Immortal

by Traci L. Slatton

  “It doesn’t matter how much I pay you; you’ll piss it away immediately,” I said.

  “Then you should pay me a huge amount so I can piss like a stallion!” Sandro said, laughing. He was a good-humored, intelligent man who was also kindly and appealing, with deep-set eyes and long, flowing locks of which he seemed inordinately proud, a large nose, and a prominent cleft chin.

  “Fifty florins is a huge amount of money.”

  “One hundred florins is twice as huge.” He made a hand sign that referred to a man’s parts. “I’ll make a much bigger puddle!” I had thrown up my hands and was laughing when Lorenzo’s Moorish servant hailed me. Sandro patted me on the shoulder. “You’re off at the beckoning of our magnificent Lorenzo, who wouldn’t quibble with me over fifty florins, but I’ll see you in Careggi a few days hence, for Ficino’s dinner, yes?”

  “I’ll be at Careggi. Sixty florins,” I called, walking toward the Moorish servant. After all, someday I would make a gift of Botticelli’s painting to my wife. I felt that I was ready for her, and prophetic Leonardo, whose companionship I missed, had told me that when the heart was ready, the beloved would appear.

  “Seventy-five!”

  “Done!” I agreed. Sandro laughed and clasped his hands overhead in a victory sign.

  “I’d have done it for fifty, I like the subject matter!” he said.

  “I like your work, I’d have paid a hundred!”

  “Maybe you still will,” he yelled back good-naturedly. I would have answered him, but the Moorish servant touched my sleeve.

  “Signore Lorenzo requires your presence. Will you take my horse?” he offered, and gestured to the outskirts of the mercato, where horses were tied up.

  I shook my head as I dug out a coin for some of the fleshy orange apricots, which the vendor passed me with alacrity. I bit into the sweet, juicy fruit, chewed, and then answered, “It’s a fine day to walk, and it won’t take me long. Tell your master I’ll be there shortly.”

  TOMMASO SODERINI AND FEDERIGO DE MONTREFELTO, the Duke of Urbino, were already there when I arrived at the Palazzo Medici and went into Lorenzo’s opulent chamber, with its marble floor and coffered ceiling. The men stood by one of Paolo Uccello’s three paintings of the battle of San Romano, paintings of the sort which were usually hung in government buildings to commemorate state military victories. The placement of the paintings in Lorenzo’s private chamber gave the room the air of a prince’s hall or public council chamber. Yet the grandeur of the room could not distract me from a sense that something serious was transpiring.

  “Kind of you to join us, Bastardo,” Lorenzo said coolly, and I knew he was displeased that I’d arrived at my leisure. “We were just discussing the new Pope, Sixtus.”

  “He’s been polite, and he renewed the Medici management of papal finances,” I said cautiously, coming to stand beside Soderini, who wore a gloomy face.

  “Polite but cool,” said Soderini, an older man who was devoted to Lorenzo. He’d been horrified at the attempted coup against the Medici, and had since become one of Lorenzo’s closest friends and staunchest supporters. Some men thought Soderini was the only man in Florence who could disagree with Lorenzo; in fact, Soderini and Lorenzo worked together in harmony, their friendly antagonism maintained for show only, so that Florentines could maintain their cherished illusion of a republic. Now Soderini turned to me. “Our old rivals, the Pazzi, are making overtures to him. He finds their blandishments congenial.”

  “The Medici have been the papal bankers since early in Cosimo’s career,” I said. “Would Sixtus disrupt this time-honored arrangement? It’s been lucrative for everyone.”

  “Besides, Sixtus is consumed with foreign interests,” said Federigo. He was a fifty-year-old noble, renowned both as a master of warfare and a patron of the arts and of learning. His palace in Urbino was said to be the fairest in Italy, and his library rivaled the Medici library. He was built as I was, lean with hard muscles rolling on his frame, and he was handsome enough on the left side of his face, though the right side lacked an eyeball and bore scars from a tournament injury in his youth. I knew him to be honorable, a man who kept his word, but I had never quite trusted him. In his quest to win every battle, he laid siege to cities and left the weaker inhabitants, that is, children and women, dead. Whatever men wanted to do should be done to consenting equals, and not forced on those who were smaller and weaker. I believed this with every fiber of my being. Federigo went on, “The Pope promotes his crusade against the Turks and the Church’s authority in France, where Louis XI insists on the French church’s independence. He also wants the reunification of the Russian church with Roma.”

