Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Nembosanguinoso is waiting in his tent. Lungobraccio can be sent for. I wish we knew what had become of Coltellomelma. His men worry for him, and that does not bode well for them in battle. Fierovento will be with his priests now, but I will ask him to join us when he has completed his rituals.” Falcone had also risen and inclined his head toward Fumovisione. “Will you speak to the priests and wizards?”

  “Naturally, naturally,” was the rather distant reply. The wizard remained seated, gazing at nothing in particular. “I feel that we must soon confront the warriors Anatreccacciatore, and the valley that the Italian describes, I believe, an excellent place to begin the war.”

  Falcone set his jaw. “I wish the Cioctau and Iustaga were with us. If Coltellomelma reached Naniaba, they may reach us in time to aid us in this fight. Naniaba the north, and, I think, behind us. It will be hard going for those soldiers if they set out from there. The terrain is tough and mountainous. They will not know where to find us.” He stopped. “I must not concern myself with that.’’

  Lodovico, seeing the resignation and strength in the face of the Cérocchi Prince, felt admiration and sympathy for this great leader. Falcone was young and this was his first real test in battle. He had taken the responsibility without flinching and was carrying his burden nobly. “My Prince,” Lodovico said kindly remembering the many times he had had to take orders from less valiant men, “let us send messengers to Naniaba and any other city where we may have allies. It is not too late to do so. If we must fall back, then we will fall back to a strong defensive force, which is wise. Naniaba may be distant, but a few good men, on horseback, should make reasonable time if they are sensible.”

  “Very well,” Falcone agreed after a moment’s consideration. “I will ask Lungobraccio and Nembosanguinoso to choose the best of their horsemen for the journey.” Then he turned to Lodovico, smiling. “You are a marvel, my friend. Where others see only defeat and despair, you see a challenge and hope.”

  Lodovico dared not confide his fears to Falcone, for the Prince was in need of all the optimism he could find. With a great effort that almost overwhelmed him, Lodovico hooked his thumbs in his belt and forced himself to grin. “There is no reason why we cannot triumph, Falcone. I say this, who have fought Djinni in Arabia and chimeras in the lost regions of India. Those who are true of heart go forth with the light of God within them, and nothing of darkness can stand against them.” As he said this, he thought of his own unconfessed passion for Aureoraggio and felt a gelid fist close in his chest. How could he expect God to lend him the might of the archangel with this sin upon his soul?

  Falcone sensed nothing of this turmoil, and gratefully accepted the confident appearance of Lodovico as wholly genuine. He clapped Lodovico on the shoulder. “You are remarkable, Ariosto. I wish I had your certainty and strength.”

  “But you do,” Lodovico assured him with feeling. “You may have more than I.”

  “If you believe that, you are more of a dreamer than Nebbiamente, there.” This was said with a chuckle and some of the buoyancy of spirit that Lodovico had hoped he might restore in the prince. “Come. The captains are waiting for us, and we must not delay.” With that, he strode to the door of the tent, motioning Lodovico to join him.

  “I will read the omens,” Fumovisione announced with a sigh as Lodovico reached the tent door.

  “We will need favorable ones,” Lodovico warned him, then followed Falcone out into the dusk.

  Lungobraccio lived up to his name—his long arms reached almost to his knees. He was dressed with the same armor as Falcone and he carried a large war axe in his belt. Beside him Nembosanguinos appeared less impressive, for he was smaller in stature and his countenance was less ruggedly distinctive. His eyes, however, held a lambent fury that was lacking in Lungobraccio. Both men rose as Lodovico and Falcone entered their tent.

  “There will be battle soon,” Falcone announced without preamble. “Your priests will confirm it, if necessary, but I tell you that it is so. We know the place and Lodovico has seen the enemy. It is for us now to prepare ourselves for the fight.”

  “It is well.” Lungobraccio had a deep voice that echoed in his broad chest so that it sounded as if he were speaking into a hollow place. He dropped once more onto his folded legs and waited impassively for Falcone to continue.

