by John M. Ford
Ficino took the lines of Virgil Magus, and the two of them went into recitative; Cynthia had no spirit to join the play, but the time began to pass much more swiftly. When the poet reached the moon, she knew she was meant to smile at the lines about Luna, and so she did, whatever she felt.
At the twelfth hour Lorenzo sat up. He took the key to the chamber door from his pouch and gave it to Ficino. In the poet's face was a light of clear and absolute joy.
When he had gone, Lorenzo turned his head. He spoke coolly. "Now, Dottorina, it is time you told me the truth."
She did.
"Savonarola... it seems I recall him; one of those who come to Fiorenza in search of freedom and at once demand the abolition of all freedoms they do not like. And who was the divine emperor, to whom he was... praying?"
"Daia. Maximin Daia."
"I do not recall that one. There are so many deified rulers. Probably me too, someday. I suspect this Daia is no friend of Minerva's, though. You can tell the Gonfaloniere enough to let them find the house?"
"I can take them there."
"No."
"I…understand, Magnificent." She wondered if there was any point in asking him to spare Vittorio. Possibly they would only be exiled. But she thought of the alberghetti, the little cell at the top of the Vecchi tower. On an impulse, she knelt beside the couch.
"What in Hecate's name are you doing?"
She looked up.
"If we're to rescue your family, I'll have to stay sick for a little while longer. I may even have to die for a day or two. Now. The Milanese, or the Byzantines, or both of them, will be attacking us
at any time now. There's only time for one campaign before winter; if the city falls, it will be a long time before the weather changes. We need troops, and rapidly. Do you know the Duke of Urbino, Federigo? His son was at Careggi last summer."
"I have met him, Magnificent."
"Good. Federigo is the only chivalrous man left in Italy—and also the best condottiere, gods know how that happened. You'll take him a mercenary contract, fast as you can—I hope we've got a blank one somewhere." Lorenzo smiled grimly. "Tell him it is Byzantium coming. They've been trying to annex his duchy to the Roman states for years now, and he hates their bloody guts."
"Magnificent, I—"
"Luna. Dottorina Ricci. Yes, I trust you." More distantly he said, "If nothing else... only I can save your family."
Ficino came in pushing a cart with bread, eggs, jam, and a pitcher of golden apple juice. "It's morning," he said, a huge happy grin on his unshaven, sunken-eyed face. "A beautiful morning."
"Marsilio," Lorenzo said, "Call the Gonfalonier of Justice. Tell him to come quickly and quietly; there is treason, and we must strike it swiftly."
Ficino looked at Cynthia, suddenly sad again. "Yes, Magnficent. Could we have breakfast first?"
Gently, Lorenzo said "Breakfast in a moment, Marsilio. And have the grooms ready a post-horse for Cynthia. Quickly, please."
With a faraway glance at Cynthia, Ficino bowed and went out.
"Poor Marsilio," Lorenzo said. "He never loses his wits around beauty alone... but for beauty and brains he is an utter fool." He looked at the tray. "I don't think I can eat just yet. Would the cider be good for me?"
"Very good, Magnificent."
"Which? Very good, or magnificent?" He looked at her, shook his head. "You should eat, though. It's two days' hard ride to Urbino."
"Lorenzo..."
"Well, that's an improvement."
"I would wait until... the soldiers have opened the traitors' house."
"I would rather you were away quickly, and gone before we act against them... but that is too much to ask.”
"If you will not smile, Luna, will you drink a little cider with me?"
She poured two cupfuls. "To virtu," Lorenzo said, raising his cup to her. Virtu: Ficino's word for the special strength of the spirit, the strength to act and to be, despite all the world around you.
"Virtue had nothing to do with it," Cynthia said, and Lorenzo laughed and laughed as they drank.
Cynthia was ready to drop from the saddle and die; on second thought she lacked the strength to fall down. She kept falling asleep without noticing; the landscape would seem to dissolve from one scene into another, Tuscan plains into foothills, hills into Apennines, one mountain pass into another. The post-horse knew the way, though, and the courier who rode escort with Cynthia knew when to stop their travel for a little rest and food and water. They did not come to a full stop until almost midnight, and then, the courier explained, it was only because of inadequate moonlight for traveling.
