Ariosto (12 page)

“What has la Signoria to say to this?” Massamo demanded abruptly.

“La Signoria has not met and I have yet to discuss this with them,” Lodovico answered, his face revealing how little he thought of la Signoria.

“They may refuse to let us follow you,” Massamo warned and was supported by the murmur of many of the Lanzi gathered there.

“It matters little what they decide. I am a Commendatore Generale of the armies of Italia Federata, and as such, am empowered to declare martial law. So far I have refused to do so because I did not want to alarm the people here any more than necessary, but if la Signoria attempts to thwart me, they will find that their powers have been suspended. I will admit,” he said, more mildly, “that I would not like to take such drastic action. It would be better if la Signoria sees wisdom and votes to honor the pledges they have made to the Cérocchi. But we must not let our oaths be abjured by those old men. Remember that you are paid by la Federazione, not by la Signoria, and that you are sworn to uphold the word of il Primàrio as well as the word of the Doge of Genova.”

“The powers of the Doge are strong here,” Massamo said, simply stating a fact. “If we act in a manner contrary to their orders, we could be considered mutinous, and they would be justified in leaving us here or having us killed.”

This time there was louder confirmation from the soldiers, and one of them lifted his arm in a rude gesture.

Lodovico heard him out, and made no attempt to deny this. “Yes, they could declare you mutinous, but my word before il Primàrio will be final. You are protected, so far as Italia Federata is concerned. What we must do now is make certain that la Signoria does not give us any more interference than is absolutely necessary.”

His listeners gave grumbling consent to this, but there was a new excitement among them that was as charged as the air of a thunderstorm. Laughter, eager and ferocious, was mixed with their breath and one or two gave it voice in soft, potent bursts.

“It must be war,” Lodovico declared, his rich voice ringing in the low-ceilinged room. “Any other course is despicable. When I was with the Cérocchi, one of their number cast doubts on us, saying that we might change our minds and withdraw from this land. There are those of la Signoria who would wish to prove that calumny true and brand us with traitorous treachery before our good allies.” He felt the color mount in his face at the mere thought of this shame. He raised his head proudly. “I refuse to be branded a coward by doddering old men who have never swung a sword in their lives!”

A roar of approval met this and Massamo Fabroni put one enormous hand on Lodovico’s shoulder.

“Those of you who have seen the Cérocchi know what superb warriors they are and will be proud to fight beside them. The forces of Anatrecacciatore are subtle and vile beyond anything I have known before. For that reason, I have little blame for Podestà Benci and la Signoria for their timorousness. They see the power and the evil of the sorcerer and their bones turn to milk within them.”

“Or to cheese,” said a wit among the soldiers. Laughter boomed through the common room.

“They are doing as they think they must,” Lodovico said when there was quiet again. He had been laughing with the rest and his voice was not entirely steady. “Do not treat them with scorn or contempt because they are not brave. It is not the merchant’s part to be brave; it is the soldier’s virtue.” He heard a muttered objection and he added with utmost sincerity, “No, no, my friend. Don’t let yourself be seduced by your own stalwart heart. You must be willing to understand why they fear, for that understanding will give you wisdom and strength, both of which we will need in abundance if we are to come through this campaign with victory.” He spread out his arms, as if waiting to embrace the room; dedicated himself to uphold their honor.

Massamo said quietly, “How dangerous is it, truly?” There was no fear in that gravelly voice, but there was circumspection and Lodovico was grateful for it.

“The danger is great,” Lodovico conceded. “We won’t tell la Signoria that,” he added with wicked delight, punctuated with a deep chuckle that was echoed by many of the others. “Even if you, each of you, decided not to fight”—his tone revealed how unlikely he knew this was—”still, I would have to return to the Cérocchi and join with them in battle, so grave is the threat and so worthy is the cause.” He gave a reminiscing smile. “I did that once, when I was younger. I only Falavedova,” he said, patting his sword, “and two horses. The opponents were the gigantic Turks who spin like the dust storms in the desert. Being young and inexperienced, I climbed to the crest of a ridge…Yes, I know,” he said ruefully as he heard the shocked reaction of the soldiers. “I have said I was inexperienced. I gathered up rocks to throw and knelt to commend my soul to God, for I was certain as a man may be that I would die that day. The gigantic Turks came at me as endless and relentless as the sea, and I fought until it seemed there was nothing in the world but what my sword could strike at. I had been wounded, and that dreadful weakness began to possess me, so that I sensed that it would have to end soon.”

