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  Sir Thomas listened in dismay. “But the betrothal of children, that could not…” He stopped. “Yes, of course it could.”

  “Indeed,” Damiano agreed. “I do wish my twin had survived. There is more than enough work here for both of us.” He tapped his long fingers together in an attitude of prayer. “You are to tourney through Poland, are you not, on your way to Muscovy?”

  It was a moment before Sir Thomas answered. “Yes.”

  “I see. I assume that your purpose is more than mere formality.”

  “I can’t tell you…I’ve compromised my mission enough already. But what you surmise is not unreasonable.” There was a leather wallet attached to Sir Thomas’ belt and he opened it to draw out two small scrolls impressively sealed with ribbons and wax stamped with the Great Seal of England. “One is for Poland, the other for the Grand Duke.”

  “I see.” Damiano brushed a straggling lock of dark hair from his brow. “I feared that this might happen, but I didn’t think that Henry was prepared to go so far.”

  Lodovico had known Damiano long enough to recognize the worry in his voice, though there had been almost no alteration of tone. His brow furrowed in sympathy.

  “Well.” Damiano stood at last, and walked to the fireplace. “I am very much in your debt, Sir Thomas. Without the intelligence you’ve given me …” He turned abruptly. “You may remain here in Firenze for the moment, though I would prefer you continued on with your mission to learn what you can of Poland’s and Muscovy’s reaction to Henry’s proposals.”

  “You are asking me to spy for you,” Sir Thomas said very calmly, his face a polite mask.

  “That’s true,” Damiano said tersely.

  “Spying is ugly work,” Sir Thomas muttered.

  “War is uglier,” Damiano snapped. “You’ve thrown yourself on my mercy, Sir Thomas. All right, I will take you in, though the Saints alone know how I will deal with my Papal cousin over it. But you’ve revealed a nest of demons where I thought there were only discontented children. And by God, Sir Thomas, you will aid me now.” His soft voice was urgent as he spoke. “If you need a sop to your conscience, consider what might happen if you remain here. Henry will realize that you have thrown in your lot with me, and he will have to press for more forceful arguments. If you continue on with the mission, and return by way of Italia Federata, what can he suspect? Particularly since I will send him my official request that you do so, and tell him that I look forward to your return.”

  Sir Thomas regarded Damiano, respect in his angular face. “You make it difficult for me to refuse,” he said grudgingly.

  “I should hope I make it impossible,” Damiano answered at once. “I meant what I said, Sir Thomas: I am in your debt. I trust you will forgive me what I ask of you.” Suddenly his grand manner was gone, and Damiano faced the Chancellor of England without any artifice at all. “Do you know what Italia was like before the federation? It could be like that again—a collection of petty kingdoms and dukedoms and counties and republics, all yapping at one another’s heels like curs in the street. The civil war in Germany is a good reminder of what could occur here. I love this country to the point of idolatry, and I would sacrifice myself, or you, or Lodovico or any other one I love before I would allow her to be torn asunder by war. If that means that I must make you a spy and myself a hypocrite, I will. If it’s any consolation to you, my wife and two of my daughters have been my spies before now, and Pia is a nun, Sir Thomas.” He spoke of his younger daughter, who had taken the veil some three years before. “If she could risk eternal damnation for the unity of Italia, why should you balk at a sensible mission like this one? You are known to be an intelligent man, Sir Thomas.”

  “You possess a strange humility, Primàrio,” Sir Thomas said with a sour smile. “You give me no choice, which is doubtless what you intended.”

  “Until you spoke, I had no reason to ask anything of you,” Damiano protested with perfect civility.

  “I wonder.” Sir Thomas stood slowly and gave Damiano one long, measuring look. “I will go to Muscovy for you, and I will be your tool, Primàrio. When I return I will tell you what I have learned. In exchange, I expect you to send for my family at once, so that I will find them here when I return. I’m certain you can find a plausible excuse to offer my King for your invitation. If they are not here when I return…”—he put one hand to his head, as if to touch his thoughts and give them shape. “I would think that the Pope would find my story enlightening.”

