Ariosto

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“But how will this serve him?” Margaret demanded, then flushed. “I am sorry, Primàrio. It may be that we are an embarrassment to you. My father implied as much in one of his letters…” In her confusion, her Italian faltered and she spoke in English. “He told me that your situation is awkward with Clement.”

  “I gather from what Lodovico has told me that Sir Thomas was very much troubled by the differences between my Papal cousin and me.” He picked up the letter. “It is not only the King of England he is asserting his power over, but the Primàrio of Italia Federata, as well. Church and state don’t run in harness well in Italia.” There was a hurt in Damiano’s eyes as he looked from Margaret to Lodovico. “Neither is willing to match pace with the other.”

  “But His Holiness is a Medici, isn’t he?” Margaret asked, bewildered.

  “Yes, and a member of the senior branch, but a bastard. There is the difficulty. Within the family, he is in a slightly subordinate position because of the illegitimacy, though he is of my father’s generation. Yet, because he is of the senior line, he is in a slightly superior position to, say, my cousin Cosimo, and Cosimo is his inferior within the Church as well. No doubt there are times Giulio would be happy to see Cosimo in my place.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind, Margharita. You and your husband may remain here, if that is your desire, but I fear I must comply with the Pope’s request and send at least part of your family to Roma.”

  Margaret smoothed the soft fabric of her dress. She had adopted the Italian fashions entirely now, and her light-brown hair shone under an embroidered cap. “I would not want to be separated from my stepmother and my sisters and brother. I am certain that William would prefer we stay together, as well. Forgive me, Premier. We have had nothing but kindness from you…”

  “Your father might dispute that,” Damiano said quietly.

  “He understood,” Lodovico put in. “He assured me he did, and saw that it must be for the best.”

  “Did he, my friend?” Damiano put his hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “You’re a daughter worthy of your father, Margharita. I can find it in myself to envy him you.”

  Margaret had been at the Italian court long enough to know how things stood with Damiano and his sons, and so she did not answer at once. “It is my fortune to be very like my father,” she said at last, picking her words with care. “I think that another man might have found me to be a hoyden and disobedient. God was kind to us.” She folded her hands and assumed the appearance of tranquility, though her eyes burned.

  Whatever Damiano might have said was stopped as Alessandra bustled through the door. She was carrying a small basket of mending, and her hair was escaping from the netting that covered the coiled braids. “Ah!” she cried when she saw Damiano. “Next time you must warn me.”

  There was an uneasy moment while Lodovico shifted in his chair, and then he shrugged. “I didn’t know myself until Damiano walked through the door. It was a usual lesson afternoon…”

  “Your lessons!” Alessandra beamed at Margaret. “I am so pleased that they have continued. I was afraid that, even back in Firenze, with Virginio off in Paris, I would never see a young face or hear educated conversation. I was afraid that I would have to pass my time among the women who speak of nothing but servants and sewing and trinkets. But having you here…” She sighed happily and settled into a high-backed chair near the window. “I’ll try not to interrupt. Do go on.” She had already opened the basket and was selecting a thread from one of several wound on wooden spools.

  “We weren’t doing lessons,” Lodovico said when Damiano and Margaret had refused to speak. “There has been a message from the Pope.”

  “Nothing disagreeable, I hope?” Alessandra asked. “His Holiness is a little high-handed at times.” She chuckled. “Do you remember the time when he came to a governing convocation with half the Papal court? High Mass every morning in Santa Maria del Fiore, full rituals in all the churches, and all the whores in the city tottering between bed and confessional for most of April.”

  Both Lodovico and Damiano smiled and nodded, but Margaret Roper was scandalized. “How can you speak of the Pope in this way?” she demanded, starting to rise.

  “He’s family, Margharita,” Damiano explained patiently. “And the Papal court is well enough known in la Federazione to have rid most of us of our illusions about it. In England it may be deemed that these are wise and holy men, wrestling Satan for the benefit of the souls of the devout, but in Italia, we know that power is a more potent intoxicating than wine, and that the Church draws ambitious men as the moon draws the tides.”

