Ariosto Read online

  “Yes, draw your weapons, Cérocchi,” Lodovico said. “Better to draw them and die honorably than listen to despair. I tell you this: it may be that the forces of Anatrecacciatore will overwhelm us all and we will fall to the last man on the field of battle. I t may be. But if you do not fight, then that death is utterly assured.” He folded his arms on his chest and the Order of San Basilio glowed in the firelight. “If it were my choice, I would go to battle alone and unarmed rather than turn from such a fight. In our holy writing, we are told that a shepherd boy with a rock and a sling brought down an armed and fearsome giant. If that can happen to a youth of Israel, it can happen to the warriors of the Cérocchi.” He felt Falcone’s arm on his shoulder as he returned to his seat, but all that mattered to him was the smile that Aureoraggio bestowed upon him.

  Alberospetrale was on his feet, motioning the suddenly noisy gathering to silence. “What this foreigner has told us is right. We deserve nothing more than dust if we will not protect ourselves and our land. Yet, Cifraaculeo is also correct, for there is more danger here than comes from spears and arrows. We must be on guard at all times. For that reason alone, let our wizards, with Cifraaculeo to supervise them, employ all their arts for every protection known to them. Let them petition the gods of the earth and the air to aid us.”

  Cifraaculeo heard this and bowed his submission, but as Lodovico watched him, he thought he had never seen a more cynical expression in a human face.

  “What is it you fear?” Falcone asked Lodovico two days later as they strolled down the street of the armorers. Here men sweated over their forges, tempering metal with the blood of goats and hardening wooden staves in beds of hot ashes.

  Lodovico did not answer at once. “I fear, I think, the doubts that Cifraaculeo has sown. I have listened to your warriors at night, and though I am inexpert in your tongue, still I know the sounds of anxiety, and I have heard them too often.” He pulled at the short, curls of his neat beard. “If I had not been assured to the contrary, I would think that your wizard-priest was with Anatrecacciatore rather than you Cérocchi.”

  Falcone was shocked and did not respond for a moment. “It’s unthinkable. He’s been the servant of our King and our gods for all of his life. Oh, I agree that I has not been useful of late.” His laughter was brief and strained. “He’s an old man and his visions trouble him. His warnings are well taken, for there is always danger from the magic of Anatrecacciatore.”

  “Perhaps,” Lodovico said slowly. “The ways of our peoples are often dissimilar, and it may be that I am refining too much upon what I have heard.” Again he pulled thoughtfully at his beard. “I will have to warn my men of these things. I’m afraid that my Italians…”—he made a gesture of dismissal—”they might not understand why you allow your wizard-priest to say such things to you on the eve of war.”

  “And do not your priests speak with you?” Falcone gave him a startled look. “I thought, after the banquet…”

  “Our priests shrive and bless us, they do not predict disaster. Every soldier will confess and his sins will be forgiven so that he may battle with a clean heart and the praise of God on his lips.” Lodovico recalled his guilty love that so thoroughly possessed him, and was not certain he dared confess it, for he could not, in honesty, say that he repented it. He mastered the sudden tremor within him. He had never before fought with sin on his soul.

  “We do not do these things,” Falcone said thoughtfully. “I have seen a mass. Andrea Benci tried to explain it to me. I see why it is desirable to drink the blood of your Great King, because that is the way to strength, but why was there no other sacrifice? A god who is to help you in war should not be offered mere bread. He needs something better to bring his help—a horse or enemy prisoners.”

  Lodovico threw back his head and laughed. “No, no, you don’t understand my friend. God has already had His blood sacrifice in His Own Son. He asks no more of us than that we live as His Son taught us, in harmony with one another.”

  Falcone’s brow furrowed. “In harmony? Yet you pray to him when you go to war?” He sighed in exasperation. “No, Ariosto, do not try to explain it to me. From what I know of your achievements on the field of honor, I cannot doubt but what your god assists you, and that you are a credit to his power, but if he desires that you live harmoniously, I don’t understand it.” He had been staring straight ahead, preoccupied. Then his expression lightened. “Beloved!” he called out as he saw Aureoraggio approach them.

