Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Cifraacuelo stopped his singing a moment to stare at the Italian. Then, as if sensing some worth in this action, he continued his mystical offices, this time with more determination. His hands no longer shook.

  The apparition could not move quickly, being made of mist, but it drifted slowly to find the source of this new irritation. When it faced Lodovico, it stopped and there was in that lean face an expression of such wrath, such inexorable venom, that Lodovico nearly dropped the dagger he held as he was caught in the light of that malevolent gaze. It took the whole force of his will for him to look away and to resume his task, though he felt the excoriating hatred in those phantom eyes following him, implacable in their villainy.

  His face was ashen when he at last stood erect, the circle completed. Lincepino nodded toward him once, a new respect in his noble face. Even Cifraaculeo gave him a grudging nod of approval.

  “What did you do?” Falcone demanded softly, who was not as reticent as the other men to acknowledge Lodovico’s service.

  “It is a protection known in my country. I should have thought of it sooner. It has saved me before.” The first time, in the trackless desert, when the ancestral spirits of the Great Mandarin had been sent against him, he had contained them with this trick. He put his hand on Falcone’s arm. “But I tell you, I have never known such potent evil before in all my travels.”

  “You do well to acknowledge that, pale one,” said the phantom, though the lips did not move. The voice spoke out of the air, out of the very fabric of the night. It was deep and strong as a bell, and as sweet. It was a voice for a Prince, for a Pope, for a seducer. It went on, “You have evaded me before, but I warn you that I will not let you escape me again. And you, Cesapicchi, you puny men of little talent, hear me. For the, moment you have restrained me, but it will not happen again. You think you are safe, that my power cannot touch you.” The laughter that followed this caused Lodovico’s very bones to turn cold.

  There was a cracking sound and a sudden, violent wind that rocked the tent and extinguished the torches and that was gone as quickly as it had arisen. In the next instant the three beams that supported the tent broke and toppled, falling as if to strike down the men who stood, stupefied, within it.

  They examined the husk of the mouse, for it seemed to be no more than skin and crumbling bones. Cifraaculeo, looked grave and for the first time held his pessimistic tongue.

  “Do you think he will be back?” Falcone asked the question that filled the others’ thoughts but which they would not voice.

  “He can,” Cifraaculeo said grimly and glared once again at Lodovico as if the Italian had in some way put them all at a disadvantage.

  “What will we do, if we can’t contain him?” The Cérocchi prince grasped the dagger Lodovico had given him in a futile defiance. “If there are no weapons that will defeat him and he has power more than he has al- ready shown…”

  “Good friends,” Lodovico said as he put his hand to the jeweled collar that held the Order of San Basilio, “what choice have we? Either we go forward and meet the forces of this tremendous evil or we lie here craven, worse than that mouse cowering in a burrow, and we leave ourselves open to any attack that he may send against us. What will he decide upon next? His is the Fortezza Serpente, so it might be the snakes he uses. Or what of bees? Imagine the sky covered with bees in swarms darker than storm clouds and more painful and deadly than the lightning. I have already learned what he can do with birds, and that was against only one man. What he could muster to stop this army, I dare not consider. We must advance or we might as well begin our epitaphs at this moment, and name ourselves cowards.” He had not meant to speak so sternly, but now his blood was up again. He held the mouse in his hand and felt the little creature which seemed much like a rotten, furry grape. What monstrous horror would so abuse those little animals? “We are simply more mice to him, in his arrogance. I, for one, will not wait for that malefic presence to poison my soul. If I must give it up to God, so be it, but let it be as it was given to me, untainted by any sin but those I have committed, not that execrable sorcerer.”

  “You humble me,” Falcone said quietly. “You are right. No,” he added to the other two men, “do not dissuade me. It is time that I remembered what I am. Let you, wizard, and you, high priest, do all that you can to counteract the strength of Anatrecacciatore, with prayers and invocations and spells. I will go into the field as a Cérocchi Prince must, and I will take my soldiers with me, and fight beside this Italian hero who has done so much for us.” He had crossed his arms over his muscular chest and stood, legs apart, head proudly high.