  “I see,” Damiano murmured. “Then we understand each other, Sir Thomas.”

  “And may God have mercy on us both,” Sir Thomas answered heavily, and crossed himself.

  Damiano kicked at the embers with the toe of his soft leather boot. He had said nothing in the half hour since Sir Thomas More had left the library of the Palazzo Pitti. Lodovico had sat watching him, compassion and distress struggling within him. He could find no words to express his emotions adequately, and kept his uneasy silence as the room grew cold.

  Finally Damiano looked up. “He’s right. I had intended to ask him to gather information for me.” He struck the mantel with the flat of his hand, disgust marking his strong features. “He has contempt for me, but that’s deserved.”

  “He doesn’t understand, Damiano,” Lodovico said, feeling the terrible superficiality of his words.

  “And you do?” Damiano very nearly laughed. “Don’t protest, my friend. It’s useless to protest.” He came away from the fireplace and stood staring down at Lodovico. “My grandfather’s best friend was a poet. I hope I am not being a fool to emulate him.”

  “Am I your best friend, Damiano?” Lodovico asked, his pleasure dulled by the suspicion that Damiano was mocking him.

  “After what you’ve heard tonight, I pray that you are.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I meant what I said to Sir Thomas—I will sacrifice anyone I must in order to keep this country united. You will do well to remember that.”

  Lodovico felt an instant of intense fear. He knew beyond doubt that Damiano was perfectly sincere, and he tried to bury the fear under self-deprecating laughter. “If the death of a poet will change anything, then my life is yours use as you will.” As he said it, he remembered that Damiano was a powerful man, larger and heavier than he himself. All he would have to do would be to lock those long fingers around his throat and that would be the end of him. He got quickly to his feet. “I haven’t betrayed you before, Damiano, and I will not do it now.” His voice shook, but it was from terror, not fervor.

  “If you are not in earnest, you will regret it, my friend.” Damiano scrutinized Lodovico’s face, then, apparently satisfied with what he had read there, he put an arm around Lodovico’s shoulder. It was an effort for Lodovico not to cry out at this sudden, threatening familiarity. “It’s late, and you will want to seek your bed. Doubtless Alessandra is impatient to have you with her. If she is anything like Graziella, she will be pestering you until dawn about the kinds of shoes the English wear.”

  Somehow Lodovico was able to snicker at this, and said with the assumption of sophistication he did not feel, “Wives are often so, Damiano. You know how curious women are.”

  “None better.” Damiano gave a sage nod, then changed again with that mercurial temper that often baffled his associates. “That’s unfair. If my wife were not the woman she is, and had been willing to go to France for me to listen to the gossip at court, we might have had soldiers in Torino ten years ago.” His arm fell from Lodovico’s shoulder. “I am grateful to Graziella and Pia and my lovely Carità. They’ve been more loyal than my sons ever were.” As always when Damiano mentioned his sons there was a fleeting anguish in his face. He turned away from Lodovico, gesturing toward the door. “It’s nearly morning and if either you or I intend to be civil to our visitors, it’s time we were asleep. I don’t like to ask this of you, Lodovico, since I know you’d rather spend the time on that new work of yours, but do you think you might find a way to turn out some simple ballade lyrics?
The musicians have been protesting at doing the same songs over and over. Maffeo says that he can set the words to tunes quickly.”

  Though Lodovico did indeed resent the intrusion on his time, he said, “I’ll do what I can, Damiano. Maffeo might have asked me himself.”

  “But you could have refused him,” Damiano said mischievously. “You would not refuse me, however. Or so I hope.”

  Lodovico gestured fatalistically, thinking as he did that this strange request, coming from Damiano in this way, flattered him, and though he could not admit it, he said, “It will be my pleasure.”

  “I doubt it, but I thank you for doing it.” They were at the library door now and Damiano stopped, giving Lodovico one long, searching look. “I wish I could send you with the English to Muscovy, my friend.”

  “Send me with the English?” Lodovico asked, dumbfounded. “But why?”

  Damiano’s face darkened. “A reluctant spy is dangerous. If there were someone else to keep watch…” He shrugged. “I’ll have to find someone. Perhaps young Ippolito Davanzati.”