“Did your soldiers return?” Massamo asked. He like all the others, was caught up in this story.

“No. They did not. But I was aided.” He nodded slowly, thinking back to that bloody hillside and terrible foe. “There was a sudden disturbance and then a troop of soldiers came over the crest, and at the sight of them, the Turks stopped spinning and gazed at the newcomers with mind-chilling terror. Then they fled in disorder as the troops, all on fine white horses, swept up the hill, passed me and pursued them down the far side, killing every hapless Turk they came upon with the greatest skill I have ever seen.”

“Who were these soldiers?” the old sergeant demanded to know.

“I wondered that myself. At the time I was faint and I collapsed before I could see more. But later I awoke in their camp, and I was taken to the captain who had led the attack. And it was then I realized that these were the famous Amazons.”

“Amazons!” Massamo cried out. “I don’t believe it!”

“Nor did I, at first. But as I recovered from my wounds, they gave me more than ample proof that it was so. I could wish them with us now. I had the pledge of the captain, who is named Zaidorah, that if I should ever need a fighter to stand beside me, she would be honored to have it be her.” When indulgent mirth greeted this, Lodovico responded testily, “We have battled together since then. I have seen her face a line of Mandarin cavalry without flinching, and I cannot make the same statement for myself. I know that I faltered when the battle was most fierce and the sun was scorching the sky, when my troops were beaten almost to their knees and my head was filled with thirst-born visions. Then Zaidorah proved her worth beyond any price, for she castigated me and showed me by her example what it was to fight bravely. Her sword never stopped until she had cleaved a path of bodies that led from our lines to the very tents of the enemy.”

The few ribald comments that had been made at the beginning of his reminiscence had stopped and now the men stood in awed silence.

“A woman like that…” Massamo began, as if to make up for his earlier derision. “A rare thing. It would do my heart good to see her in battle.”

Lodovico grinned at that, his handsome features becoming more attractive, his fine white teeth neatly framed by his dark beard and curling mustache. “No man ever had a better comrade at arms, I will tell you that. It does my heart good to think of her.”

One of the older soldiers was not convinced. “I had heard that the Amazons gelded any male they caught. You haven’t the look of it.”

“They do occasionally castrate their enemies, but I was not that. Their Queen, in fact, said that I was almost brave enough to be a woman.”

The laughter this time was rollicking and the men thumped each other on the back and stamped on the floor at the thought.

“If you had seen those women fight,” Lodovico said rather sadly, “you would not laugh.”

The old sergeant was the first to speak. “Women on a battlefield, any part of a battlefield are bad luck.” He was supported by murmured agreement and a few of the Lanzi crossed themselves for protection. “I’ve seen many a fight ruined because there were women about,” the sergeant declared.

“Have you?” Lodovico made an unpleasant gesture. “You may wish before this war is over to have the advantage of just one Amazon. The only ones who suffered when I fought with the Amazons were Turks.”

This brought a flood of other questions, and Lodovico looked about for a bench where he could sit to converse with the soldiers. He set his mind to the task of recounting tales of adventure and battle, of exploration and glory, and found himself well-rewarded by bright faces of the soldiers who listened to him. It was a pity he had left his chittarone, since he thought, with sardonic self-mockery, that all that was needed was a little music to make his stories complete entertainments.

The bishop’s secretary was a gray-eyed Frenchman in a cassock which he wore as if it were sewn with pearl and diamonds. He gave Lodovico a haughty stare a addressed him in Latin. “The bishop is at prayers. You haven’t an appointment.”

“The bishop knows I must speak to him.” Lodovico maintained an attitude of respect in this vast Cathedral of Santissimo Redentore. While it was true that the man wearing the cloth was an arrogant fool, Lodovico knew that the cloth itself was worthy of homage.

“Perhaps tomorrow, after mass,” the secretary suggested with a slight curl to his lip.

“Perhaps as soon as you announce me,” Lodovico responded with forced good manners. “Devoted as you are to your faith, you have probably not heard that we are all in mortal danger. And though the promise of heaven is sweet and those of us who trust in the mercy of God will go gladly down to death, still, there is a powerful and malignant enemy who stalks even now. It would be wise, I think, to inform the bishop of this.”