Cynthia had waited in the quiet room with Lorenzo until the Gonfaloniere returned: they had taken the house, two spies, and Savonarola—but the house was empty of hostages, the spies knew nothing of any kidnapping, and the flagellant would not talk and probably could not be made to.
They would keep searching. The city was large. Cynthia would ride for Urbino.
Dawn came the color of a skin rash, the air full of the cries of birds too stupid to learn a song. It was cold, too. She got off her horse to take a piss, and abruptly was riding again, the pressure relieved, her clothes quite dry; the courier had not the smallest gleam in his eye and Cynthia didn't want to know the details.
She began to notice, dimly, that the mountain villages they passed had less wood and more stone in their construction; some of the places where they paused might have been castles. Then, gradually, she emerged from her fog, and saw that the country was indeed full of fortified houses, and gates across the road, and little forts high up the slopes, good for dropping things on travelers from. She asked the courier if Federigo da Montefeltro had so many enemies as that.
"None at all, my lady. The New Romans—the Byzantines — tried to take Urbino from the good Duke, tried four times. They never got one foot of it, and they finally quit trying."
"So all this is left over from old wars? The forts are empty?"
"No, my lady. The Duke says the Romans will come again, and they're welcome to try."
At nightfall they came around a last curve in the road, to a twin- towered gate overlooking a steep valley. There were lights down the slope.
"Urbino, my lady," said the courier, unease in his voice.
Cynthia was startled by the number of lights spread out on the hillside; she had always heard that Urbino was small.
Then she saw that the lights of buildings were only a part of the total. There was a camp spread out around Urbino. A military camp. The sounds of metal being pounded, the flare of forges, carried up to them.
A spearman stepped into the gateway. "Who's there?"
"Messenger," said the courier. "From the Medici of Florence."
Cynthia saw the spearpoint waver in the air. She was suddenly quite awake.
"Both of you are messengers?" said the sentry.
"We're together."
"Wait here," the sentry said, and signaled to the gate towers. He turned and started down the track to the camp.
"Messenger, I said!" The courier threw aside his cloak, showing the livery badge and wings of Mercury on his coat. There was no response. He reached to his belt and drew the Rienzi wand, the silver rod that assured his free passage anywhere in Italy. Nothing happened. He leaned over to Cynthia. "Something's very wrong, my lady. They can't stop us, though, not lawfully. Follow me."
They walked their horses to the gate. Two spearmen crossed their weapons across the path. "You were told to wait," one of the soldiers said, but his voice was uncertain, and he looked sidelong at the silver wand.
A party was riding up the road. "Now what in Zephyrus's name..." the courier said, then, bewildered, "Milanese soldiers?" Cynthia felt dizzy.
The armed and armored men were indeed wearing the flower badge of Milan. At the center of the group rode a slim man, with a crimson cloak thrown back from his shoulder, showing ermine lining and a doublet diapered with golden fleurs-de-lis. His left stocking was brown, his r
ight white.
The hands on the reins were delicate and very pale. His nose was hooked, his lips small and pouting. His eyes were absolutely black. His cheeks were white, with a vivid red bloom; Cynthia knew the condition. This was Galeazzo Maria Sforza, who raped noblewomen and sent their husbands and fathers illuminated parchments detailing the act; the Duke of Milan; the vampire.
"I have a message for the Duke," the courier said, "from my lord Lorenzo de' Medici of Florence."
"I am a duke," Sforza said, mildly, pleasantly. "What is the message?"
"The message is for the Duke of Urbino, my lord."
Sforza stroked his chin. "The land is full of dukes. It's hard to say who is duke of where—or what tomorrow may bring."
The courier held out the Rienzi wand, pointed it at Galeazzo. "My lord, let me pass. You know the law of Italy."
"No," Sforza said offhandedly, "I am the law of Italy. Guards, take these assassins." The Duke's black eyes shifted to Cynthia. Her hood was down, and her hair fell around her face. Sforza's eyes widened, and his lips parted.