  “You’ve left out the most important promotion: his nephews’ interests,” said Lorenzo tensely. “He wants to put Florence under their control, and they’re incompetent fools.”

  “What’s the immediate problem?” I asked, knowing that there must be one, or Lorenzo wouldn’t have sent for me. I clasped my hands behind my back and waited.

  “Volterra is rebelling,” said Soderini. “We have to send troops.”

  “Alum mines are the problem,” Lorenzo said, in his nasal, measured tone, “money and alum mines. The Medici bank furnished the capital to those who were given the concession to develop the mines when the mines were discovered a few years ago. In return, the contract for mining the alum went to a consortium consisting of three Florentines, three Sienese, and two Volterrans. The Florentines were my men, of course. Now the mines have proved lucrative. And the Volterrans, with the town behind them, are demanding a bigger cut of the profit.”

  “It always comes back to bribes,” Soderini said, pacing around us. “The contractors are bringing the matter before the Signoria. I know from talking to them that the Signoria will vote that the profits should go to the general treasury of the whole Florentine republic.”

  “It’s natural that Volterrans want the money for Volterra,” I commented.

  “That’s what we’re counting on. They’ll revolt, and I’ll march immediately on them to quell the rebellion,” said Federigo blithely. He came from an illustrious family of soldiers, all of them leaders of great mercenary armies of condottieri, and he made his fortune from conflict. “The effect of victory is enhanced by its swiftness, and my army is ready to move!”

  “Wait, you mean the Volterrans haven’t revolted yet?” I asked, astonished.

  “They will,” Lorenzo said. He and Federigo exchanged a pregnant glance. “They’re notoriously turbulent. They’ve been looking for an excuse to assert their independence. They think I’m too young to act decisively, that I’ll placate them because I’m weak.”

  “In the Signoria, I’ll suggest that a show of force is unnecessary and provocative,” Soderini said, nodding. “I’ll recommend conciliatory measures; I’ll remind the Signoria of the ancient proverb, ‘Better a lean peace than a fat victory.’ It’ll emphasize Lorenzo’s boldness. His resolution and foresight will be publicly demonstrated.”

  “The Volterrans will serve as a fine example of what happens when my authority is countermanded,” Lorenzo said with satisfaction. “They’ll be a lesson for all the towns under the sway of the Florentine republic. I won’t have Florence losing territories that my nonno worked so hard to annex! I’ll prove myself worthy of his legacy by strengthening the Florentine borders! Moreover, Sixtus will see that I don’t falter, that I’m willing and able to raise an army to defend my interests. It’ll send him a message, as well.”

  “You’re sending troops against a town that hasn’t rebelled yet, hoping it does so you can crush it? Will you even wait for the revolt? How many civilian Volterrans will die to prove your point?” I asked angrily.

  “As few as necessary.” Lorenzo shrugged.

  “But some will, and they will be women and children!” I snapped.

  “Sacrifices to the general good.” He waved. “You’ll ride with Federigo, Bastardo.”

  “I don’t fight innocent people,” I growled. �
��I’ve seen too many innocents die. No good comes of it! It creates hate, and hate makes more destruction! Lives are ruined! Generations carry the blight!”

  “I could ruin your life with documents in my possession!” Lorenzo barked. I gave him a stony look and he softened. “I’m not asking you to fight, Luca mio. I want you to do what you do so well: take the pulse of the people, keep your ear to the street. Tell me what’s going on. You’re my eyes and ears in Volterra. Are they getting the lesson? I’ll pull back as soon as they submit. You can help minimize casualties.”

