen shadowy hiding places. Heavy velvet drapes opposite meant bright windows by day but might conceal regiments of killers at night. He reached behind him to test whether the door had been locked and then decided not to—he could do nothing about it if it was, and it didn't matter if it wasn't. Certainly Guilo would be standing guard outside, whether the purpose was assassination or merely assignation.
Toby strode over to the nearest candelabra, a head-high tangle of bronze sea serpents, and lifted it as if to inspect the portraits. It weighed quite enough to smash skulls with if need be. There he waited, thinking back to what Guilo had said—something about another meeting, someone wanting to meet with him? And a smile. Not a murderer's leer, more of a silly smirk. No matter, the kid might not be in on the real plot.
Silence, except for faint sounds of an orchestra beyond the far door. The longer he was kept waiting, the less likely that there was an innocent explanation. How many would there be, what weapons would they use? Against bow or gun his size was more handicap than help; against blades, up to two or even three, he would have a reasonable chance with the sea serpents. Poisoned blades would be another matter. Then a flash of movement, a flicker of golden cloth just beyond a great hunk of contorted marble...
"You are keeping me waiting."
Lucrezia!
"I'm admiring your ancestors, duchessa. Which one was this? Why did he look like that? Did he have gout, or was he a lawyer?" The Marradi family could afford to marry well now—it was amazing how the highborn would swallow their pride and disgorge a daughter in return for a few sacks of gold—but it had sprung from humble roots. The don would dismiss this entire collection with a sneering remark about pedlars and fish merchants.
"Don't be tiresome, Tobiaso. You had just as many ancestors as we did, and you have just as little idea of what they really looked like. Now come here." She was artfully posed on a padded silk couch between two towering marble giants.
He strolled toward her, keeping the corners of his eyes peeled but fairly confident now that he faced nothing worse than grievous social embarrassment. "I do know what mine looked like. They looked like English soldiers. They were probably in uniform at the time."
"You expect to shock me, Tobiaso? When a man catches my eye I inquire into his history."
Shock her? Shock Lucrezia Marradi? According to Hamish, who was never wrong when he was being serious, she had two daughters older than Toby, had several times escaped conviction for hexing only because witnesses or magistrates had conveniently died, and had come home to Florence because her sixteen-year-old son had banished her from Ferrara for poisoning his father. She was a beautiful and fascinating woman. The gleam in her eyes could flatter a man to madness.
He set down the candelabra and grinned vacuously. "Wonderful party, madonna!"
"You are not drunk!"
She was, though. He was sorry to see that. It would make matters more difficult.
"Just intoxicated by your beauty."
She jumped up, a child doll staring imperiously at him. "Sit!"
He perched his bulk on the edge of the couch. She rem
ained standing, and their eyes were level. Why did she have to hurt herself like this? He was twice her size and half her age.
Any man who felt sorry for Lucrezia Marradi was out of his mind.
Smiling coyly, she patted his cheek. "You never get drunk, you never sleep with women, and tonight you refused two of the most beautiful boys in Florence."
"You forgot the sheep."
"I'll send for one if you ask nicely. Why don't you want a silver helmet?"
Gramarye? Possibly. More likely she had eavesdropped on his rehearsal with her brother that morning. Didn't matter. "It would annoy the don. I have enough troubles without that."
"And the Milanese earldom?"
"Promises are cheap."
She moved forward to stand between his knees. Her perfume closed around him like velvet. "You are a strange and fascinating man, Tobiaso. You hide your success. Usually when peasants rise to higher station they scream their glory from the rooftops."
"Or their wives do. I was outlawed at eighteen, monna. I learned not to draw attention to myself." He was sweating. There were enough jewels in her hair alone to finance a summer's campaigning, and the promises in her eyes were brighter yet. This was dangerous, deadly. Briefly he thought of being like other men, and his head swam with longing. Yes, he had the hob under control now, most of the time, but certain things he must avoid: demons, terror, rage—and passion. Already he could feel it stirring as his heart began to beat faster. Only once had he ever tried to make love to a woman, and the hob had gone berserk. Jeanne had died; half the hamlet had perished in fire and chaos. Never again would he dare succumb to desire.
"If my abstinence were from choice, duchessa, you would have melted it a long time ago."
Her pretty lip curled in mockery. "Are you admitting to a tragic battle wound, Tobiaso?"
Why must she pick on him? Although the life expectancy of her lovers was scandalously low, there were scores of men in the Marradi Palace tonight who would fight duels for a chance to bed Lucrezia. She was pathetic as well as deadly.