  Falcone seated himself and at once began to describe what Lodovico had seen. He had just come to the description of the two rivers when Lodovico interrupted him deferentially.

  “If you will agree, my Prince, I would like to get my captain of Lanzi to listen, as well. If we all speak together, then more can be accomplished.”

  Startled, Falcone looked up. “Yes.” His reddish skin did not show color changes easily, yet Lodovico thought perhaps the Cérocchi blushed. “By all means. I should have thought of that myself. Find your Capitano Fabroni at once.”

  Lodovico bowed elegantly and went quickly in search of the bivouac of the Lanzi.

  It was dark now, and the various groups of warriors gathered around their fires for the evening meal. Here there were pikemen from Annouaigho poaching fresh-caught fish in venison broth. There the Onaumanient had set their bows and knives aside and were laughing as a haunch of wild boar sizzled on a slowly turning spit. Beyond them, soldiers from Giagaia had turned their curved daggers to cleaning partridges and geese before stuffing them with nuts and thrusting them into the coals to roast. Cica Omini sat with their Pau Attan cousins around a huge pot that simmered fragrantly. Lodovico knew that he could stop at any of these gatherings and share the succulent repasts, but he resisted the temptation. There would be time for that later, when he had finished his talk with the captains. His body protested, his mouth watered, but he continued resolutely toward the far side of the camp where the Lanzi gathered.

  Massamo Fabroni was cutting meat from the flank of a wild oxen calf which had just been pulled out of its ember-lined bed of leaves. The flesh was pale and the smell delicious, and from the smile on the old soldier’s face, he had been anticipating this meal for some little time. He grinned happily as he saw Lodovico approaching.

  “Ariosto! In time to join us. Here.” He turned brusquely to his men. “Make room for the man. He does us great honor to share our table.”

  Lodovico hated to disappoint the man, but knew that the sooner he explained the situation, the less insulted the Lanzi capitano would be. “I’m afraid that I must not accept, though to tell you the truth, I would much rather dine with you than do what I must.”

  Massamo had just sunk a fork deep into the steaming meat, and he did not look around at once. “How do you mean? There’s plenty.”

  “I can see that, and for that reason, I hope there will be some left when you and I are finished with the business that calls us both away from this delicious meal.” Lodovico made a gesture of apology to the other men and addressed Massamo Fabroni. “There is a meeting of the troop leaders, and I must ask you to come with me. We have much to plan before we ready to meet the enemy, and that hour will be upon us in very short order.”

  “Battle?” Fabroni asked, his eyes alight. “About time, I say.” He set his rough plate aside, tossed his carving knife to one of his corporales, wiped his greasy hands on his leather leggings and gave Lodovico an eager, voracious grin. “I’m your man for battle, Ariosto.”

  Lodovico answered Massamo’s grin with one of his own. “Then we will do well together, for it is to battle that we go.”

  Now it was settled. Falcone studied the faces of his captains and raised his brow toward the wizards and priests. Lodovico gripped Massamo’s arm, excitement filling him.

  “We depart within the hour,” Falcone said, his eyes filled with a stern satisfaction. “We will march through the rest of the night, pause for a meal at dawn and march until sunset, when we will once again make camp. It is likely that by that time we will be on the hills beyond the valley where the warriors of flint and frost are now ravaging the land. We will make a holding camp, and bef
ore first light, we will prepare for battle. Is that the nature of your understanding, captains?”

  All but Nembosanguinoso muttered their assent, but the Cicora captain hesitated.

  “What is the trouble?” Falcone asked, watching the calm, hot-eyed warrior.

  “I am troubled in my mind,” he said simply. “If these warriors are as mighty as the priests and wizards say they are, what is to prevent them from falling upon us in the night and killing us to a man while we sleep? Then our skins will be gathered up for Anatrecacciatore to breathe into and they will be sent in the guise of friends against our allies…” He looked at the others. “We cannot rely on mere guards around the camp, for all that the enemy need do is kill the guard, reanimate the skin and pass on to slaughter those asleep. Should anyone wake, there would be no way to tell what had happened.”

