Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Stunned, Lodovico mentioned the first thing that came into his mind. “Has the ship come back from the land of the Cérocchi? It’s been more than a year…”

  Damiano’s face darkened and he looked at his two feuding guests. “It got back across the Atlantic safely enough, but ran afoul of the Spanish. The crew was taken prisoner at Barcelona. It was traveling without escort, unfortunately.” It was apparent to all three men that Damiano held both Genova and Venezia accountable for this oversight. “There will be other ships, naturally, and in time we may learn what those despicable Spaniards did to our men. Since they gave a royal edict that there could be no exploration of such heathen lands, they have been at pains to interfere as much as possible with our trade. I would have thought,” he added in another voice, “considering it was Genova who established the trade, that Genovese ships would protect the place, but it would seem that this is not the case.”

  Foscari and Barbabianca exchanged uncomfortable looks, and at last the stout Genovese Doge said, “We have many concerns, as you know, Primàrio. It is unfortunate that our Signoria is not always quick to see the advantage in such outposts as Nuova Genova. When we brought back the two Cérocchi guests in fifteen thirteen, I was new to my office and perhaps I did not handle the enterprise as well as I might have. It was your grandfather who made the situation clear to me. I recall that he gave me some excellent advice at the time, as he so often did. You probably don’t remember. You were very young at the time.”

  “I remember very well,” Damiano corrected him. “I was fifteen years old by then, and already my grandfather was schooling me. I had paid official visits to Paris and Cologne before then, and a year later, I visited Cyprus with the old Venezian Doge. The Cérrochi made quite an impression on His Holiness.” He chuckled. “Uncle Giovanni loved the picturesque and strange, and those Cérocchi were better than anything he had seen except the Russian dwarves. He kept them in Roma for the better part of a year. Finally my grandfather had to go and get them and arrange for them to be taken home. There was an agreement with the King of their people and he was determined to honor it.”

  Ezio Foscari could afford to laugh, and he did. Ercole Barbabianca cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, you’ve got to be aware, de’ Medici, that it was not always possible to have a fully supplied ship ready to undertake such a hazardous journey at short notice.”

  returned in one of our ships.” Though Firenze was an inland city, she maintained a small fleet of her own at Pisa. “We must have been strangely fortunate to be able to set out so quickly. Strange. I had assumed that Genova would be more capable than Firenze in such things.”

  Though the embarrassment had occurred almost twenty years before, it still carried a sting.

  “It is sad that you did not think to contact Venezia.” Ezio Foscari remarked to the air. “We’re usually able to put to sea within two days of an order.” He favored Barbabianca with a particularly malicious smile.

  muttered, but refused to be drawn into altercation. “We do well with the Cérocchi and their allies,” he said in a determinedly hearty manner. “They provide us with a variety of furs and hides, for the most part, and some lumber. There are also artifacts that a few people enjoy, and we purchase some regularly. I think it has been an advantageous arrangement both ways.”

  “What about a fuller exploration of the country itself? How is that going?” Damiano seemed genuinely interested, for there was a brightness in his brown eyes and he walked more briskly.

  “Well you know that it is not an easy thing to cross the ocean and then set off exploring. The Cérocchi have taken some of the outpost guards through most of their territories, but they are only one of many nations, and not all of them are at peace. We are attempting to make arrangements, of course, but”—his face turned a plummy shade—”we lack the sort of courageous leader who would be able to head such a prolonged venture. We have searched, and I am fully committed to the task, but it’s difficult, Damiano. It’s very difficult.”

  Lodovico wished he could bring himself to speak, to ask for the honor of leading such an expedition. He had been listening avidly, thinking of that time, twenty years before, when as a young man he had heard the Cérrochi talk about their homeland. He had been entranced then, and now, in his writing, all he had been told came back with vivid reality. To have the opportunity of going there…He did not continue the thought, for he knew that it would not be possible, with Alessandra and Virginio. If he were a man without a family or obligations, it would be different; he could roam the entire world. He also admitted to himself that Damiano would not be willing to let a man, untried and unknown, take on the responsibilities of the venture. And perhaps, he told himself, salving his pride, his skills would be of more use here than in that strange land where he would be, in all practical senses of the word, mute. A poet feeds on words, he knew. If he could not speak, he would be a poor leader.