  Cifraaculeo lifted his arm as if to strike the son of his King, then dropped his hand. “If there are gods and powers and spirits enough left in this land to aid you, then you have my word that I will do all that I can to invoke them on your behalf. But you go to your death, Falcone, and I am not the only one who will mourn for you.”

  At those resigned words, Falcone nodded somberly, and whispered “Aureoraggio.”

  That name filled Lodovico’s being with a warmth like the sunlight she was called knew that his face reflected this sense and it was with misgiving that he faced his friend Falcone. That beautiful woman flooded his senses and the world was made of her. How could he continue to prevaricate? When would Falcone see the truth, and what would he do then?

  “Our friend is already fired with zeal,” Falcone said, misreading the light in Lodovico’s eyes and the brightening of his face. “He is willing to take up this fight in a land that is unknown to him. What else can we do, but emulate his example?”

  Now Lincepino attempted to recover his confidence. He squared his shoulders. “Surely it will be difficult for us to battle such a formidable sorcerer, but it is as the pale man says, the alternative is to live as the mole does, in the darkness of the earth, to be blind and debased. I have gone in my magic with the moles, and the rats and the vermin of the earth, and it is not the life for a man.” He picked up two wide bracelets made from the hollowed bones of deer and boar, strung with jewels and mystically painted wooden beads. These he tied to his arms and gave a single nod.

  “The life of a man is better than the life of a mole,” Cifraaculeo agreed as he shook the wooden clapper he still held. “It will be difficult in the days to come to remember that, when the dead outnumber the living and we see the skins of our brothers filled with sorcerer’s breath and sent against us, but I will not retreat.”

  Falcone smiled as he took Lodovico’s hand. “It is settled, then. We march at dawn.”

  Lodovico woke in terror, then realized that it was only the chirping of birds before dawn that he had heard, and not the clarion of another attack. He sat up slowly, drawing the three sewn wolf pelts around him against the chill. His face was still sensitive from the beaks and talons that had raked it, but he knew that he must shave and trim his beard if he was to make a creditable appearance. He shook off the last of his sleep and got to his feet, yawning as he stared out the tent flap into the camp.

  There was a slatey light in the clearing, and the many campfires were dead or dying, sending up blue ribbons of smoke into the dew-laden air. The woods around them rustled with wind and far off the brook was scolding its way between the banks. There was a moist smell in the early morning, as if the mists above the trees had caught the scent of earth as if it were a gigantic tent. Across the camp, beyond the tents and the little hillocks of sleeping soldiers, there was the looming mass of the forest. Here and there a branch reached into the clearing as if to tempt the men there, into the green depth. But on this morning, with white wraiths of vapor winding in flocculent streamers among the trees, the wood offered more than the velvet stillness of a day verging on dawn. Now there was a subtle danger, as if those insubstantial fogs would trap and bind anyone sufficiently foolish to venture near them. Lodovico drew the wolf pelts more tightly about him and walked back into his tent and began to look for his razor.

  By the time he had shaved and trimmed
his beard, the camp was already awake. The few men who had stood guard were grumbling loudly in complaint from the hours they had passed in the clammy fog, and berated the fortunate ones who had slept.

  Fires had been rekindled and the first odors of cooking mixed with the mists, imbuing the brightening morning with trout and wild pork.

  “There you are,” Falcone said at the door as he came into Lodovico’s tent. “After last night, I felt you must surely have spent the night in the tent of your priests.”

  “I did go to confess,” Lodovico said as he pulled his mantled guarnacca of tooled leather over his silken shirt, “so that if I fall in battle, I will be as free of sin as a decent man may be. After that, I knew it would be wisest to sleep. We will have a long day, I think.”

  Falcone nodded. “How were your dreams?”

  He had dreamed of Aureoraggio, of her radiant face suffused with adoration and love, of her eyes gazing into his with that candor, that limpid purity that had captured his heart. “I have forgotten them.”

