Ariosto (11 page)

“The English will be gone in three days,” Lodovico said with what he hoped was encouragement.

“That’s something,” Damiano nodded slowly. “But whichever it is, it won’t stop because they’re gone. It’s like a river in winter, Lodovico. This is simply one of the places it has broken through the ice. Whether you are the river or not, it is still there and it still flows, no matter how deep the snows are.” He looked down, then inhaled sharply. “I should not have given you that,” he said as he held out his hand for the scroll.

“I didn’t read it,” Lodovico hastened to reassure him.

Damiano laughed bitterly. “That’s not my concern. It is only that now everyone will think you read my scrolls and dispatches.”

“But I don’t,” Lodovico protested, thinking for the first time that perhaps Damiano did not trust him. A swift stab of disappointment went through him, but banished it resolutely.

“That’s not what will be believed,” Damiano said thoughtfully.

“I’ll tell them the truth, then. And if you deny that I’m given any of the documents…” He was cut off by Damiano’s laughter.

“Then it would
certainly
be believed. If you deny it and I deny it, why, there’ll be no way to convince them that you aren’t wholly in my confidence.” He stopped and looked at Lodovico. “That wasn’t meant as it sounded. You are, in fact, in my confidence, but not in the way most of the world interprets the word. Lodovico, I wish I could protect you from the malice that you haven’t earned but will receive nonetheless. I can’t do that. It’s the price of my friendship, I’m afraid.” He offered the scroll. “Would you like to read it?”

Lodovico gave his shoulders an awkward hitch. “I suppose not, if it only insults you.”

Damiano tossed the scroll onto the writing table across the room. The scroll skidded on the polished wood, rolled, and fell to the floor. “Damnation! It shouldn’t have done that.” He lifted his eyes to the elaborately carved ceiling, an expression of abstraction on his face. “I think,” he said after a pause, “I think that you and Alessandra and that boy of yours—Virginio?—Virginio, will go into the country for a month or so. You could use the writing time, could you not?”

“Yes, of course, but…” Lodovico knew that Alessandra would be delighted with this news, and realized that though it was something he had thought he desired himself, now that the opportunity was presented to him, he did not wish to have it. “Wouldn’t you rather have me here?”

“For myself, yes, but for you, no. I’ll lend you the old villa at Fiesole. That way, if I need you, you will be only an hour away. You can work there, and for a time you need not be bothered with the suspicions of the men of the court.” He looked over the racks of books and said, “That early book of Nicolo’s, you’ve read it?”

“Yes.” The word came out more sharply than he had intended, but his passionate dislike of Machiavelli had not died with the man.

“Yes. It’s a pity he’s not around. Oh, the book is infuriating, but it is good counsel in an emergency, and that is what this is, my friend. I may send for Guicciardini, though I’d rather keep him with Charles while the German war continues.” He caught the distress in Lodovico’s eyes. “Don’t fret: I’m not casting you aside. I am only trying to gather what protection I can.”

It was an effort for Lodovico to accept this gracefully. “If there is to be a battle, I would rather be allowed to fight,” he said, getting to his feet and straightening his shoulders. He wished that he made a better showing, that he was taller and stronger and keener of rye, but there was no way to change himself. He was about to put his thumbs through his belt, but remembered at the last moment what had happened before, and let his hands hang at his side.

“It’s not that sort of fight, I fear.” Damiano bent to pick up the fallen scroll. “This time, it is more subtle, like a plague spreading through us. It is as deadly as war, and is conducted by similar rules, but like a disease, it contaminates everything it touches. For my own sake, I would like to think I’ve spared you that, and I will, for as long as it is possible to do so.” He had put the scroll on the table and now he opened it idly and glanced over the message. “When it is no longer possible, you would do well to fear me.”

Lodovico held himself rigid, but inwardly, his spirit sagged. He had no words to offer Damiano that would ease him, and now it seemed that his presence was not required. His jaw tightened against an absurd impulse to protest.

“When the English have left us, I will make arrangements for you to go to the villa.” Damiano rolled the scroll once more.

“I…thank you.” Lodovico could not bring himself to say more.

“Do you indeed?” Damiano laughed shortly. “Not now, perhaps, but you might, one day.”