  “How do you see it, Lodovico?” Damiano asked suddenly and Lodovico realized that he had not been listening.

  “About Nuova Genova?” he wondered aloud, not certain if the subject had changed or not.

  Damiano came as close to laughing as he ever did these days. “I wish I had your gift, Lodovico. I would spend my days in the clouds. Your mind has wings.”

  “But are we speaking still of Nuova Genova?” Lodovico persisted, not at all certain that Damiano’s remarks were complimentary.

  “Yes, and all the Nuovo Mondo. Do you remember the Cérocchi? I think you met them.” He had stopped beside a statue of a faun and he rested his hand familiarly on the marble shoulder.

  “Of course I remember them,” he said shortly. “Two men, in their middle years. One spoke Italian quite well, and the other understood a great deal though he did not speak much.” He looked at the three men as if expecting them to contradict him. “We discussed many things,” he said after a moment. “It is an exciting place, enormous and rich. When the Spaniards sent their first six ships, they came back with rumors of cities made of precious stones, but the Cérocchi told me it was not true.” He sighed, recalling again the enthusiastic words of the Spanish monk who had been on that voyage. Lodovico had met him in Torino at a great celebration.

  “Of course they denied it,” Ezio Foscari scoffed. “You don’t expect them to admit they have such wealth, do you? It would be too much temptation. They give us furs and wood and keep their precious stones for themselves.”

  For once Ercole Barbabianca was in agreement. “They’re clever men. I know what it would be like if we advertised our treasures—we would have half the armies of Europe climbing all over us. The German States would stop their civil wars and Spain would turn all their heretics into soldiers until they controlled the wealth they desire.” He had folded his arms on his chest and was watching Damiano with a reserved anger.

  “Such discretion,” Damiano murmured, addressing the marble faun.

  “Well,” Barbabianca went on belligerently, “they are not fools, and they know enough to protect themselves—don’t tell me otherwise. There may well be cities of diamonds in the forests, but the only way we will find them is to go there. Sadly, the Signoria of Genova does not agree.”

  Ezio Foscari studied the Doge of Genova. “We have many good men in Venezia who might like that opportunity. They are greedy, but what else can you expect?”

  His polite and cynical laughter was interrupted by Lodovico’s unexpected outburst: “There is honor!”

  Barbabianca regarded him in disbelief, and Foscari absolutely guffawed. Lodovico felt his face darken in unaccountable shame and wished he could flee. What had he said that warranted such derision? He had often heard these men praise honor, declaring that without it, all virtues lost their worth.

  Only Damiano did not laugh. He looked evenly at Lodovico, his brown eyes filled with an emotion that was not quite pity. “Yes,” he said slowly after a moment. “There is honor.”

  The amusement filling Barbabianca and Foscari stopped at once, wiped awa
y by the seriousness of Damiano’s voice. There was an awkward silence, and Ezio Foscari gazed down a nearby path as if he longed to use it for escape. At last Ercole Barbabianca looked squarely at Lodovico.

  “I knew there was a reason that most rulers are suspicious of poets,” he said without hostility. “You have reminded us of matters we would prefer to forget.”

  Was that what he had done? Lodovico was not sure whether he should be amazed or offended. Was the Doge of Genova serious or was this a subtle insult? He tried to find an appropriate retort. “If rulers forget honor, then they cannot hope a poet will save them.” It was too weak, he thought, or too petulant.

  “Sadly, you have the right of it,” Damiano sighed.

  There was a tension in the air now that had not been there before. Barbabianca glared at the pebbled walkway while Foscari flung his rose away with sudden violence.

  “Come gentlemen,” Damiano said, spuriously laconic. “It is too hot to stay here. Inside it is much cooler, I promise you.” He indicated the pathway back toward the Palazzo Pitti.

  “Yes, it is too hot,” Ercole Barbabianca muttered. “I suppose your poet is coming with us?”

