Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Falcone reached the tent flap and looked in. The fires in the braziers were dying and the cloying resins were less apparent, though still strong enough to be offensive. He pulled the flap open a little farther and looked at the high priest. “We must keep this a secret for as long as possible. Once the camp knows of this, many of them will lose heart. I do not wish to be disparaging of my own men, but it is true.”

  “There are those among the Lanzi that would not fight if His Holiness the Pope said that such battle was ungodly. I know your reservation and I respect it.” Lodovico stared at Cifraaculeo. How could anyone determine what had become of the high priest of the Cérocchi? That deathly stillness that was not death. Those closed eyes that did not move behind the heavy eyelids. He realized that the high priest had, in some unknown way, exceeded his powers and was now constrained, by a potent, arcane spell, to deal with horrors that Lodovico could not possibly imagine.

  “We cannot wake him. It would be disastrous to try. His spirit might never again find his body, and he would be in this state until his flesh began to rot.” Falcone closed the tent flap abruptly and looked away toward the camp.

  The men were starting to waken. There were the sounds of voices and scuffles growing steadily louder. The night guards came in from their posts along the perimeter of the camp and called to their morning counterparts, a few making coarse jokes, others demanding food before they could seek their mats for an hour of rest.

  “You had best tell them that we do not march today, at least not at once. Put them to work on their weapons. It will not be wasted effort. I’ll have my Lanzi check all their saddlery and other tack. That is also necessary and will occupy them well.” Lodovico was about start across the camp when Falcone’s hand on his arm detained him. “What?”

  Falcone nodded toward a strange, portly figure coming through the camp beside Lincepino. He was dressed entirely in clothing made of bark and as he walked, he gestured extravagantly, almost, Lodovico thought to himself with barely concealed amusement, as extravagantly as an Italian.

  “Fumovisione,” Falcone said quietly, indicating the bizarre little man.

  Lincepino, a resigned, respected expression on his face, led the wizard up to Falcone, and waited for a break in the stout man’s stream of words to present him to the Prince. At last Fumovisione’s ramblings came to an end and he looked expectantly toward Falcone and Lodovico.

  “This,” Lincepino sighed, “is the wizard of the Cicora, Fumovisione, and this is Falcone, Prince of the Cérocchi.’’

  At once the voluble man began again, waving his arms, his voice rising and falling as if in endless song. His face was cherubic though his bright eyes were old.

  After a bit, Falcone interjected a few terse questions and held the flap of Cifraaculeo’s tent open for the wizard to enter.

  “Does he always talk?” Falcon asked Lincepino. and was answered with a nod.

  The flap rose again and Fumovisione bustled out. He had left his enthusiastic manner in the tent with the silent high priest. Now the childish face was somber and the voice forceful. Even his gestures had changed characteristics and were direct. He began to pace, and now that rotund body was not comical. He spoke at length, answering the occasional questions that Falcone put to him. Lodovico recalled the Mongol general he had fought many years ago, and found the similarity between Fumovisione and that general unnerving.

  When the talk was finished, Falcone motioned Lodovico to come closer. “He will help us.” This terse announcement was unnecessary, but Lodovico made no retort. He glanced toward Fumovisione and gave him a short bow.

  “That was well done,” Falcone said, then changed his tone. “Fumovisione has warned us that Cifraaculeo is indeed becoming a pawn of Anatrecacciatore. He told me that it would be useless to kill him because the spirit would not die with the body and might be greater danger if the man is dead. He has seen ghosts and other phantoms bring madness to an entire city. He has declared that he will not permit that to happen here. He is going to perform a rite that will protect Cifraaculeo. When he awakens, he will have no memory and be like an infant. We will have to give him constant care. But while he is so, he can do little to hurt us or to aid Anatrecacciatore. You must understand that Fumovisione does not wish to do this, and has informed me that he finds the task repugnant, but the alternative is too dangerous to allow it to occur. He has also said that he will make special amulets for all the men on guard to wear that will give them the gift of sight and enable them to know which animals are possessed by the magic of Anatrecacciatore and which are only animals.”