Before Lodovico could think of a proper response, the door opened and Andrea Benci announced the arrival of Ippolito Davanzati.

La Fantasia

Podestà Benci’s wizened face was pasty white as he listened to Lodovico’s report. At the end of it he, tottered to his feet and came across his council chamber, his expression anguished. “We must leave. That’s the only thing to be done. How else will we be safe? We must leave quickly.”

“Leave?” Lodovico burst out, horrified at what he heard. “It is precisely now that we must stand and fight! How can you think of leaving when we would be abandoning these noble Cérocchi to ruin and destruction?” He went on his knee to the leader of la Signoria. “You are a man of honor, Podestà Benci. You are revered for your wisdom. How, then, can you think of leaving the Cérocchi, even for a moment?”

“But Anatrecacciatore,” Andrea protested. “You’ve told me what the runner from the Pau Attan said before he died. Ten of their villages have been decimated and their capital city is under siege—if it hasn’t fallen already,” he added darkly. “For the love of the Virgin, get off your knee, Ariosto.”

Lodovico rose gracefully. “I must make you understand, Podestà,” he said urgently, his words vibrant with purpose. “I have given the Cérocchi my word that we will stand by our agreements with them…”

“You have what?” Andrea Benci exclaimed, stepping hack in horror at what he heard. “What possessed you?”

“Nothing possessed me,” Lodovico said, his chestnut-colored eyes graying with suppressed rage and disgust. That this old man should be so powerful, and so afraid! His shapely musician’s hands knotted themselves into soldier’s fists at his side. “There are cities in the world where Italians are regarded with contempt as a race of spineless merchants. Always in the past I have defended my own, but seeing you, Podestà, I realize that their accusations and disparagement were correct.”

This cold condemnation brought Andrea Benci up short. He regarded Lodovico with loathing, his features changing swiftly from abject fear to haughty anger. “Spineless merchants, when we have half the world in our hands?”

“But it wasn’t the merchants who took that world,” Lodovico reminded him. “There were no merchants with me at the Fortress of the Thousand Golden Towers, only my warriors, who were not afraid to fight, though they knew many of them would not live through the encounter.” He had to blink back tears at the memory of those fine, courageous men who had fallen to the soldiers of the Great Mandarin. If only he could have half, a third of their number with him now, in this new and unexplored land!

Andrea Benci sneered, but his voice cracked. “It is not your decision to make, Ariosto. You are not inundated with the safety of Nuova Genova. When you have lived as long as I have, you will learn that what men like you call cowardice the rest of the world calls prudence.”

“That may be,” Lodovico said as he followed the old man across the room. “But I do not anticipate an old age. Old age is the reward of a safe life, and it has never been my goal to live safely.” He folded his arms across his chest. For a moment he sincerely pitied the old Podestà, who had so little steel in him, but it was an emotion he could not indulge, else the Cérocchi, Nuova Genova, and all of this wondrous land would be lost.

Once seated, Andrea seemed more confident, as if the chair were imbued with the power of the state and could bolster him up. “You have only that messenger’s word that the warriors of flint and frost have wrought so much destruction among the Pau Attan. In the confusion of battle, it may have appeared worse than it was. I have heard from the captain of my Lanzi that it is easy to be mistaken in battle.” He offered this argument in an unsteady voice. He could not bring himself to meet Lodovico’s eyes.

“You did not hear the messenger, Podestà Benci, and I did. A soldier knows when a report is genuine, and I have never before heard such conviction on a man’s lips as I heard then. He died to tell us of the fighting.” His words were low with feeling and he wished fervently that he could have brought the dying Pau Attan runner to this old man to tell his story again.

“What do you want me to do, then? I must call the Signoria to meeting, of course, to hear how we may best evacuate the city…” His suddenly rapid babble was interrupted by Lodovico.

“
No!
I tell you that you will not leave! If I must destroy every ship in the harbor to keep you here, I will. Pray don’t think that I exaggerate. I have sworn fealty to Falcone”—he blotted out the image of Aureoraggio that rose in his mind—”and I will not be forsworn for you or anyone. When Damiano sent me here, it was because he knew that we could no longer haggle like merchants.” He put one foot on the first step of the dais. “I am empowered to assume command of your troops, and if you make it necessary, I will do that.”