  “That fop!” Lodovico burst out, injured that Damiano would place more confidence in that beautiful shallow young man than in himself.

  “Precisely,” Damiano agreed. “He’s rich, self-indulgent, vain, and venal. Hardly a man Sir Thomas would confide in, or trust. Ippolito hates me. If he were convinced that the journey to Muscovy would in some way harm me, he would be eager to go. My Cardinale cousin would insist upon it.” He put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You’re too much my friend, and that would make you an object of suspicion, which would endanger you, Sir Thomas, and the mission.”

  “I am willing to face danger,” Lodovico said quietly, but with a certain frightened pride.

  “You may have to yet,” Damiano said, and under his jocularity there was a steely grimness. “It isn’t necessary now, but it may come to that.”

  “Damiano?” He could sense a retreat in the other man, and wondered if, inadvertently, he had annoyed il Primàrio. He fixed his thumbs in his narrow, rosetted belt. “Tell me how I am to assist you and you may be sure I am your man.” He winced as he heard the fabric at his waist tear, then looked down, chagrined, at the dangling brocade belt.

  “San Pietro del Pescatori!” Damiano stared and laughed, brown eyes sparkling. “What are you wearing such old clothes for? I know that poets are said to be unworldly, but Lodovico, this…?”

  “It’s the best I have,” Lodovico said stiffly as he gathered up the ruined belt.

  “Then order something new. I can’t have you looking threadbare. It makes me appear mean. Tell Rodrigo to make you something appropriate. Two giorneas and one of these French-style doublets.” He shook his head. “Those doublets. If they get any shorter, we’ll have to pad our bums as well as our thighs and calves. You’ve seen what the English are wearing now—codpieces like Turkish cushions! That monstrosity that Sir Warford had on…”

  “Outrageous,” Lodovico nodded, though he had been more amused than shocked by the English fashions. He realized, irrelevantly, that Alessandra would be delighted to hear of Damiano’s instructions. “My wife and son could use new garments,” he ventured.

  “Of course. You needn’t wait for me to give you permission. Let Rodrigo know when you’ve decided you want something more. You’re not unreasonable in your demands. Two new suits of clothing in a year is quite acceptable; three, if there are state reasons for the third.”

  Lodovico inclined his head. “As you wish.”

  “Lodovico,” Damiano said kindly, “you’re not here on sufferance, and I won’t deny you any sensible request. But I can’t watch over you either. If there is something you require, give the order for it. If you have doubts, ask me, but don’t wait for me to authorize it before you act. I have too much on my mind for that.”

  “Thank you,” Lodovico said, not certain why.

  Damiano’s long hand dropped. “Watch More while he’s here, Lodovico. I want to know what he does.”

  “As you wish.” Even as he accepted this assignment, he felt some of the pleasure of his meeting the Chancellor of England go out of him.

  “It’s not what I wish, but what I must do.” Abruptly he turned and pulled the door open, and without another word strode away down the hall.

  La Fantasia

  Somehow Lodovico survived the evening celebration with the Cérocchi, but much of it seemed a dream. He could not look at Aureoraggio without feeling his love go through him like a lance. When she moved, the earth trembled. When she spoke, the wind was hushed and the water in the nearby river was silent. Like the sunbeam for which she was named, she shone among the others. Nothing was more graceful than the motion of her hands. The very air was perfumed by her breath.

  There were endless speeches, or so it seemed to Lodovico as he sat in the great hall of the castle of the Cérocchi King. Ballads were sung of the exploits of the heroes and the perfidy of their enemies. Great scholars told of the history of this gallant people and the priests commended them to the care of the Cérocchi gods. Through it all, Lodovico struggled with himself, forcing his eyes not to look at Falcone’s betrothed, stilling his voice so that he would not declare his love, or betray himself to his valiant comrade.

  Toward the end of the gathering, the great wizard-priest Cifraaculeo rose and came to the hearthside. He was ancient, gnarled as a Grecian olive tree and of the same silvery darkness. Unlike the others who were garbed extravagantly, he wore only a long, simple robe of supple, white deerskin. A cap of long pheasant feathers covered his steel-white hair. As he approached the hearth, the Cérocchi grew silent.

