Ariosto (3 page)

Lodovico nodded. “I understand them, my friend, far better than you might think. When I was far away and fighting in the distant kingdoms of the East, I often despaired. Yet dispatches reached us, and we were not abandoned to our fates by our homeland. It’s because of that expedition that I can give you my word that the troop ships will come, and if more aid is needed, I will have it provided for us all.” As he spoke, he hoped inwardly that would be true. In the case of his Oriental expedition there had been the promise of treasure and the glory of rediscovering the splendor of the East. But this unknown and uncharted land might prove to be matter if the campaign should prove to be long and unprofitable. If that occurred, the Console of Italia Federata might move to withdraw the troops, leaving the Cerocchi and their allies to face the men of the Fortezza Serpente alone. No! He made a sudden gesture that startled Falcone. He would not allow that to happen. If necessary, he himself would plead the case of the Cerocchi and the men of Nuova Genova before the Console. He realized that Falcone was staring at him, and he managed to smile.

“Your face…” the Cérocchi prince said tentatively.

“Not very pretty to look at, was it?” Lodovico asked ruefully and stood straighter. “You must forgive me. My thoughts are…are scattered tonight. Tomorrow, when my mind is clearer we will talk again and you have the chance to look over Bellimbusto’s points for yourself.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the Cerocchi Prince. “It is an honor to be allowed to fight with you, Falcone. Whatever the outcome of our battles I will always be proud to know that you were willing to regard me as your comrade-at-arms.”

Falcone nodded, saying nothing but touching poignard that hung in his dagger’s sheath.

Andrea Benci was nodding in his chair before the fire when Lodovico finally knocked at the door to his chamber. “Oh, Ariosto. I had thought you might come earlier.”

“I was with Falcone,” Lodovico explained, an appreciative twinkle in his large, expressive eyes. “I must apologize for keeping you up so long, but I felt it was important to talk with the prince.”

“Of course, of course,” Andrea Benci agreed hastily. “You’re quite right to do that. These Cérocchi are proud as Austrians. And I don’t mind waiting.”

Lodovico let that polite mendacity pass. “We must discuss what is to be done first. Certainly I must go and tender formal homage to Falcone’s father. We must also think what is to be done with the troops when they arrive. They must be given quarters of their own and informed what rules obtain to them in the city.”

Andrea Benci was wagging his head up and down, but it was clear that the old man had not considered the half of these problems. He gave a little cry of dismay and put his hands to his temples. “So much to do. So little time!”

The fire had burned low and the two lanterns were almost exhausted, so the room was very dim, but Lodovico thought he saw moisture gather in the old man’s eyes. “There will be enough time,” he said at his most reassuring.

“I do hope so,” Andrea Benci muttered to the air. “I am afraid, Ariosto.”

This simple confession filled Lodovico with pity for the old man. “We all know fear, Andrea,” he said quiet1y. “I have never been in battle when I was not afraid. You have a very real danger facing you and the outcome is unsure. In addition to that, there are many people here who depend on you for your wisdom and advice. Of course such responsibilities weigh heavily upon you—you are a good man and will not turn away from them.” He sank into the chair opposite Andrea Benci, sighing as he did.

“But you,” Benci protested, unbelieving. “You are a great hero. Surely you’ve mastered your fear?”

“I pray that I will, before every battle,” he said softly, looking at his clasped hands. “I know that I must not allow my fear to conquer me, for then I would be at the mercy of the enemy. Only they must be allowed triumph over me, not my fear.” His smile was sad. “I have too often seen what happens to men who surrender to their fears.”

“If you are afraid, then how can the rest of us gain courage?” the old man asked, bewildered.

“As I do—as any warrior does. You must learn not to be stopped by it, but to go on in spite of it.” He studied the Podestà with compassion. “You’ve never had to face this before, have you?”

“Never,” the old man said miserably. “I was not in Firenze when there was trouble with anyone. I’ve spent most of my life dealing with import and export matter not wars.” His arthritic fingers locked and unlocked as if performing a private ritual of their own.

“War is not really so different. Most of the time it a dull thing. An army on the march is not much different from a group of merchants who are carrying wares, except that most soldiers are rougher men than merchants. We worry as much about food and bedding as you do, Andrea Benci. The rain wets us as much and is as annoying. The cold freezes us and the heat scorches. You must not think of soldiers as men unlike any others.” He chuckled once.