  I could hear the sound of a battle rumbling on the horizon, but it wasn’t Lorenzo’s lesson to his territories. It was the old antagonism between the good God and the evil God. There was no evading it; there never was. I could only commit myself to the side of kindness, as best I knew it. If I obeyed Lorenzo, there was a chance I could save lives and help the Volterrans. “You’ll listen if I get word to you that conflict is unnecessary?” I asked, uneasy.

  “I always listen to you, Luca. I trust you,” Lorenzo promised. “You get the word to me, and my army moves out! The fighting’s over!”

  “I myself won’t fight the Volterrans,” I said. “As long as you understand that.”

  “Of course not, Luca, you’re there to observe and to moderate,” Lorenzo said. “I don’t want innocent people hurt, you know that.”

  IT WAS A JUNE MORNING ruffled through with a clean sea breeze, and the hills around us undulated green and gold with olive groves, cypress valleys, and vineyards. But the wild Volterran landscape wasn’t entirely domesticated. It had raw vistas of stark, forbidding ravines, clay-walled chasms, high cliffs, dark woodlands, and a long view down to the Tyrrhenian Sea. The profile of the city was visible on the highest sandstone hill, at the junction of the Bra and Cecina rivers. Gray stone walls hundreds or even thousands of years old snaked around the town, which was situated southwest of Florence. I rode Ginori at the front of Federigo’s army, but off to the side of the main phalanx of troops, at a distance to shield me from their filth and clamor.

  Armies are loud, dirty, uncouth beasts. Even at the distance at which I rode, I couldn’t escape the cacophony: horse hooves striking the ground and men’s feet stamping, armor clanking and shields creaking and the ends of pikes dragging sibilantly in the dirt, the heavy large wheels of Federigo’s massive iron cannons thumping along the ground, supply carts rattling in the rear, and drumming and trumpeting from musicians practicing during the march. Over it all was the babble of voices, shouting, laughing, singing, as if death, destruction, and dismemberment were something to celebrate. The air was thick with stirred-up dust. It was also rank with the smells of sweaty bodies and with the foul scents of human and animal urine, excrement, and sputum that any army on the march produced. Behind the ranks of soldiers were the auxiliary personnel necessary to any moving army: priests, physichi and barber-surgeons, blacksmiths, farriers, armorers, leather-workers to maintain saddles, grooms for the horses, and so forth. At least there were no women trailing Federigo’s army. As a serious professional condottiere captain, he eschewed the usual practice of bringing along a contingent of prostitutes for the soldiers. I was looking again at the high green mountain on which Volterra perched, when Federigo trotted over from the main corps to ride beside me.

  “It’s beautiful,” he called.

  “And very well defended,” I observed. “It’s only approachable from one side, near the church of San Alessandro. The other sides are heavily fortified. What’s your strategy?”

  “We’re going to ride right up the accessible side and ask them nicely to open the gates,” he said, smiling with the good half of his mouth.

  “You’ll say ‘pretty please’?” I responded, with some skepticism.

  “That would be a nice touch, don’t you think?”

  “And just like that, they open the gates for you?”

  “Surely I make a good argument for it.” He winked at me with his one good eye, which seemed an act of courage, considering that he was a one-eyed man sitting astride a monstrous beast of a gray stallion that was trotting along at a good pace. But then, no one could accuse Federigo Montrefelto, Duke of Urbino, of cowardice.

  I turned in my saddle to look at the ten thousand footmen and the two thousand cavalry troops. “You make twelve thousand good arguments,” I said.

  “Nope. I make one thousand good arguments,” he said. “But we’ll pause first. I want Mass said for the troops. It’s good to focus the soldiers’ minds on our Lord. In case we have to fight.” He kicked his horse and steered back toward his army.

  “Why one thousand?” I called.

  “That’s the number of condottieri the Volterrans have hired to defend themselves!” he called, before galloping back to disappear into the rank and file of his soldiers.