  “I have listened tonight,” Cifraaculeo began in a voice high and quivering with emotion, “to the reminders of our glory and the bravery of our people. This good Italian”—he acknowledged Lodovico with a grave gesture—”has brought us pledges that inspire us all. The water is wide, Cérocchi, and the wiles of the enemy are endless. Though we wish for the promised allies who will be our brothers, still it is not wise to place faith in them until we see them gathered before us. No!” This last was to Lodovico, who had risen to protest. “I do not dispute your honor. I wish only to remind you all of the treachery of Anatrecacciatore. Think of his power, his malice and his goals. Even now, speaking here, we are in danger. Who among us is invulnerable to his great magic? Think! Who can be sure that an evil ghost sent to watch and listen has not entered his body and is at this moment letting Anatrecacciatore overhear every word we speak? Who? I have my spirits to protect me, but so subtle is our oppressor, so versed in loathsome spells, that no one can be inviolate. Take my warning to heart, for I give it with the last of my hope. If we fail here, then we are doomed forever.” He had raised his hands in a gesture not unlike a Papal benediction.

  “Cifraaculeo!” Lodovico cried out in answer to this. “I am a foreigner here. And though it may be as you tell us, yet I think that a sorcerer would not know how to possess me or any of my countrymen. We do not know your ways, and that in itself may protect us.”

  “Bravely spoken!” Falcone said.

  “Bravely and foolishly spoken,” Cifraaculeo corrected him. “Ignorance is no protection. How can you resist an enemy you do not know, cannot see, have not identified?” His questions brought a rustle of uncertainty to the gathering. “Yes, you think of this, do you not? You see now that your promised aid might be worse than no aid at all.” He turned toward Falcone and his father Alberospetrale. “You are to lead us, you stalwart men, and our warriors will follow you loyally. But still we must be warned that they are placing themselves in danger, for it may be that the Prince and the King have been possessed by the hideous imps of Anatrecacciatore, for the purpose of destroying you all.”

  “Wait!” Lodovico commanded, and got to his feet. “It is not fitting that I speak so to you, venerable Cifraaculeo, and did not my honor move me, I would refrain now. But though you give good counsel, and warn us of the hazards around us, still you give us a greater disservice, for if we can
not trust one another, we cannot go into battle. Those who fight side by side are brothers, and as brothers they must trust each other.” He turned, regarding each Cérocchi warrior in turn. “Who among you is willing to stand at my side in battle?”

  Half of the men responded loudly and Falcone leaped to his feet with a great shout.

  Lodovico seized Falcone by the arm. “Yes! And I have called you brother,” he declared, trying fruitlessly to turn the image of Aureoraggio from his mind as he met Falcone’s eyes.

  “And will the rest of you feel so when the man beside you plunges his lance into your vitals?” Cifraaculeo asked, his demeanor changing as rage filled him. “I do not wish to be the last wizard-priest of the Cérocchi, but I tremble. You wish to war against a terrible evil, and for that each of us is grateful. You will not triumph, however, if you deceive yourselves. You have seen the warriors of flint and frost, and know their relentless force. You have had to battle the inflated skins of your dead comrades, and known only sinking horror at such combat. And that is only a part of Anatrecacciatore’s strength. He will send you dreams of slimy, gobbling horror that will drive you to madness. He will visit you with fires and rains that will turn your line of march into endless desolation. Every creature in the forest will be at his command, and there will be ravening wolves, monstrous bears, enraged panthers—even the squirrels will be your tormentors.”

  “Then why do you wish to fight at all?” Lodovico demanded of the Cérocchi, turning his back on Cifraaculeo. “If there can only be death and defeat at the hands of Anatrecacciatore, why do you not flee now? It may be that your wizard-priest is right. Yet I would rather die opposing those who would destroy me than perish from my own cowardice.”

  This last word stung the Cérocchi. An angry mutter pushed through the warriors and one or two put their hands to their daggers.