“God have mercy on us,” Andrea muttered as he crossed himself. “You’re a madman. Il Primàrio cannot have intended you to do this.”

“Mad? If to love honor more than life is madness, then I most certainly am mad.” He threw back his magnificent head and laughed heartily.

“Raving, too,” Andrea said under his breath as he regarded Lodovico with something between abhorrence and awe.

“No, no, old man, not raving.” He managed to stop laughing to speak again. “You cannot know how I feel now, because you have never known the joy of hazarding your life for glory.”

“Joy?” Podestà Benci demanded.

“Yes, joy. There is nothing more intoxicating, except the fulfillment of love. If I could trade every moment of danger for a year of peace, I would not do it, not if it meant losing that superb elation that one knows only with a sword or his beloved in his hands.” He stepped down off the dais. “Call la Signoria to meeting, and quickly, for we have little time to prepare. And tell them that we will not turn away from this land, for it is not only the land of the Cérocchi, it is the land of Italia as well that we defend.” He walked swiftly across the hall and did not pause to listen to Andrea Benci’s muttering objections. He was determined to speak to the captain of the Lanai before la Signoria gathered.

Massamo Fabroni was a soldier of the old school—rough of face and speech, touchy in matters of honor, inwardly and outwardly scarred by his profession and thoroughly pragmatic. He stood, hands clasping his belt, head erect, facing Lodovico at the entrance to the barracks of the Lanai.

“We must talk, you and I,” Lodovico said with an appreciative grin to the captain.

“If you would have it,” Massamo said, standing aside to let Lodovico enter the common room of the barracks.

It was a low-ceilinged, large place, with three hearths and a number of low tables and benches where most of the Lanzi spent their idle days. It smelled strongly of wine and leather and sweat, all the odors mixing into a rich, earthy pungency that to Lodovico was the essence of bravery as incense is holiness to a priest, and just as sacred. There were perhaps fifty men taking their leisure after their midday meal. Some of the soldiers were engaged in polishing their arms and armor; a few were dicing; in the far corner two men sat at a small table, grimly arm wrestling; nearer the door, half a dozen soldiers shared the last of a small barrel of wine, singing boisterously over their cups. They had given little heed to their captain until he rapped out to them: “Rise!”

There was a moment of hesitation, then a startled scramble as the soldiers got to their feet, abandoning their activities as they looked toward the door.

Today Lodovico was not so grand to see as he had been upon his arrival, but he was still impressive.

“Ariosto has returned to us and has news!” Massamo Fabroni moved in Lodovico’s wake, and his announcement captured the attention of all the Lanzi.

“Yes,” Lodovico said pleasantly. “I have just come from the capital city of the Cérocchi where they have had news from the Pau Attan. The forces of Anatrecacciatore are on the march. They have already sacked many of the cities of the Pau Attan and they will turn next to the cities of the Cérocchi and the Scenandoa. We have sworn to aid the Cérocchi in their struggle with these hideous foemen, and if you are with me, we shall.” He could see their eyes filling with that steely light that would carry them to triumph in battle.

“What about the troop ships?” a well-weathered sergeant asked from the bench where he had been repairing the grip of his sword hilt.

“We have been promised more troops, but even if they depart in all haste, they will not arrive here for many days. We must act now, and though there are few of us, we will have to stand with the Cérocchi. Each of us must hold his life precious and sell it dearly to those who oppose us.” Lodovico began to walk around this common room, his tread firm and his motions decisive and brisk. “I have heard that when this city was founded there were those who opposed you—not the Cérocchi, but others. Some of you will remember those days. So must you fight now: Anatrecacciatore is a wizard of enormous power and immense evil. His warriors are creatures that are as terrifying as they are dangerous. We cannot win if you lull yourself into the belief that since these people do not have cannon and other firearms they are therefore easy to defeat.” He paused and watched as the various soldiers reacted In his words. One man with a vicious scar across his nose and cheek let out a terse laugh, another patted the mace that hung from his belt.

“Those of you who have fought in this wilderness will have a better understanding than the rest of the particular difficulties that will confront us in our campaign. It would be well for you who have fought in the forests to tell those who have not what you experienced.” He recalled, as he spoke, how valuable his guides had been in the Orient, for they knew the trackless deserts and cloud-shrouded mountains and had been able to make the way easier.