Andrea Benci’s brow furrowed. “As you say,” he murmured. “I have little experience with soldiers. In Firenze the Lanzi were not often involved with merchants.” It was almost an apology and the old man at last dared to meet Lodovico’s eyes. “I will talk with the Signoria tomorrow.”

It was good to see the Podestà put his mind to this task at last. Lodovico allowed himself the pleasure being relieved. He felt now that Andrea Benci won be on the side of the fighters. To be sure of this, he added, “We cannot afford to lose this battle, not if Italia Federata is to have the lead in exploring this magnificent new land. The Spanish and the French would like it if we failed. Therefore, we must succeed.”

“Yes,” Benci said, somewhat numbly. “There have been Spanish vessels here from time to time. We have been anxious to let them land, but there was little could do without open conflict since the Spanish want to gain ground in the New World” He tried to shrug this off, squaring his stooped shoulders for Lodovico’s benefit. “With you here, it will be different,” he declared. “Our people will rally to your leadership.”

“I hope they may. That is why I was sent—to mobilize our forces and our allies against the foes of the Cerocchi.” Lodovico got to his feet and favored Andrea Benci with a courteous bow. “We must talk again, Podestà Benci, but tonight, I fear I am tired.” His eyes sparkled as he looked at the old man who was all but snoring. “A long flight like that and I am exhausted.”

“Um. Of course.” The old man made a feeble gesture of dismissal. “Don’t stay on my account.” His voice had almost trailed away on the last words, and as Lodovico reached the door, he could see Andrea Benci’s jaw drop onto his chest as he was at last unable to resist the sleep that had been hovering around him like a swarm of moths.

Lodovico found his chamber. He could not bring himself to wake the bodyservant who had been assigned to him, but tugged himself out of his clothes and stored them in the trunk at the foot of the enormous bed he had been provided. He could tell that the mattress was filled with goose feathers and would be soft as merengue to sleep upon, and that promise tempted him. When he had donned his nightshift, he knelt and bowed his head for his nightly devotions.

“In the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,” he said, as he had every night since he was old enough to speak. “It has pleased You to send me to aid these afflicted people in this strange and distant land, away from my family and my country. Whatever burden You give me, I will carry it with a glad and humble heart and will, with Your help, so conduct myself as to be worthy of the honor. Should it be Your intention to see me fall in battle, I ask that You will forgive my sins, which must surely blacken my soul and make it ugly to You; to that end, You will purge me of evil that I will at last be sufficiently acceptable to You that I may stand in the splendor and radiance that is glorious forever. If my sins offend You too greatly, then I beseech You that You will let my right arm falter so that I will die at enemies’ hands and be cast into the outer darkness for all eternity.” He stopped a moment, the terrible desolation of his petition weighing on him. The contemplation of that ultimate isolation appalled him the way no armed enemy could. “Lord God, if You deem me worthy, spare me that perpetual condemnation.” He had spoken more loudly than he knew, and it was startling to him. How must it feel, he thought, to be one of the warriors of the Fortezza Serpente and have nothing to meet at death but that awful, endless darkness? The flames of Hell, he knew, would be preferable to such total abandonment.. “I submit myself to Your Will,” he whispered.

When he had finished his prayers, he rose and pulled back the coverings of the bed. The petals of sweet-scented flowers had been scattered on the silken sheets; as Lodovico sank back into the lovely softness, he sensed he would have the same, wonderful dream again. There was a smile on his mouth as he let the perfume of the petals and the embracing luxury of the feather bed lift and carry him into the delicious visions of private paradise.

La Realtà

Alessandra had not repaired his sleeve, Lodovico noticed as he began to secure the fastening of his belted giornea. He saw that the brocaded panels of his bodice were more frayed than they had been a few months ago, and he sighed. There was a run in his silken calzebrache and the heels were sadly discolored. He consoled himself with the thought that his shoes, though scuffed, would cover the worst of that. He knew there was no way to repair the leggings in time for the reception, and the knowledge annoyed him. It was bad enough that he lacked inches and that his face was as rough-hewn as a bust by a novice sculptor, to have to dress shabbily was an affront to his dignity and position. He flipped the threads where the knot of pearls should have been and sighed more deeply this time.