Cynthia spurred her horse and charged past all of them, hearing shouts behind her. The courier cried out once.
She passed the town by, riding directly into the army camp; as she had hoped, the soldiers wore the Montefeltro badge, not the Milanese. There was a large pavilion ahead, with light spilling from its flap. She reined in before it. The horse was panting. So was she.
A man with a patch over his right eye and a horribly broken nose took the horse's reins from her before she could grab them back. "Who are you?"
"Is this the Duke Federigo's tent?"
"Tell me who wants to know," the ugly man said, not harshly.
"I have a message... from Lorenzo de' Medici... tell your lord there is treachery."
She tried to dismount, slipped and fell; the man caught her, put her on her feet. "Come on," he said, and led her into the tent. The one-eyed man put Cynthia in a chair, poured her a cup of brandy, and made her take a swallow. Warmth rose within her.
"I apologize, Duke Federigo. I didn't know you at first."
Federigo da Montefeltro rubbed his ruined nose. "Didn't know it was that dark," he said. "Now, madonna, what do you have to tell me?"
"Sforza—" She looked at the tent flap. "The Duke Sforza killed my companion. He's coming—"
Federigo moved like oiled machinery. "You, there," he called to a knot of men, "watch this door. No one enters, not even Duke Galeazzo." He closed the tent flap.
"Now," Federigo said, crossing his heavy arms, "tell me the news from Florence."
It did not take long. Federigo stood still as a bronze through the story, not even blinking.
"I have Lorenzo's contract here," Cynthia said, opening her doctor's pannier.
"My lady," the Duke said, as gently as his voice would allow, "I have a condotta already. With Milan. Against Florence."
"What does that mean?" she cried. "Sforza is a monster—"
"And I am a man of my word," Federigo said. "I have been a contract warrior for forty years, and not once—not once—have I broken a contract." He held up a hand, lowered it, shook his head as if not expecting her to understand. She wondered if she did.
He said slowly, "I know Sforza is a bad man. You should have known his father, the great Francesco... but there is still honor to be served in a contract with a bad man."
"Is there honor in a contract made under false pretexts?"
"In what way false?"
She thought of the mountain forts, of Lorenzo's advice. He hates their bloody guts. "This isn't Galeazzo's war. He's a cat's-paw. For Byzantium, the Romans."
Federigo made two fists. "Can you prove that?" "No. But perhaps Sforza can."
Federigo walked back and forth. Lanterns flickered as he passed. He paused at a camp table, stared at a map unrolled upon it. "Very well. I will ask him." He looked at her, his one eye piercing. "I cannot break the condotta. But if this is more of the Romans' doing... it is a long march over the mountains to Florence. It might take a long time, that march, with winter so near."
"Thank you, Duke Federigo."
"You thank a soldier after the battle. Or not, as it happens. Come here." He took her hand in his own callused one. "I remember you, at Lorenzo's summer court. My son thought you were a witch. Are you?"
"No, my lord."
"But you know the power of the crocus." He pointed at Cynthia's pendant. "Guidobaldo doesn't know it, but his grandmother was a witch. She healed me with the crocus. "He indicated a screen near the tent wall. "Go back there and watch."
She hid, looking out through a gap between the panels. Federigo went to the door and called, "Antonio! Tell the Milanese he can come in now. Without his guards."
Sforza entered. "Where is she, Federigo?"
"Who?"
"Who. The Medici courier. What did she tell you?"
"What did you expect her to tell me, Galeazzo?"
Sforza said in an amused tone, "Don't play intriguer with me, Federigo; it isn't your game."
"No," Federigo said, "no, I'm just a stupid half-blind warhorse. I thought there was some little bit of your father's blood in you, but if Francesco set out to kill a prince he'd do it and have done, not corrupt others—"
"Tliere's a little of a lot of people's blood in me," said Galeazzo with an ugly grin, "but what ever are you talking about, Federigo?"
Montefeltro told him.
"Oh, that's delightful," Sforza said, chuckling. "The Medici doctors, poisoners to begin with—ah, the white-haired woman! That was Lorenzo's Diana, wasn't it? Now, that will be a thrilling virgin doe to run down.