  “But the Pope is the voice of God on earth,” Margaret protested. She touched the golden crucifix at her throat as if to ward off danger.

  “He is also Giulio de’ Medici in a nest of della Roveres and Farneses and Colonnas, all of whom have reason to want the Papacy for themselves, and all of whom wield enormous temporal power.” Damiano gazed down at her. “The Church, my dear, owns a great deal. She has land and ships and houses and treasure. She is very rich in a way that no nation can be rich. A nation must send soldiers to protect her people, must concern herself with their lives, but the Church need only promise the hope of Paradise and collect tithes as tributes.”

  “That’s heresy!” Margaret got to her feet. “I have read the writings of Clement. He is a good man, worthy of his elevation and firm in his faith.” Her voice had gone up as her excitement grew.

  “How much I wish,” Damiano sighed as he took Margaret’s hand, “that I had only to make elegant speeches on valor and honor to have those virtues appear in the men around me. His Holiness discusses faith, and his followers kneel in awe and ask nothing more than the words. He is protected by his pomp as surely as he would be by stone walls and incantations.”

  Alessandra shook her finger at il Primàrio. “You’re a cynic, de’ Medici.” Her hands were full of white linen and her words were muffled because of the pins held in her mouth.

  “No, Donna Alessandra,” he said in a tone so quiet with pain that the room was still, “I am not cynical—I’m frightened.” He released Margaret’s hand. “I will miss you, Margharita. More than you know, I would like to take issue with my Papal cousin over you and your family, but it’s not possible. The risks are too great.” He turned away and motioned to Lodovico. “Spare me a little of your time, good poet. I need to clear my mind of politics.”

  “Go on,” Alessandra said, motioning her husband toward the door. “Margharita and I don’t have much chance to talk together, and I’m sure you would not want to hear what we say about you.”

  Passing her chair, Lodovico patted Alessandra’s arm fondly. “You’re very good to me,” he whispered.

  “Go on, go on,” she ordered him brusquely, smiling with pleasure.

  The road along the back of the extensive gardens was little more than a gardener’s track; dusty, rutted and maintained only by the passage of gardeners to and from the newly planted orchard. Damiano walked slightly ahead of Lodovico, occasionally holding an untrimmed branch so that it would not snap back at Lodovico. “I hope that we won’t be overheard here,” Damiano said when they had gone some distance from the Palazzo Pitti.

  “Trees and bushes have no ears,” Lodovico said, thinking it was silly to put it that way. He watched Damiano, concerned. The line between il Primàrio’s brows was cut deeper, more permanently into his forehead and the downward turn of his mouth was becoming habitual. His laughter was shorter, harsher than before and there was a restlessness about him that increased daily. Lodovico had thought at first that he had imagined the furtiveness that had come into the Firenze court, but he realized now that it was more severe than he had known. Here in the warm afternoon sun with the wind full of rosemary and blown roses it was easy to forget the treachery that soiled everything, like a lingering odor of decay.

  Damiano stepped to the side of the path, down a little-used and partially-overgrown series of stones that gave access to a little creekbed, dry now, but i
n winter filled by rain. Balanced on two stones was a weathered plank that served as a bridge when one was needed. Heedless of his pleated linen farsetto cut in the short-waisted Flemish style, with rosettes for buttons, he sank onto the wide, dusty board, his melon hose and canions scraping on the splinters. “Come. Sit beside me. I don’t imagine we’ll be disturbed here.”

  Lodovico obeyed, listening to the board groan with some trepidation. “Why must we be so secretive?” he asked. He could feel his new silk leggings snag and run as the plank bent a little under their weight.

  “Do I seem unreasonable to you, to sneak away from my own house and cower in the back garden? My house is filled with spies and the friends of my enemies.” He fingered at the gravel in the creekbed. “I don’t know who among them may be trusted. I thought I did once, but I am no longer certain.”

  It was foolish to deny this and Lodovico did not make the attempt. He fingered his wilting embroidered collar, searching his thoughts for words of comfort, and found none. “There has been more trouble?”