He was attempting to arrange his unruly brown hair hen his wife came into the room. “Good afternoon,” he said, with a degree of affection as he tried to get the locks around his face to curl more tightly, as was the current fashion.

“Benci said that I can’t come to the reception, or banquet.” She was a pretty, petulant woman with languorous eyes. Her body was opulent but lacked any quality of voluptuousness. She came up behind her husband and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wanted so to see the English ambassador arrive. He’s bringing an enormous number of men with him, they say. Some of them are very famous.”

“That’s true.” He had given up on the curls and was running a comb through his short beard, painfully aware that he should have trimmed it that morning or the day before.

“What are the English like?” Her arms were around his waist and she patted him before she stepped back.

“You’ve seen them before,” Lodovico reminded her gently. “You said they all had red faces.” It had almost six years since there had been an official diplomatic visit from England, and this occasion, when King Henry was sending a full mission and his Chancellor to the Grand Duke of Muscovy, with secondary visits to Firenze and Cracow, would be of much greater international importance, and therefore of greater ceremony than the previous visit had been. “Henry the Eighth likes these extravagant gestures,” Lodovico added, if he had been thinking aloud.

“They say he’s a handsome man,” Alessandra remarked, a teasing note in her voice. “It’s a shame that he did not want to come as well.”

“The King of England would not visit the Grand Duke of Muscovy, my love,” Lodovico said as he put down the comb. “That’s the wrong precedent. Sending More is honor enough for a man who hasn’t a real crown or kingdom to call his own.” He bent down try to adjust the sag in his silken calzebrache, and succeeded in making the run worse.

“Il Primàrio should see that you have finer clothes since you’re his official poet.” She gave a significant look to her own camora, which was as out of fashion as the garments he wore.

“Alessandra—”

“It isn’t right that we should be treated so,” she insisted and folded her arms.

Lodovico agreed with her, but he said, “Il Primàrio has more on his mind than our wardrobes, wife. I may mention it to him. The trouble is, he’s too much like his grandfather—oh, he loves the splendor, but most the time he hardly notices what others are wearing. This is an important evening. He might be willing to listen to me if I point out the state of…” The words trailed off as he tried to fix a brooch over the broken threads where the pearls should have been.

Alessandra raised her head, not precisely defiantly, not at all conciliating, either. “See that you remember. I am ashamed to be seen on the streets. We are not ragmongers. And as for Virginio…in case 1 had not noticed it, my husband, our son is growing and he needs larger clothes. I won’t have him wearing those castoffs that we were given. You’re a more important man than that, and deserve better.”

It was true that Virginio was getting too big for all of his clothing again. A youth of fourteen now, he was becoming more manly every day. It was time to send him to Roma or Paris or perhaps Milano or Pisa. He was nearly ready to start his formal studies. Lodovico sighed, realizing that if his son were almost old enough for university studies, then he was older than he had felt himself to be.

“Have you decided where he’s to be schooled?” Alessandra asked, with that uncanny perception of his thoughts she had often shown.

“Not yet,” Lodovico answered, not wanting to discuss it when he had so many other things on his mind.

“I’ve heard that the schools in Germany are very good.” She had taken the oblique approach, which was her favorite. Lodovico closed the clasp on the brooch as he looked at her. “There is a civil war in Germany, Alessandra. You know that. It would be folly to send him there.”

“But you’ll have to decide soon. Arrangements have to be made if he’s to be enrolled before he’s sixteen.” She was genuinely concerned. There was an anxious line between her brows and her voice had risen a few notes.

“I will speak to Damiano about it,” he promised, knowing that until he did, she would give him no peace.

“I was hoping,” she said in a different tone, “that you would be allowed to spend part of the summer in the country. You keep saying that you are tired and want time to work on your new pieces. If we could have the use of one of the Medici villas, one of the small ones, nothing fancy, then you would have your rest and time enough to write without all these court functions taking your attention away from your work.” There was a tightness at the corners of her eyes “I know that you do not sleep well, my husband, and that you are not as happy as you might be here.”