  The sight of her almost stopped the breath in Lodovico’s throat. He burned and froze at once as she glanced his way. “Falcone,” she answered in her voice that no music could equal. “And the good Ariosto. I have been thinking of your words the other night, and they have given me heart.”

  Speaking with an ease he did not feel, Lodovico said, “If you would be more inspired at such a gift, I would lend you mine as well, to keep your heart company.”

  “Again the poet!” Falcone grinned. “It is a great kindness of you to treat my Aureoraggio with such courtesy. Sometimes, being away from her own people and not yet at home among mine, she feels a great loneliness and sadness, and there is little I can say to comfort her. You, however, being another stranger, and with charming ways, have lightened her sorrows.” He took Aureoraggio’s hand in his. “For both of us, I thank you for your generosity.”

  While Falcone spoke, Lodovico had been able to smother the fury that had surged up within him, and he mumbled a few, graceless words of disclaimer.

  “I was so afraid,” Aureoraggio said to the both of them. “While Cifraaculeo was describing the wiles of Anatrecacciatore, I was terrified to think that he would point to me, and declare that I was part of his minions. I am a stranger here. None of the men spoke of it, but it struck me almost to the heart.”

  “He could have easily singled me out,” Lodovico told her hastily, wishing he could enfold her in his arms and kiss away her fears. Had he known at the time that Cifraaculeo’s rantings had caused her one moment of distress, he would have flung the old fool into the fire for her.

  “I thought that he would,” she confessed lowering her eyes. “And Falcone has said so many things in praise of you, it made me think that we were all in great danger.”

  “My betrothed and my friend!” Falcone exclaimed earnestly. “I would not have tolerated the loss of either of you. My father would stand by me in this, I know.” He touched the jewel-spangled belt he wore where Lodovico’s poignard hung in its ill-fitting sheath. “Cifraaculeo is wise, but often knowledge creates a new foolishness.”

  Lodovico nodded, then turned away suddenly. By way of excuse for this departure, he said, “I must see how your armorers are doing with the designs I gave them.” In reality, he knew he had to get away from Aureoraggio, for his passion was dangerously near overwhelming him. When she had given him that tender look, standing so near, he had wanted to fall at her feet. He knew that to do so would be disastrous, yet disaster had never seemed sweeter.

  The next day a runner arrived from the city of the Pau Attans with dreadful news. He had stumbled into the Cérocchi fortress in the hour before sunset, and by the time dusk had come he was dead

  “Did you see the wounds?” Falcone asked in a hushed voice as the priests chanted for the runner.

  Lodovico nodded soberly. “I saw them.”

  “Those are the marks of the warriors of flint and frost. That sharp cut, like a rodent’s teeth, with the blackening of frost.” Falcone had removed a jewel from his cape, and this he went to place in the dead runner’s hand.

  Softly, so as not to interrupt the Cérocchi rites, Lodovico began the Requiem, his head bowed.

  As the wailing of women rose in the night, Cifraanculeo addressed the assembled Cérocchi. He was magnificent in his long white robe and pheasant feathers, and his voice rang. “There is to be no peace here!” The words cut through the cries and lamentations. “The gods have declared it!”

  This awful announcement was met with renewed keening. />
  “We have brought the evil to us. It will not depart.” He stood back and sprinkled sweet herbs on the body, then knelt to kiss the ground beside it.

  “If the flint warriors have already reached the Pau Attan,” Falcone murmured, “there is less time than…”

  “I know,” Lodovico responded softly. “We cannot wait for the troop ships to arrive from Venezia, but must prepare with what we have here.”

  Falcone made a despairing sound in his throat. “If they come upon us now, we will be more helpless than a child abandoned in the forest.”

  “How long do you think they will take to get here? Two days?”

  “I don’t know,” Falcone admitted. “I would have thought it would be more than ten days, but if they are already upon the Pau Attan, who can say?”