  “I wish I could forget mine,” Falcone sighed. “All night I was tormented with visions of Aureoraggio so that I thought my heart or my loins would burst.” He did not see the distress in his friend’s eyes, and he went on, “There are many things I would sacrifice to conquer this foe of ours, but after last night, I know that my manhood is not one of those things.”

  “Truly,” was Lodovico’s curt answer. He took his time fixing his belt and the scabbard that lay across his back to hold Falavedova so that he would be entirely composed when he faced Falcone.

  “Do you ride Bellimbusto today?” Falcone asked, a little wistfully, when Lodovico indicated he was ready to leave.

  “On the ground. After the beating he took in the air, he will need some little time to recover.” As he passed out of the tent, he clapped his hands and pointed to the Lanzi corporale who had been appointed to wait on him. “You may dismantle my tent and pack my belongings. We march in two hours. Be certain that all are ready.”

  The corporale, who was called Antonio and came originally from Torino, saluted smartly, as if to show the Cérocchi Prince how a real soldier behaved.

  “Your men are strangely trained,” Falcone observed though it was hardly the reaction that Antonio hoped for.

  Some of the oppressiveness of the morning fell away from Lodovico. He saw the first coloring of the dawn spreading across the eastern sky like blood from an opening wound, and he thought it was a good omen, for the night had been passed in safety, and surely the portent favored this army and was against the forces of Anatrecacciatore. He put his arm around Falcone’s shoulder and began to explain how the salute had come about and added fanciful tales of the confusion that had been rampant before the custom of raising visors had begun. He had the satisfaction of hearing Falcone laugh aloud as they made their way through the camp to the tent of the leader of the Pau Attan.

  La Realtà

  Margaret Roper had much the look of her father. She was not particularly tall, her hair was brown and her eyes the same clear, direct blue-gray of Sir Thomas’. Her dark clothing was distressingly English and her stiff skirts made the crinkling sound of bending chain as she curtsied to Lodovico.

  “San Jacopo!” Lodovico said quietly, blushing at this remarkable show of respect. “No, no, dear lady, you must not.” He hurried across the reception room and extended his hand to her. “Believe me, it is not deserved. For Damiano, perhaps, or the Ducas and Contes and Doges and Princes, yes, certainly, but for a poet…” He tried to laugh and very nearly coughed.

  “My father has praised you highly, Messer Ariosto. He has said that you are the greatest Italian thinker since John Picus.” She would clearly brook no opposition in this matter. Whatever her father told her she was willing to accept as true.

  “John Picus?” Lodovico repeated blankly. “John Picus?” Then he sorted out the name. “Ah! You mean il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola e Concordia. Yes indeed, a most gifted, wonderful mind. It is a pity that he died so young. I wish I had had the chance to know him. He had the look of an angel, that one.” He had seen many of the portraits of the fair-haired, fresh-faced young man. It hardly seemed possible that so formidable a wit and so erudite an intellect lay behind that mild and beautiful exterior.

  “My father is his greatest exponent in England,” Margaret Roper informed Lodovico, standing with hands folded across the front of her ugly dress, her stiff kettle headdress covering all but a few wisps of her hair. There was a severity about her that went beyond the brown stiff garments and the austerity of her expression. Lodovico thought that such a woman might have better been born male, for few women had opportunities for learning that this woman so truly craved.

  “Do take a chair, Donna,” Lodovico offered suddenly, remembering his role as host. “I am indebted to il Primàrio for sending you to me for this day, though I am not entirely sure why he did.”

  Margaret selected one of the high-backed chairs and settled primly on it. “I understand that Damian Medici has struck a…bargain with my father.” From her tone, Lodovico was certain that Sir Thomas’ daughter was apprehensive about the matter. “He said that you have been in communication with him and would give me news of him…” Her voice became very small and she blinked back tears. “The King, you know, is not pleased with my father. When he married that terrible Boleyn woman, they had a…disagreement.”