  Fumovisione was following this, nodding and giving occasional emphatic grunts accompanied by sweeping gestures. There was mud on his squat, muscular legs and his bare arms were beaded with dew, yet he seemed unaware of this, his whole attention on Falcone.

  “I would not mind having such an amulet,” Lodovico said, half in jest.

  Falcone relayed this request and waited while Fumovisione considered the matter and then made a terse statement on the question.

  “He thinks it would be unlikely,” Falcone interpreted for Lodovico. “Your gods are not our gods, and your vision is not as ours. He said he would not know what to invoke for you.”

  “Well, it was a thought.” Lodovico straightened himself and looked toward the camp again. “I must inform my men that we won’t be breaking camp this early, and set them to work on their tack.” He nodded toward Falcone and Fumovisione. “Tell me any progress you make. It is crucial now, I think.” He left them before they could protest and walked quickly to the Lanzi.

  It was midafternoon before he saw Falcone again. The Cérocchi Prince came striding through the clusters of men, stopping now and again to address a few words to one of the warriors. He was regal in his Cérocchi armor and bearskin leggings, and his proud head was carried erect, confident. It pleased Lodovico to see Falcone so much the master of this situation.

  “How is it?” Lodovico called from the temporary stables where he had been rubbing Bellimbusto’s black-and-bronze wings. He had taken off his guarnacca and was wearing only his shirt, hose and calzebrache. Amid the tight, dark curls on his chest there lay three medals on a narrow gold chain.

  “Good news, I think,” Falcone announced loudly enough for the men nearby to hear.

  “Good news is welcome,” Lodovico agreed and stood aside for Falcone to join him. Once in the shadow, he asked softly, “How bad is it?”

  Falcone shook his head. “Bad enough. Cifraaculeo has not yet…returned. Fumovisione has not been to find or free his spirit. He has said that it will take longer. He has indomitable will, that strange little man. If I were to fall in battle, I could find many worse leaders for my men.”

  Lodovico, too, had sensed the power in the Cicora wizard, and gave him due respect. “A good man in a fight. Well if he cannot master this sorcerer, then we are most vulnerable. What about taking away your high priest’s memory? Is he still going to do that?”

  “What choice is there? Otherwise we are certain to have a spy in our midst, and one with so high a rank. Fumovisione will begin the rite before sundown.”

  “That’s something. I have been thinking this afternoon, what a wretched state we would be in now if Cifraaculeo’s spirit had returned to his body, the slave Anatrecacciatore, with no one aware of it.” He had taken time to say thankful prayers for this deliverance, but the magnitude of the danger still impressed him. God had been merciful and Lodovico hoped that He would continue to guard him and his men—all of his men.

  Falcone shuddered and the breastplate clicked a rattled. “Yes, that occurred to me, too. I felt my heart go numb in my breast with the realization of what might have happened.”

  The two men stood silently together, each lost their private reflections. Falcone was the first to break the silence.

  “I have one thing that should please you.” He held out a roll of white birch bark which he had carried here.

  “What is it?” Lodovico took it and pul
led it open. There were a number of charcoal lines on it, forming a crude picture.

  “Nebbiamente sent it to you. For your flight. This, he tells me,” he said, pointing to a number of connected humps, “are the hills where we are now camped. He says that these two hills are at either end of this ridge. These valleys, the long narrow one, and this broader one, are a day’s march from here, and the water there is pure and there is game to hunt. Beyond, he says that this is a river, and these, smaller rivers that feed into it. And here is another range of hills.” His finger pointed out these features, and slowly the drawing took form for Lodovico.

  Falcone indicated a long sinuous shape near the top of the drawing. “And this…”

  Lodovico’s veins filled with pride, with the confidence that had been draining from him for the last two days, since that disastrous battle in the air. He smiled and his chestnut eyes glowed. “I know what that is, he said in resonant tones. “That is the Fortezza Serpente.”