  Lodovico nodded toward Cifraaculeo. “Could he tell you, through his spells? If he insists on meeting ruin with such determination then let him use his skills to our benefit.” Already his fertile mind was working again. “If you think they won’t be here for at least two days, I can take Bellimbusto back to Nuova Genova and bring their Lanzi here on a forced march. We could not return in one day, but in three we can cover the distance. I’ll send the horsemen ahead, and you will have them, at least.”

  “Is it possible?” Falcone asked. “It would mean that Nuova Genova would be left unprotected, and la Signoria might refuse to do that. I could not blame them for that, when such horror is loose in the world.”

  “They will send the Lanzi,” Lodovico vowed grimly, determination and purpose uniting in his heart. “If I have to force them with my sword, they will come.”

  “That would not be a promising beginning,” Falcone said with a miserable attempt at a smile. “This was not what we agreed upon.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Lodovico responded, his face set in decisive lines. “I was sent here to lead troops. Those were my specific orders from il Primàrio himself. It may not be what la Signoria had intended, but that’s not important. We have a pact to honor, and I will see that it is done.”

  The chanting had become louder and now a procession of priests was coming along the wide road that wound through the Cérocchi city from the temples in the east to the fortress in the west. These men were a magnificent sight, walking in single file at a dignified ace, each holding a staff with the representation of a god upon it. Their robes were of soft leather the color of new-minted coins. They each wore a headdress of porcupine ivory which clattered softly as they walked. Their voices blended in the steady beat of their chant and their steps. Many of the Cérocchi lining the road lifted their arms as the priests went by, and cried out to them.

  “My father will have to hear of this,” Falcone said, then the priests were past. “I cannot act without speaking to him, and I would wish that you would give him the benefit of your counsel.”

  “I’m anxious to speak to him,” Lodovico said quickly. His fine brown eyes were alight now with the promise of battle, and as he walked beside Falcone, there was a power in his stride that promised well for the fight to come.

  “What if these warriors are truly indestructible?” Falcone asked, grimacing at his own apprehension.

  “The Fortress of the Thousand Golden Towers was impregnable, I was told,” Lodovico responded. “There were those who were willing to believe it and did not put the matter to the test. I was not so complacent.” He still felt the thrill he had known as the huge doors of hammered gold had burst asunder and he had been the first over the dazzling wreckage. How good it had been to fight them! He had known a joyous pride then and the blood sang in his veins now at the memory. The Great Mandarin in garments that put his ruined gates to shame had mocked him from the farthest tower, but that derision had stopped when Lodovico’s ensanguined blade had claimed his life as the price of his mockery.

  Behind them, the priests began a slow, solemn dance for the benefit of the gallant soul of the Pau Attan runner.

  La Realtà

  All the guards and the English visitors had been sent away from the loggia of the Palazzo Pitti, and the public doors were circumspectly closed for the arrival of the outraged Doge of Genova.

  He walked like a pouter pigeon and was much the same shape. His face was that of a demonic baby. He toddled wrathfully up the length of the loggia and confronted Damiano, pudgy hands on his hips. “A fine reception, Primàrio!”

  Andrea Benci had been attempting to placate il Doge of Genova most of the morning, without success. Now Damiano smiled with deliberate charm and opened his hands helplessly. “What can I do? They are promised to Poland, and cannot remain more than another six days. You must understand that part of the demands are those of the weather, as they want to reach Muscovy before the cold comes, and with the civil war in Germany, how can they be certain of a rapid journey into Poland?” His voice was easy, his smile indulgent, but Lodovico could see that Damiano’s hands were clenched on the arms of his chair.

  “It’s an insult to the Pope!” il Doge insisted.

  “Ercole, their King, has turned away from the Pope. What do you expect the English to do? If they wait for a Papal visit, they are defying their King—if they keep their visit brief, they have a reasonable excuse to avoid seeing the Pope. These are good men, Ercole. They are in a difficult position.” Damiano was running out of patience and his words came more quickly though the tone was even.

  “And what of the rest of us, pray?” Ercole Barbabianca demanded, his small, brilliant eyes glittering.

  “We share that awkwardness, of course. And such outbursts as yours do not make the situation any easier,” Damiano added with a touch of asperity.