  Lodovico had listened to this with great attention. He could not help but agree with the Cicora soldier, and said so. “He’s right, you know. We’re exposing ourselves to more danger than is necessary.”

  Falcone turned to him in some ire. “What do we do, then?” We must go forth to meet these soldiers, and we must rest before we start into battle. What can we do but take the best precautions we may and pray that our gods will give us protection against the evil of Anatrecacciatore?”

  “You say that we should take precautions, and I agree most emphatically. But I don’t think standing guards are sufficient.” He recalled the fight he had waged in the air with the birds. “We will need every man in the field on the day of battle. We can’t put all of them on watch and then arm them to fight. That would be utmost folly. We must find reliable guards, guards that may not be killed or suborned by any of the enemy. For that reason, I would set a small foot patrol to catching ducks.”

  The others stared at him, some aghast, some annoyed, one or two amused.

  “When the birds came against me, the ducks did not. It has been suggested by your own wizards and priests that the great power of Anatrecacciatore cannot extend to ducks because those birds are the heart of his power, or perhaps the only opposition he can have because of his name. I have seen much stranger things in travels. Therefore it is possible that his warriors cannot harm ducks either. I have found that ducks are easily alarmed, and when they are they make a frightful din. No enemy could approach our camp without causing these birds to squawk and quack and therefore give us good warning of danger.” As he spoke, he felt his confidence in the plan grow. His chestnut eyes were alight with enthusiasm and his voice became more vibrant. “Consider, good captains, the advantages. We would be protected by the very thing that Anatrecacciatore is unable to influence. Short of the Sword of San Michele, I can think of nothing more effective to guard us.”

  Lungobraccio scowled. “Ducks may be slain. They are not large beasts. It would be a simple matter for the warriors of flint and frost to set upon them and kill them.”

  “Not before they had begun making noise,” Lodovico asserted. “Think of that. Should they be killed—although I doubt that will happen—they will still make an alarm we may be awakened to do battle. If every man sleeps with his weapons at his side, there will be no need to take extra time to prepare for the fray.” He almost laughed. “Some of your men must have baskets in which they carry their supplies. Surely they will sacrifice them to the ducks in exchange for the protection the birds afford.”

  Falcone been listening to this in silence and now he met Lodovico’s eyes with increased respect that bordered on awe. “I am beginning to believe the stories I’ve heard about you. At first, I thought that it was the pride of your countrymen talking, not truth, but I see that all that has been said is true. You are the most clever man I have known. We should have thought of this. You are a stranger, new to our land and new to the threat of Anatrecacciatore, yet while we sit here wishing to find ways to thwart him, you go to the heart of the matter and give us the solution that we have been seeking.”

  A flush of pride stole over Lodovico’s handsome face and he shrugged eloquently. “If I have been fortunate in this guess, it is because I have been fortunate on other occasions and have brought all that I have learned—at some cost—to bear on our struggles. I am no wiser than you, no more acute, but I have not had to grapple with this evil for as long as you have. I see it differently, and therefore I have had the opportunity to observe your valiant efforts from another view.” He smiled at Falcone and thought, with a pang, that were it not for his unrevealed passion for Aureoraggio, this would be the finest comrade at arms he had ever known. There should be no secrets between comrades, but this secret, he knew, he must keep. It would be the most terrible betrayal he could commit, and with battle so near, he must not burden Falcone with this other conflict.

  “It is your modesty speaking,” Falcone said, misreading Lodovico’s sudden reserve. “But I will not bore you with reminding you of your many victories. I will only tell you that no one of my blood has done so much to aid us, and if there is a victory here, it will be more truly yours than any of ours.”

  The others agreed, though some were distressed to hear such words come from this superb prince.

  Lungobraccio rose first. “I will set my men to trapping ducks. They are positioned on the flanks in any case, and it will be a simple matter for them to hunt the water birds.” It was obvious that he was not as enthusiastic about Lodovico’s plan as Falcone was.

  “Excellent,” the Cérocchi prince declared and looked meaningfully at the other captains.