  Lodovico felt this rebuff as a blow. “I did not intend…”

  Damiano silenced him with a gesture. “He is good for my conscience,” he said enigmatically. Then he turned down the hedge-framed walk and without waiting for the others to follow, started toward the garden terrace of the palace. Lodovico had almost to run to keep up with if Primàrio, and as he did, he saw, to his consternation, that Damiano’s shoulders drooped, bowed under a heavy, invisible burden.

  There was a shiny film of sweat on his upper lip, but other than that, Andrea Benci was cool and elegant. His brocaded giaquetta was in the French fashion, with a beaded and jeweled codpiece and padded shoulders. Slashed sleeves and bodice showed his silken shirt of pleated pale blue silk, and his hose were banded padded, very short, the height of fashion. His white hair had been trimmed into the current shorter mode and his beard, the color of silver, was perfectly groomed. Lodovico hated the sight of him.

  “Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, is waiting to see you,” he said to Damiano with a courtly bow.

  “Yes, yes.” Damiano was reading a message and not look up at once. There were two deep lines between his brows.

  With utmost diplomacy, Benci said, “He has said it is too important for him to be kept waiting.”

  Damiano set the vellum sheet aside. “It is always too important for him to be kept waiting.” He paced down the library. “Very well, very well, bring him in. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he’ll be gone.”

  In the last few days Lodovico had noticed this shortness of temper in Damiano that was a new development. He put his book aside and got to his feet. “If you want me to leave…?”

  “Christ, no.” Damiano answered at once. “I may need a witness, if my cousin is bringing me news from Clemente.” He put his hand to his brow and rubbed once, then looked at Andrea Benci. “Show him in, by all means.”

  Andrea Benci’s mouth was slightly pursed, but there was nothing in his expression to reveal his thoughts other than that. He turned away and was out of the library.

  “How do you bear his obsequiousness?” Lodovico demanded, knowing full well that his dislike of the man extended to much more than his manner.

  “It’s useful,” Damiano said distantly. “I hate to admit it, but I have no idea what Cosimo wants to discuss with me. There are spies in his household, of course, but they have provided me very little in the way of information of late. He’s being very careful. That worries me.” He walked down to the largest of the tables, an enormous piece of furniture of carved oak. He took one chair behind it and sat, as if in state. Seeing Lodovico’s scandalized expression, he winked. “I need to bolster my position, and since Cosimo is a Prince of the Church, without a crown and scepter, this is the best I can do.”

  Lodovico was about to protest what he felt was sham when the door opened again and Andrea Benci announced Cosimo, Cardinale Medici.

  Cosimo was rigged out in full ecclesiastical splendor, as if he, too, had determined to muster every badge of badge of authority he possessed. He saw Lodovico and his face soured. “Cousin, he called out. “I had hoped we would be private.”

  “We are,” Damiano responded with his most affable smile. “Lodovico is my confidant, and if I cannot trust him, then I cannot trust myself.” He indicated a chair for the Cardinale. “Eminenza.” He most pointedly not kiss Cosimo’s ring nor request his blessing.

  Cosimo was unruffled by this insolence, but there was a shine at the back of his prominent eyes that smoldered. “I was pleased that you were willing to make time for me.” He waited for an answer.

  Damiano let him wait. “If it was so urgent…” he said when the silence had lengthened.

  “Yes.” He looked down at his satin shoes. “I bring a message from our kinsman, His Holiness Clemente the Seventh.”

  “And what does my father’s bastard first cousin want?” He asked this so flippantly that Cosimo could not respond with anger. It took him a moment to collect himself. “His Holiness has decided to extend an invitation to Lazaro Frescobaldi to return to Italia Federata under his personal protection.” He relished saying this, knowing it to be a direct countermanding of Damiano’s orders.

  “My brother-in-law,” Damiano said quietly, “is a danger to Italia Federata. He has been in the pay of both Saxony and Spain. If he returns, he will use it to his advantage and you may be certain that it would not be to ours.”

  Lodovico had heard that implacable note in Damiano’s voice before, and each time he was struck anew by the ruthlessness that lay just below il Primàrio’s geniality. He could see now that a greater determination possessed Cosimo, Cardinale Medici. It was a cold fire fueled by ambition and frustration, unhampered by pity or compassion. The second cousins glared into each other’s faces.