  La Realtà

  Damiano de’ Medici was wearing a giaquetta of red Venetian silk and his leggings were particolored red and black. He stood in the antechamber at his Fiesole villa, tapping his long fingers impatiently on the table where Lodovico had spread out books. He regarded the poet evenly as he came into the room, and said, without preamble, “You are sending your son to Paris?”

  “He leaves in two days,” Lodovico answered, puzzled by the inquiry, and the manner. He saw that Damiano was noticeably thinner and white shone in his dark hair like a gloss.

  “You’re probably wise to do that.” Il Primàrio looked down at the books. “For Margharita?”

  “Yes. She learns quickly. As you see, Marsilio Ficino and Luigi Pulci already.” He indicated the Morgante Maggiore lying on the table.

  “And the Platonic Essays, I assume?” Damiano said, picking up the Ficino and opening the volume. “Yes. My grandfather told me that Ficino kept a candle burning before the bust of Plato. Or was it Socrates? He regarded Socrates as a saint, in any case.” With a sudden motion, he closed the book and set it aside. “You decided on Paris for Virginio.”

  “Yes.” It took considerable courage for Lodovico to speak again. “Why do you ask? Is there some reason?” He wanted to know how much Damiano had learned of Virginio’s difficulties with the Cardinale, but could not bring himself to frame the question.

  “No reason, really. There are times when I see the sons of my…friends doing well. Then I remember my own sons.” The old pain shaped his features. “I have nephews, of course, but it is hardly the same thing.” He dropped into the chair beside the table, where Lodovico usually sat to instruct Sir Thomas More’s daughter, and idly picked up a few of the parchment sheets, glancing through them before looking at Lodovico, one brow raised in speculation. “Margharita’s work?”

  “Yes. I have had her writing her own essays. She is a most intelligent woman, Damiano.” He let himself come across the floor and take the smaller, harder chair.

  Damiano stifled a yawn. “You’re pleased with her progress?”

  “For the most part.” He was quite curious now, and somewhat disturbed. The visit from Damiano was unexpected, and Lodovico could not think of any reason il Primàrio would want to see him, and in such grand clothing. “You are traveling?” he ventured.

  Damiano laughed shortly. “No doubt you want to know what I’m doing here.”

  Lodovico stiffened. “It is your villa, Primàrio. You are our host, we are your guests. How could you not be welcome here?”

  “If I interrupted your working, I don’t expect you to be glad to see me.” He fingered the edge of his ornamental sleeve. “Well? Did I interrupt your work?”

  With a guilty flush, Lodovico nodded. “A few verses, nothing to bother about.” It was a clumsy lie. His head was still echoing with the grandeur of his new fantasy.

  “May I see it?” Damiano held out his hand for parchment sheets half-hidden by Lodovico’s arm.

  “They’re not ready yet, but if you insist…You are my patron.” Reluctantly he touched the sheets. “I don’t have the right to question or object, if you want…”

  “Per gli arcangeli!” he burst out, but did not rise. “Will you abandon your pride for a moment? I am here seeking respite,” he went on with some asperity, “and I refuse to wrangle with you, Lodovico. I have disputes enough awaiting me in Firenze. If you don’t want to let me see your work, well and good. I will not argue with you. I don’t want to argue with you.” He picked up the volume of Luigi Pulci’s work and thumbed through it, not truly reading.

  Lodovico wished he had not offended Damiano. He considered reaching across the table and handing him the incomplete pages as a peace offering, but could not bring himself to do it. Instead he cleared his throat, saying, “I have had a letter from Sir Thomas this week. It was brought by a dyer coming to Firenze. He made good time, I think. Would you like to read it?” The three closely written and tightly folded sheets were tucked into a slim book of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’s essays. Lodovico opened it and held up the letter.

  Damiano’s brows rose. “What has he got to say?”

  The first part of the letter was filled with traveling details, projected dates of arrival and departure in different cities of Russia.