  It was Fumovisione who spoke next, though the wizards and priests had not been consulted in matter. “I believe that Ariosto is on to something. I will go into the marshes myself and bring back as many ducks as I can lay hands on. Which may be quite a few, as I have some tricks in my bag that the rest of you know nothing of.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke and as he glanced at Lodovico, he winked.

  What little resistance there was crumbled under Fumovisione’s comments. The captains rose and gave their unusual salutes before leaving the tent of Falcone.

  Massamo Fabroni was among the last to go, pausing to say to Lodovico, “I don’t know what good this plan of yours will do. It sounds as if ducks are a lot of nonsense, but if that’s what you want…” He opened hands to show his acceptance of Lodovico’s orders. “If nothing else, we can make a meal of them when the battle is over.”

  Lodovico did not have an answer for the rugged Lanzi. He considered his comment carefully, knowing that Massamo had a touchy and highly prized sense of honor. “I am not familiar with the strength and weakness of these people,” he said at last, more slowly than he generally spoke. “But I know that we must take advantage of every strength we possess, search out new strength, and, if necessary, invent it. I have no illusions about the power and malice of Anatrecacciatore.”

  It was not remarkable that Falcone overheard this. He came to Lodovico’s side. “You are too severe, Ariosto. And I think that you do not quite believe that, not after the birds attacked you.”

  Caught between Massamo Fabroni and his utter materialism and Falcone’s mystic sense of the forces around him, Lodovico struggled to think of a way to satisfy both of them without causing insult to either. “When I was in the air and there were birds around me in so dense a cloud that I could hardly see the light of the sun, and it was as if night had descended most unnaturally, I knew that Falcone had been right in assessing the danger of Anatrecacciatore’s power. But I am also aware that it is the pragmatic soldier who is most likely to survive. Pragmatic does not mean realistic, of course. But what realistic man would battle a foeman of flint and frost? Yet it must be done because the alternative is complete capitulation, and that is loathsome to any man who respects himself and God.”

  Both Massamo and Falcone were pleased with this answer. Falcone smiled slightly. “I must not forget how astute you are, Ariosto. It is part of your genius.” He offered his arm to Massamo Fabroni. “We are allies in this fight, good Italian, and I am grateful for your good se
nse and your willingness to take up our cause as your own. In battle I will take heart, knowing that you will set an example of courage.”

  Massamo grasped Falcone’s arm and for the first time there was a genuine acceptance in his eyes. “I am your man to death, Cérocchi.”

  A great load was lifted from Lodovico’s spirits. “Come he said to the two men. “First we catch ducks. Then we fight.”

  La Realtà

  Ercole Barbabianca glared across the rose hedge at Ezio Foscari, oldest son of the Doge of Venezia. “You are cooperating with the Turks against us!” he insisted, his cherub’s face contorted. “You deny it, of course you deny it, but I have the word of my commanders in this.”

  “There was some mistake, then,” Ezio Foscari responded as he picked out a rose and held it to his face. “We don’t send our ships against friends.”

  “The friendship between Genova and Venezia is recent. The rivalry is ancient. Is there not the slightest chance that one of your commanders, in a forgetful moment, thought himself in the past?” Barbabianca was not yelling now, but his expression was no less deadly.

  “Is it not also possible that such a lapse affected your commanders?” Ezio Foscari inquired sweetly. He was in his early twenties, effete in manner and dress but hardy as a weed, a rangy, fair-haired man with Foscari features.

  “It is a shame that you cannot follow your father in office,” Ercole Barbabianca sneered.

  “There is no assurance that I won’t. I may be elected. You, however, having no sons, must hate the passing days, knowing that no election in the world can pass your title on to your children.” He was using the rose to gesture with, and his bantering tone made mockery of Barbabianca’s nastiness.

  “Both of you, give it a rest,” Damiano put in, stopping the exchange. “When I asked you to walk with me in the garden it was not so that you could duel with words.” He turned to the man beside him. “Suggest another topic Lodovico.”