  “It is the hope of His Holiness that through Lazaro, who is now a monk and given to a pious life…”

  “Pious!” Damiano snorted.

  “…and dedicated to the good of God and the Church, a way may be found whereby Spain will once again resume her place among the well-loved Christian nations…”

  “Losing revenue, is he?” Damiano inquired harshly. “Spain won’t jump to the lash anymore, cousin. They’ve had a taste of their own power and they like it. What would it profit them to make peace with Roma? You don’t see the German States rushing to do it, do you? It’s a monks’ battle there, and see what it has gotten them. Two Kings and an Elector assassinated in the last eight years and Wittenberg in ashes. Bavaria burned four thousand heretics last year. Guicciardini warned me that there will be more. Is that what our Papal cousin wants, cousin? Or is he more subtle than that?” There was a flutter at the corner of his eye, but that was all that betrayed his agitation. Damiano had not challenged his authoritative posture and his voice had not altered pitch.

  “If we are to talk of heresy, Primàrio,” Cosimo said smoothly, though his face was the color of sculptor’s wax, “you stand in mortal peril yourself. Your remarks here–oh, do not fear I will repeat them, though you may regret allowing Ariosto to stay—would send you to the stake in Madrid.”

  “We are not in Madrid,” Damiano pointed out. “We are here in Firenze, in a nation that has been cobbled together out of a dozen warring states. If the Pope turns his back on la Federazione, then we may as well begin the Requiem, for Italia Federata will be in her death throes in less than a year, and those greedy wolves in Austria and France and Spain will be on us to devour us. Is that what Clemente wants? Is it?” He leaned forward and struck the table with the flat of his hand. “Well?”

  “Cousin, such choler.” His laugh rustled like dry leaves. “His Holiness has the Church and her sanctity at heart…”

  “That’s a change,” Damiano put in, and went on without letting Cosimo continue, “Giulio is a clever man–I’ve never said otherwise. But he’s v
enal. Don’t bother to deny it. I grew up watching him. I don’t criticize him for it. Considering the political difficulties he is handling, he’s much more useful than a saint would be. Spiritual men do more good in hermits’ cells than in the Chair of San Piero.”

  “Then you will cooperate?” Cosimo inquired in his most self-deprecating manner.

  “Will I help bring Spain back into the fold? No. Will I welcome Frescobaldi? No. Will I participate in the destruction of la Federazione? No.” He met Cosimo’s eyes frankly. “And you knew when you came here that I would not. Tell me, cousin, what do you really want of me?”

  Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, paused a moment. “Make me your heir.”

  “What?” Damiano demanded. “My heir?”

  Before he could say more, Cosimo went on. “Your sons are lost to you, though they live. You need not deny it. There are only your grandsons, and they are very young. How old is Pierfrancesco? Eight? And Giuliano? Six?”

  “I was my grandfather’s heir,” Damiano pointed out in an elaborate appeal to reason, but Cosimo would not be stilled.

  “That was another time. And, if you will forgive me for pointing it out, you are not Lorenzo. When he died he was an old man, and you, coming to power, were in the first strength of your manhood. Which of your sons is a candidate for the Papacy? Lorenzo had Giovanni, and it was a formidable alliance. Could either of your grandsons handle the reins of state? Of course not. They would be hampered, controlled, set about with regents and protectors until there would be no escape for them. You recall what happened in Milano when Il Moro was regent for his nephew—the nephew and his family disappeared. It might well go the same, way for your grandsons.”

  “You’re assuming that I will not live to the same old age that my grandfather did,” Damiano said, but could not bring himself to make light of the warning implicit in Cosimo’s words.

  Lodovico felt cold spread through him as he listened. The library was pleasantly warm and a bowl of roses, full-blown, stood on the mantel sweetening the air, but it meant nothing to him. He was certain both men had forgotten his presence and he wished now that he had taken the opportunity to leave. His eyes, he thought, must have frozen in his head and would be like ice or marbles if he should topple. He feared he would never see anything but this library and the two men in it, locked into their mutual hatred with a force that exceeded passion.