The Frenchman had turned a pasty color as Lodovico spoke, and stammered a few words. “This way, Ariosto. Yes. The bishop. This way.” The long nave of the cathedral echoed with the sound of his voice, making the stammer come back in eerie whispers.

As the door to the bishop’s private quarters opened, that upright old man could be seen on his knees before a crucifix in a small chapel that adjoined his study. When the Frenchman called him in a discreet undervoice, the bishop crossed himself and got to his feet. “Ariosto,” he said in those vibrant accents that Lodovico remembered from his first evening in Nuova Genova.

“Eccelenza,” he said, kneeling to kiss the episcopal ring that was extended to him. “I fear I have grave intelligence for you.”

“As I thought.” The bishop motioned Lodovico to a chair before removing the stola from his shoulders, gave this into the Frenchman’s keeping. “You’ve been with the Cérocchi.”

“Yes, I have,” Lodovico said, and once again launched into the tale of his stay in their city. He strove to bring the bishop a sense of the terror that the Cérocchi lived with daily, and their courage in facing it. He told the Ambrosian prelate of the despair preached by Cifraaculeo and the stern bravery of Alberospetrale. He touched only once on the women, and the color of his face darkened as he spoke the name of Falcone’s betrothed of the Scenandoa. He told of the preparations for war and described the arrival of the runner from the Pau Attan, and the obsequies that were given him.

Through it all, the bishop listened in silence, his old eyes revealing little, as if he were hearing confession. He was of a noble house in Brindisi and allied by marriage with the Ducas of Ferrara, and there was as much warrior as priest in him. Once, when Lodovico described the marshaling of the Cérocchi troops he had watched, the icy eyes had flared with reminiscent warmth.

“There you have it,” Lodovico declared at the end of his narrative. “I have tried to make Podestà Benci understand, but his fear is in him like a rot that devours his vitals. Without your help and your alliance, I fear that the Cérocchi must suffer. I have with me a mandate from il Primàrio empowering me to take command of all troops, but I know that if la Signoria were to oppose me”—he shrugged and averted his eyes—”what can we do alone?”

“You are not alone,” the bishop said resonantly. “You have the might of God with you, and nothing will prevail against His strength.” The old face was set in militant lines. “Those who war for the Right will be upheld and those who are in the ranks of Satan will be cast down into the Pit forever.” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again there was an impishness in his demeanor that Lodovico had not seen before. “I think Andrea Benci will be convinced: he will not have you alone to contend with, but me.”

La Realtà

Alessandra was delighted at the news. “The villa at Fiesole? It’s wonderful. I was there with Graziella once, and it is quite charming. It sits on the brow of the hill, you know, and has a beautiful garden with two fountains.” She beamed at her husband. “Think of the work you can do. No more need to find something to rhyme with Wessex.”

Lodovico was not listening to her. He sat on the edge of their bed and stared toward the window which faced the back of the Palazzo Pitti where gardeners were working on pruning the formal shrubbery. He put up his hand to shade his eyes, hating to admit that it was short-sightedness and not the sun that made the distant figures blur. “Yes,” he said remotely when he realized she had spoken. “I’ll be close enough for him to reach me on short notice, of course.” This last was said slowly, uncertainly, as if to reassure himself.

But he won’t have to, will he?” Alessandra asked, becoming anxious. “Lodovico, you need time to do your work, and you won’t get it here. Il Primàrio demands so much of you.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, looking at her at last. “Your new dress is very becoming. I like that color green.”

She smiled at this, then looked away. “La Duchessa wore this shade, I remember. It went so well with her yellow hair.”

Lodovico recalled Lucretia Borgia, Duchessa of Ferrara vividly and with as much real affection as Alessandra did. “Yes. There was that one silk gonella, with the Venezian sleeves edged in sapphires and emeralds. She always wore it when she presided at the great festival at Easter.” She had been his first real patron, and though he privately had thought her somewhat stupid and weak-willed, he had felt that her enthusiasm for his work was genuine and it had meant a great deal to him when he was younger. Even then he had admitted to himself that the beauty that had been so famous was fading, that her bleached hair was an ugly color and that her reputedly seductive voice was merely a little hoarse. He forgave her all these shortcomings because she had been kind to him. Fleetingly he wondered if that was the same reason he liked Damiano.