"You're not laughing, Federigo. I like the people I'm with to laugh, or else scream."
"I don't see the joke."
"Oh, too bad. Here's a better one, then. I don't care if you attack Florence with me, or sit here and freeze your backside. All I really wanted was your name on the paper; your word recorded. There are quite enough soldiers marching from Rome." Galeazzo took a long, thin dagger from his belt, scraped at a fingernail. "Consolidation, Federigo. Byzantium gets Florence, Milan gets Genoa and enough of Venice to make the borders straight. Urbino will be in the middle of things, but you're used to that, aren't you?"
Federigo made a spectacularly obscene gesture. "What makes you think they'll stop at Florence, you stupid child? Why should they share Italy with you?"
Sforza looked suddenly startled. "They... shared France with the English...."
Federigo went to the table, threw the map aside, snatched up the paper beneath it. "I may be no intriguer, but I know the Romans very well. They sometimes wait to take the pile, but they do not share." He shook the condotta at Galeazzo. "Pah! An idiot's word means nothing!" He thrust the paper into a lantern flame.
"Oh, no," Sforza said quietly, and moved with startling speed. He seemed to hug Federigo; Cynthia could just see the flash of the dagger hilt between Galeazzo's thin fingers. The Duke of Milan let the Duke of Urbino fall, shaking, to the ground. Then Sforza's black eyes blazed, and he drew another, very thin knife from his cuff. "Half-blind old warhorse, indeed." Federigo stirred; Galeazzo kicked him in the abdomen, the small of the back. "I don't like the taste of horses' blood. But let's see how you taste." He knelt by the fallen man, probed at his throat.
Cynthia shoved Sforza's head forward, pushed her long scalpel into the back of his neck, and cut the spinal cord. Galeazzo's arms flapped, and he shrilled and gurgled. Cynthia pulled out the knife, yanked the Duke's hair, throwing him on his back; cut his doublet open. He was not wearing armor beneath it this time, either. It was too bad, she thought, that those Milanese assassins had not known more anatomy.
She attended to Federigo. The long dagger was hilt-deep in his armpit. It must lie perilously close to his heart. She had heard of blades actually entering the heart, the muscle wall seizing on them; the victim lived until the steel was withdrawn.
"Doctor Ricci?"
"Please be quiet, Duke Federigo."
"Duke Federigo—"
"Will you save anyone? Bring Ercole."
Da Siena came in, a small wiry man in brigandine armor covered with dark blue velvet, a part of the night coming out of the night. He put his ear close to Federigo's lips and listened. He said "Of course, my lord." Then he stood, said to Cynthia, "I will have the horses outside in three minutes. The others will deal with Sforza's men." Without waiting for a reply, he was gone, silent in his armor.
"Duke Federigo," she said for the third time, knowing it was useless.
"Go with Ercole," he said. "I have a son... who signed no contract."
Ercole da Siena's hand was on her shoulder. Numbly, she followed him.
Da Siena led her across the mountains, through high stony fields and ragged passes barely wide enough for their horses, on paths that only eagles knew; and in half the time of the outward trip, by late afternoon of the next day, they were at the gates of Florence.
Da Siena had not spoken twenty words to Cynthia during the journey; now he said two more—"my lady"—turned his horse and rode back toward the hills and his master, or his master's son.
The streets were strangely empty. The doors of the Palazzo Medici were closed; Cynthia leaned against them, pounding, until they opened. Cynthia pushed past the servant, seeing nothing to either side, and walked fast to the main hall—almost colliding with the spears that blocked her entry.
"Let her pass," she heard Lorenzo say, and the spears were withdrawn; Cynthia staggered through the door.
Lorenzo sat in Piero's wheelchair. Lucrezia stood behind her son; she turned and left the room. Lorenzo was wearing his red doublet with the round palle on the breast.
On couches in the center of the room lay Giuliano de' Medici and Marsilio Ficino; she knew they were dead even before she saw the wounds. Lorenzo tapped his fingers on his knees.