  “So Sir Thomas has said,” Lodovico said gently, knowing what fear those few words concealed. “He informed Damiano that it might be dangerous for him to return to England. That, I understand, is why you and your mother, indeed, all your family, have come to Federazione.”

  “Yes.” She nodded as if her head were a fragile balanced on a little tray. “He does not want us to suffer on his account.” The clear eyes were suddenly fiery. “But I would, Messer Ariosto! If my father was in danger, I would suffer any—anything to save him!”

  Lodovico could well believe it. “Be calm, Donna. You are here so that it will not be necessary for you to make such a sacrifice.” He did not know how to deal with this woman, he thought. She reminded him of what he had read of the early saints, who sought out tribulations so that their faith would be all the stronger for testing. “Dear lady, what can I tell you that will ease your heart? Would you like to see the few letters your father has sent to me? I have one here…” He rummaged around on the littered tabletop, and at last found the folded parchment sheet under three discarded pages of abortive poetry. “Here. You will want to see what he has to say.” He offered the letter to her.

  “Thank you.” She took the letter and opened it eagerly, reverently. “He hasn’t written to us, you know, since he sent us to the Low Countries. He thought it was wisest.” She stifled a sound that was very likely a sob. “I beg your pardon, Messer Ariosto. I am not behaving well to you.’’

  “Nonsense,” Lodovico protested weakly. “What shall I do for you, if not share your father’s letters?” He smiled at her, and wished that he had a way to contact Sir Thomas. He had questions about Margaret Roper, and though Sir Thomas had spoken of her with affection, Lodovico had no feeling for the woman. The English were very different from Italians, he knew, and for that reason, he could not trust his complicated reaction to Margaret. “You’ll see that there isn’t much in the letter, really. The German States are still battling, but that is a continuous process. He mentions that Sir William Catesby is ailing, but a man his age is going to have difficulty on such a journey. It is a wonder that your King Henry allowed him to go.”

  Margaret looked up from the page. “Sir William Catesby was the Esquire Royal to Richard Plantagenet when he made Henry of Richmond his heir. One of his conditions was that Sir William was to maintain that post for as long as he lived, and that his sons were to be ennobled. When Richard died, Henry of Richmond kept Catesby on, though there was little affection between the men, and Henry the Eighth loathes the man. He has been looking for years for an excuse to be rid of Catesby. It’s a pity,” s
he added after a moment, “Sir William is one of the last of them, and a kinder, more loyal man does not breathe on the earth. When it seemed that war between the Tudors and Plantagenets was inevitable, Sir William stayed by Richard.”

  “Did you know Richard?” Lodovico asked, recalling that the last Plantagenet king had been in correspondence with several of the members of Lorenzo’s court.

  “No, he died before I was born. Catesby said that after Richard’s wife and son died, he was a changed man. It’s strange for a King to love his wife, but Richard did love his Anne and it was his greatest pain to love her, and then their son. His nephews had been poisoned and he felt that in order to avert more suffering, it would be wise to arrange for a peaceful transition from Plantagenet to Tudor.” She pursed her lips. “Is that how it seemed to others? Or did it smack of surrender?”

  Lodovico had seen a few of the letters Richard Plantagenet had written in the last two years of his life, and had found them inexpressibly sad. “Was he a good King, this Richard the Third?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said quickly. “And a courageous one. My father met him when he was young and said that few men had seen so far beyond the limits of their reign. Richard had a census taken, you know, and reorganized the treasury on more realistic lines. He also began the new processes of Parliament. It’s unfortunate he died so young, but he had long been afflicted with a wasting disease…” She stopped, her keen eyes meeting Lodovico’s. “I have heard that Lorenzo sent him three of the best Italian physicians.”

  “I have heard that, too,” Lodovico said, as if this tenuous bond made them closer. He was struck suddenly by the vulnerability of this woman, and realizing how cast adrift she must feel, he was determined to give her his full sympathy.