  EXACTLY AS FEDERIGO HAD PREDICTED, the Volterrans opened the gates to him. He assembled his vast, expert army in front of the approachable side. The usual taunts and insults were flung back and forth over the Volterran walls. Then Federigo sent in a messenger to invite the Volterran leaders to talk. I wasn’t at the conference, but I heard later that Federigo pointed out to the Volterrans that their condottieri were overawed by his army, and that they were likely to turn on the Volterrans and do violence to them. Mercenary soldiers other than his own were not to be trusted, they were little more than organized bands of brigands, out for profit, apt to change sides to protect their own hides. He must have been compelling, because the Volterran leaders scampered back into the city and opened the gates without firing a single arrow or drawing a single blade. And that was when death struck that town. It was completely undeserved and even more vicious because of the Volterrans’ capitulation.

  I rode into the city alongside the middle body of troops, and I was unprepared for the devastation before my eyes. It shocked me to my core. Red, orange, and blue flames leapt out of homes and shops. The hilly, uneven streets were littered with ransacked belongings: hacked-up furniture, shards of dishes, torn clothes, casks of wine and jars of olive oil toppled over and draining onto the stone. Animals had been loosed and horses, pigs, sheep, goats, cows, and chickens wandered through the streets, crying out. Condottieri from both the Volterran and the Florentine armies ran amok, breaking down doors, stabbing unarmed men, chasing women, carrying valuables out of buildings. Soldiers surged through the streets of the town, using pikes and swords to shatter windows from the outside, or heaving furniture out from the inside. They howled like animals over the hissing of fire and the moans of women and the shrieks of the elderly and the high-pitched, terrified screaming of children. I saw three condottieri chase a young girl down an alley and I leapt off Ginori to pursue them. The alley ended in a twisted maze of smaller alleys, and I saw one of the condottieri drop back and grab a cowering woman by the hair, so I grabbed my sword and plunged it through the back of his neck. He went down without a sound and the woman grabbed my knees and babbled. “Hide!” I told her, which was all I could do for her, and then I turned to find the girl. I had to protect her.

  I ran down one alley, it twisted around and came to a dead end, so I turned, swearing, and sprinted down the next alley, and then the next. Finally, abutting the stone wall of some palazzo, I saw the two remaining condottieri. I was too late. One brute was hauling up his hose amidst a fit of guffaws, while the other, hose pulled down around his ankles, knelt, hairy thighs exposed, with one of the girl’s legs stretched out underneath him. He cackled and waved a bloody dagger. He was finished despoiling her. Now he was amusing himself by carving into her skin. I charged him, pivoting through my hips as I swung my sword. All the unnatural strength at my disposal surged through me, and his head was sliced from his neck with a single long fast sweep. The head went rolling into a gutter and crimson blood spurted from the headless body, which toppled over onto the girl. The other condottiere was shouting and fumbling for his weapon, and I ran my sword through him, gutting him like a fish.

  I turned to the girl. She wasn’t
making a sound and I feared she was dead, but when I pulled the body off her, she sat up. Her gonna was shredded, with the skirt torn off at her waist. She was covered with blood and other substances, and the condottiere had cut a deep crosslike mark into her thigh. She turned her agonized, tearstained face to me, and I could see that she was only about twelve or thirteen, in that middling age between childhood and youth, though her face already showed the breathtaking woman she would become. It was heart-shaped and delicately sculpted, with high cheekbones, large golden-flecked eyes bright with terror, and a wide pink-lipped mouth open in a silent scream. She seized the dagger from the hand of the headless soldier. I knew she meant to hurt herself. I grabbed it from her.

  “Let me die,” she whimpered, and the anguish in her voice couldn’t hide its husky melody.

  “No, no!” I told her. “You have to live. You will live. It seems like the end of everything, but it’s not. You’ll survive.”

  “I’m not worthy of living. I’m nothing now,” she wept.

  “Stop it,” I said sternly. “You’re alive, and plenty of people won’t be after today. Your town will need you. Your family will need you. You have to help them.” I looked around for the remains of her skirt, found it, and tore some long strips out of the fabric. “Your wound is deep, but not dangerously so. I’ll bind it. Watch for infection over the next few days.”