  “Yes.” Damiano stared at his rose-colored boots. “I’ve been trying for weeks to discover which of my staff are in the pay of my cousin, and so far I have found only three. Yet there have to be more. The contents of my letters from Sir Thomas are known to Cosimo and Foscari, and the letter I had from Sforza might as well have been cried through the streets.” He rubbed his hands briskly, as if to rid them of dust. “I spoke with Margharita about this, and she has admitted that she has not been as careful with her father’s letters as she might be. That is a remarkable woman,” he went on in another voice. “I wish there were time to know her better. But my cousin has other plans, and I must accommodate him.”

  Never before had Lodovico heard such bitterness from Damiano. He shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t you object?”

  “And play into Cosimo’s hands? What I told Margharita was the truth. With Cosimo in my place, Giulio would have control of all la Federazione, and that’s a great temptation. Italian armies could then be sent to quell the Spanish, and the French would have to cooperate. All that is needed is that I be gone. I have treaties and agreements with these countries. If I approach France for soldiers, Genova will secede from la Federazione. The Pope can force Genova to tolerate the situation, using the threat of excommunication if necessary. He can order the ships of Venezia and Napoli to sink all English vessels. He can cancel the importing agreements with the German States, all with the might of the Chair of San Piero. I can only appeal to reason and sense.” He pushed himself off the board.

  “Damiano,” Lodovico said after a moment, “are you truly convinced it is hopeless?” He could feel the blood pound in his ears as he asked.

  “No.” He walked a few steps down the dry creekbed. “If I truly believed that the cause was lost, I would stand aside and let the old rivalries and feuds break out again. Italia at war would put half the Cardinales in Roma at one another’s throats. Clemente would have no time for France or Spain or the German States. Italia would be fragmented into principalities and petty states again, and at the mercy of the rest of Europe. Cosimo could have Firenze then. I’ve lost my sons and my wife to this city, this country. How many friends do I have, aside from you? Benci? Margharita?”

  “But you’re doing nothing,” Lodovico said. “What good is it to indulge in self-pity if it leads you to defeat?” He had not meant to be harsh with Damiano, for he sensed the suffering that festered in the man before him. The sharpness of his voice surprised him, and he was saddened by the coldness Damiano assumed.

  “Self-pity? Does it seem that way?” As he turned away, he put his hands to his eyes. “Who is doing this Lodovico? Who? Benci has his men everywhere. He brings me reports daily, and yet I am no closer to knowing than before. Must I beg you to listen to me? Then I beg you.” Now his words were harsh. “I love la Federazione. If I were convinced my death would guarantee her survival, then I would die gratefully. I would,” he vowed, dropping his hands to his side and meeting Lodovico’s eyes unflinchingly. “But to have lost so much already and to lose la Federazione as well…” Must it come to that? Dio mio, if I could only walk away from it. If I could watch it all and never know anguish.”

  Lodovico had not doubted Damiano’s dedication or sincerity, but hearing him now, in this desolate place, he was moved by his friend’s courage. It was not the threat of battle, but the unending refusal to be defeated that marked Damiano’s struggle. For Damiano there was no glory, no trumpets and laurels, only the precarious survival of his beloved Federazione. He stood up and put his hand on Damiano’s shoulder. “I’m not much of an ally. My mind is in the clouds more hours of the day than it is on this earth. I do not understand the devious ways of political men. But I will, I promise you with my soul, Damiano, do all that I can to aid you, and will stand by you as long as you will have me there.”

  Damiano put his hand over Lodovico’s. “I could not wish for better beside me,” he said, kissing Lodovico’s cheeks as he would a belted and titled military commander.

  La Fantasia

  Pinpoints of light moved through the forest; a whispering, rustling, murmuring sibilation accompanied the light. The army of Nuova Genova, of Cérocchi, Pau Attan, Cicora, Cica Omini, Cesapichi, and Onaumanient with the men of Giagaia and Annouaigho was on its night march.