  Doge Barbabianca rounded on Damiano. “I came here on very short notice, Primàrio. Most of my court cannot join me. For that reason, Genova is forced to make a poor showing, and with our shipping contracts in such disorder…”

  Lodovico raised his untidy brows. So that was the problem. No wonder the choleric Doge was so distraught. He moved forward in his chair to listen.

  “If it’s any consolation to you, Ercole, Venezia has not had time to send anyone, and Doge Foscari is away in Cyprus. You’re in a far less awkward position than they are.”

  “Venezia!” Ercole scoffed, but with an element of satisfaction. Before the federation of Italia, only eighteen years ago, Genova and Venezia, the great seagoing republics, had maintained a bitter rivalry for half a millennium. Il Doge of Genova licked his lips. “I did not realize that Foscari was still in Cyprus. A pity.”

  Neither Damiano nor Ercole was deceived. “Of course,” Damiano said with a slight, sarcastic smile.

  “And the English will be here for another what—five days?” Ercole tapped his dimpled chin with a stubby finger. “Something might be accomplished.”

  “Sir Thomas More should be willing to discuss shipping contracts with you,” Damiano said, and there was the hint of a sigh in his voice.

  But Ercole was not mollified. “And what good will that do? He’s to go to Poland and then to Muscovy to meet with the Grand Duke. He will be gone for most of a year. Anything can happen in that time.”

  “He is capable of sending messages and dispatches,” Damiano reminded him with spurious patience. “Ercole, think! If you insist on making an issue of this visit, there will be a great deal more than embarrassment to deal with. If you insist on bringing your supposed slight to the Pope’s attention, how can Clemente react, but with the full weight of his authority? He will have no choice.” He paused, and said in a colder tone, “How little it would take to end our federation. And Italia once again would be at the mercy of every external enemy because we would all be occupied in destroying each other. Or have you forgotten what it was like?”

  Ercole was somewhat taken aback. “Don’t be silly, Damiano,” he blustered. “You’re magnifying this out of proportion.”

  “I’m magnifying it?” Damiano was incredulous.

  “And you haven’t considered my position,” Ercole insisted. “I’m here w
ith an insignificant escort, with only my nephew for companion, my court has been left behind, and my Console, and they are not pleased, I am asked to deal with a Chancellor of England who will be out of the country for a year, and with a King who is in open defiance of the Pope.” Il Doge recited his grievances with perverse delight. “If I did not know you better, I would think this was purposefully done. I suppose I should be grateful that we’re not at war with France, as well.”

  “By the Body of God, man!” Damiano erupted, coming to his feet and approaching il Doge. “What would I have to gain by that? I’d be demented to slight anyone in Italia Federata. It’s petty and mean-spirited of you to think this of me.” He paced away down the loggia, then came back, and it was clear that he had once again mastered his temper. He ran his hand through his jaw-length dark hair. “Ercole, hear me out, and then if you want to go sulk with your current…nephew, that will be all right with me.”

  The pugnacious attitude of il Doge was not promising, but he said, “Very well, Primàrio. I will listen.”

  It was a few moments before Damiano began. “Suppose, my friend, that we decide to make an issue of the English visit with full civic and federal ceremony and all formal visitations. Suppose, again, that we prolong the visit, so that it is acknowledged as a full and official mission to la Federazione. Clemente will know of this, and will not have the luxury of ignoring it, as he can now, and will have respond in some way because of the action King Henry has taken. The most obvious form of action would be the withdrawal of Papal support of la Federazione. Because la Federazione would be compromising the Pope. And soon we would all be at each other’s throats, as we were before. Ercole, I beg you, swallow your pride for a few days, as I have swallowed mine.”

  Ercole shrugged. “It’s difficult…” he began.

  “Of course it is difficult. We’re simply a brief stop on a journey. We can’t be anything else.” Damiano grinned. “I haven’t been asked to assist in the negotiating for English wool. We’re leaving that to the Artei, so that the contracts are wholly commercial, without any taint of diplomacy.”