  “Ah, here.” Lodovico found the place and began to read. “‘Poland and Austria seem content to follow Italy’s lead for as long as the truce with the Turks continues to be honored by both sides. The main concern of the Dukes here is the continuing religious conflicts in the German states. There have been rumors that Savonarola is dead, but his great age makes such gossip inevitable. He preached at Easter and his followers burned a dozen Lutherans immediately afterward. The Elector could do nothing without endangering himself. So far Savonarola has attracted few Poles to his cause, but with German monks traveling here regularly, there is legitimate cause for worry. Though I am a good Catholic and opposed to the enemies of the Church, I could wish that Luther had lived somewhat longer in order to stop the hysteria of these religious wars. If Luther had been willing to be reconciled with the Church before his death, Savonarola’s followers might not be so determined in their persecution of the Lutheran converts. As it is, the atrocities here rival those in Spain….’ Then he says that some of the German leaders would welcome a breakdown in the truce with the Turks because it would give both the Savonarolans and Lutherans a common enemy to fight. Then there is a description of the provisions for the journey. Nothing you do not know yourself. He asks that his family be given guards for any journeys they may take beyond Italia Federata.”

  “Naturally. That’s all arranged.”

  Lodovico turned the page over. “Here’s something. About your son. Would you like me to read it?”

  Damiano’s eyes were weary with old pain. “Why not?”

  “Let me find the place,” he said, reading quickly be certain that there was nothing too unpleasant. “Ah, here. ‘As part of the Austrian contingent, Leone de’ Medici was one of those in the company that forms our escort to Minsk He has a caustic wit and is not well liked by his comrades…’ There’s some mentioning of the nature of the escort, and the condition of the roads…” Lodovico said as he read of Leone’s gambling excesses. Until Leone had left la Federazione, his gambling had been the subject of constant quarrels at embarrassment to Damiano. “There’s more here. ‘Leo de’ Medici remarked that he was not anxious to return to Firenze, but had almost decided to join his brother Renato for a time. He said that he thought Gianpiero Frescobald might come into France and they would all stay at Nemours until something more attractive was offered them.’ That is all he has said about Leone.”

  “France. Nemours,” Damiano said slowly. “France.”

  “Leone is not foolish enough to try to return to Italia at this time,” Lodovico hastened to assure Damiano.

  “That wasn’t my concern,” he responded, shaking off the melancholy with determination. “What else does Thomas have to say?”

  “There is a co
mment here that may interest you.” ‘Word has reached us on the road that Spain is seeking allies against Italia, but as yet none of the rulers approached are anxious to defy the Pope and stand with Spain. While it is true that the Spanish holdings in the Far East are increasing, and their two colonies in Africa are most prosperous, without colonies in the New World, there is little chance that they will have sufficient to offer an ally that would compensate for being under interdict.’ He also has reference to the Low Countries. ‘It is rumored here that the Dutch might be willing to join with England against France, if proper terms can be agreed upon. I don’t give much credence to the rumor because I know Henry Tudor. He is anxious for an alliance with Russia and will not easily settle for less. Mistress Boleyn’s child will seal the bargain. As I recall, she should deliver in August or September, so it may be that you will know soon whether a Russian Princess will come to England or an English Princess will go to Russia.’”

  I haven’t had word on that,” Damiano said in the silence. “I haven’t had word on a great many things. I am,” he went on rather distantly, “on the road to meet the court party of the Doge of Genova. Ercole is going to honor me with his presence again. In this weather, too.”

  “Why did you choose to ride in the heat of the afternoon?” Lodovico could not resist asking.

  “I don’t know. Penance, perhaps A need to be alone. There were very few people on the road.” He slouched in his chair. “Is there anything else from More that has bearing on the state?”

  “Not really. He has found copies of a great many Italian books in Poland. He discovered a number of interesting manuscripts. There is a Swedish scholar in Warsaw who is very promising. A Turkish jewel merchant opened a business in Minsk. The King of Denmark is said to be buying French cavalry companies. Apparently Denmark and Sweden fear what may happen to them if Russia and England become allies.” Lodovico looked over the rest of the letter.