  Falcone was in the van on foot, leading the magnificent sorrel charger he would ride in battle the next day. Beside him Lodovico marched, his hand holding Bellimbusto’s reins. The hippogryph was anxious to take wing and occasionally pulled restively at his bridle. On the other side of Falcone, Massamo Fabroni led his destrier and two pack mules. He had donned his breastplate and had his sword buckled into place. Several paces behind them, six Cérocchi soldiers carried a litter in which rode their high priest, Cifraaculeo, silent and remote, lost in those reaches beyond the world and senses.

  Lungobraccio was between the litter and Falcone, and he bore, as did many of the warriors, a basket of woven reeds in which a duck rested. So far the walk had been quiet. Messages were passed regularly down the ranks of warriors. These were given in murmured code words at specific intervals in the hope that such precautions would make it more difficult for the forces of Anatrecacciatore to penetrate what few defenses they had.

  The ground had been rising gently for some time and the river marsh was left behind. Now the path grew steeper and there were outcropping of stones that thrust up between the trees, blocking the advancing army. Falcone gestured for a halt and signaled for a hurried consultation with his captains. He stood with Lodovico while the word was passed, and was relieved when, shortly thereafter, the leaders of the fighting companies came silently through the night to hear him.

  “We will have to go in single file, I fear,” Falcone said. “Ariosto has suggested that we move in five columns. That way, no one man will be exposed to the full might of the enemy if we are discovered. We will also be able to move more swiftly in five columns than in one. We must be careful to see that our swordsmen are ahead of our spearmen, and that they are ahead of the archers. That way, if we must, we can take up our fighting positions without endangering our own men more than they are endangered already.” He gave Lodovico a swift look and was pleased with the confirming nod. “Lungobraccio, you will take the southernmost column. Nembosanguinoso will have the next one. I will lead the middle column, Massamo Fabroni will be at the head of his own company of Lanzi, and Ariosto will take the northernmost column. We will have to be certain that there are ducks enough in each column, for it would be an easy thing for Anatrecacciatore to send his spies and reanimated dead among us while we are in columns. The ducks may be able to give us sufficient warning.” He had kept his voice low as he gave his orders, and now his words dropped to a whisper. “Also, assign a priest and a wizard to be at the front and the rear of a line. What the ducks cannot perceive, they may be able to.”

  Lungobraccio turned his head toward the litter that bore Cifraaculeo. “And him? What of him?”
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br />   “We will carry him. It is a risk we cannot avoid,” Falcone said, the worried expression on his handsome features at odds with the cool authority of his words. “If we leave him behind, he will be in great danger, from wild beasts as well as Anatrecacciatore. You say that he is vulnerable now, and I will not dispute it, but I would prefer to have him where I can see him than to leave him and not know what has become of him. He has power we overlook at our peril.” The young Prince was standing very straight, his bone-and-bead breastplate shining faintly in the subdued light from the lanterns. He hooked his thumb around the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

  “What if he is being used by Anatrecacciatore at this moment?” Nembosanguinoso growled under his breath.

  “It’s possible,” Lodovico said, speaking up for the first time. “But both Nebbiamente and Lincepino say that such is not the case. Fumovisione has surrounded Cifraaculeo with charms and enchantments to protect him from any more of Anatrecacciatore’s malice. If there were not a battle to fight, the wizards and priests would be able to save Cifraaculeo from the grip of the force that binds him now.”

  “I don’t like it,” Nembosanguinoso said forthrightly, and a few of the captains agreed with him.

  “Neither do I,” Falcone cut in. “We haven’t the luxury of choice now. I will give orders that Cifraaculeo is to be carried in my column, so that if there is danger, I will bear the brunt of it, and I will have him in the middle of the line. It will be more difficult for changes to occur unnoticed if he is there.”

  As the lantern lights flickered, the captains looked at each other, and at last accepted the ruling of Falcone. Each voiced his assent, and each turned to pass word to his troops of the change in marching.

  One man remained behind. He was the Cicora, Nettocchio, whose companion Accettafosco Lodovico had pulled from the sucking mud. He stood before Lodovico and Falcone, indecision on his face. “Prince, I have to ask this of you.”