Then suddenly, at the height of summer, the talk ceased. The citizens clustered in apprehension on street corners and under inn signs; the Neapolitan forces had surged northward in one dreadful sweep, pillaging and burning. News came that they had taken the town of Arriccio, only a few days' march distant, and at last the danger was more than an unlikely rumor.
Almost overnight, Fidena became a city in terror—soldiers and condottieri crowded its streets, tradesmen neglected their work, and farmers abandoned their crops for the safety of its grim walls. It had been a fortress for close on three hundred years, this city, a Raffaelle stronghold long before there were dukes in Cabria. It was unthinkable that it should fall while the della Raffaelle themselves were at the palazzo. I heard it time out of mind in those fear-filled days—from passersby in the street, from the topers who stayed talking in the innyard and never thought to look up. From that high, narrow room above the gateway, with coaches and horsemen rattling by under my very feet, I heard all the bustling sounds of the world thrown into confusion.
As for Celia, not even for the prospect of war would she relax her vigilance over me; when she saw how people were beginning to throng the inn, she took greater pains than ever to keep me out of sight. Now my tasks were in the scullery or in the stillroom, or if all else failed, she would shut me in my room to do the sewing I hated. For me, every hour of those days of uncertainty was crowded, and in a way I was grateful, for it left me little time to think. It was only at night as I tossed restlessly in the stuffy little attic room, listening to the creak of the Eagle sign as it swung to and fro outside my window, that my thoughts could run free, piecing together the meaningless scraps of conversation I heard and fighting the wall of despair which threatened to imprison me more surely than all Celia's stratagems.
It was on one such night that I first heard Beniamino's voice.
There was talk that the duke had called for troops to send against the invader, and certainly the streets were spilling over with soldiers, brawling, rioting, filling the taverns by night, but by day harsh guardians of the duke's peace who had orders to disperse any crowd and could hang any man they chose. Antonio fawned to them, welcoming their custom; but it was out of fear, for always the old dread of the duke's men hushed men's voices and quickened their steps when the black-clad riders passed.
Beniamino was a captain in the duke's army and came every night to the Eagle. I never knew his right name—only that he was Beniamino, because that was what they shouted to bring him in again. All I ever really knew about him was the sound of his voice.
It was an odd voice—husky, grating, with a slight lisping accent—and at first I could not understand what he was saying. I strained my ears to the slurring, wine-soaked drawl rising out of the night, and at last I stole out of bed and across to the shuttered window to hear him better.
No one who has not heard it will believe how often drinking companions will choose an innyard to talk secrets. In their care not to be overheard in the taproom, they will stagger out into the night air and talk of state and politics in voices that anyone might hear. Beniamino's words came to me clearly as I knelt in the dark with my cheek pressed against the rough wooden shutter.
He was talking fluently of what he would do if he had command of the Cabrian army, and his companion was trying to hush him, as though such free speech made him nervous. Small wonder, for among the plans of greater and more glorious battles to come jostled scraps of information about the wars now in hand.
"Old Carlo wants us to think we're fighting Naples," Beniamino said and giggled. "As if s not common knowledge that Naples is King Philip's footboy and will stab at his bidding!"
"Quiet! 'Snot safe to talk of it." His companion sounded uneasy.
"I know—the duke will have my tongue. And my eyes, and everything else too, belike, he is so tender of the duchess's reputation. Well, he would have a hot wife after those two cold cows he wedded first, and see where his lust has brought him!"
"Peace, for God's sake! We will both hang!"
"As well hang as have to die in such a cause, I say." There was a tinge of recklessness in Beniamino's tone. "What, be killed in resolving old Carlo's household strifes—because Madam Gratiana seeks in other men's beds what the old lecher can no longer give her himself?"
There was a scuffle, as though the other man jerked away.
" 'M going—going in. I will—will not hear you."
"What's there to fear? I speak what you know already— Duke Carlo took a Spanish bride with the face of a parrot and the habits of a goat to comfort his royal bed. And when he found out what tricks she was playing him, as half Cabria knew long since—"
"Speak softer! The guards..."
"—he scolded her so roundly, and in public too, that she set her kinsman Philip's lapdog of Naples to get her revenge with this war."
"You are raving. What revenge could sh'have by setting Naples at our throats?"
Beniamino giggled again. "Oh, Luigi! Luigi, you know as well as I! Gratiana wants her widowhood and treasure to pay for her foining—she could never come by it else. It takes a plain wench to cool old Carlo; he's hot enough for any woman who is but young and fresh."
With a noise like a grunt of fear Luigi pulled himself from Beniamino's grasp, and I heard his unsteady footsteps pattering back towards the taproom. Beniamino chuckled and then, with a sigh, followed him slowly and carefully.
I stayed still in the dark, my own disquiet forgotten. In my inmost heart I had always believed the teachings of the Church, that war was the instrument of God; the deaths that followed in its train were part of His will, and to fear any battle was a sign of a want of faith. That a war could be rooted in men's own actions and fought for selfish and petty ends not worth a drop of any soldier's blood seemed to me then like a glimpse into an undreamed-of abyss.
The next day I hardly noticed how hard I worked or what was said to me. My mind was too full of what I had learned, and all day I lived with the desperate hope that somehow I might learn more. Celia must have thought me blockish, for I moved through the day's tasks with a stolid patience that no gibe of hers could spark into retort.
That night Beniamino was back with a new drinking companion and a fresh piece of news. The duke was preparing to go with his troops to drive out the invaders.
"Taking his sons," Beniamino said. "Both sons. Two. Dukes and little dukes all over the battlefield."
"Sandra's not a duke." Beniamino's friend was nearly as drunk as he was. "He's a bastard."
"He's a glorious bastard. A real experienced soldier. I love him. 'Sworth ten of his fancy brother."
"Ssh! 'S Domenico that's heir to the throne. And got command of the right flank."
"He got it because he's a della Raffaelle. Show him an enemy—just one—and you won't see him for dust. I swear he only agreed to come so's he'd be near the handsome soldiers."
"No." There was a sudden note of fear in the other man's voice. "He does not run, Beniamino. I served under him in Genoa when old Carlo sent us out against the Hapsburgs, and he's afraid of nothing."
"If he had a good second-in-command—"
"He would have none. I tell you..."
"No. Don't tell me of him." Beniamino was breathing heavily. "With any luck he'll be killed, and my blessings on the Spanisher who can do it."
"That's treasonous talk. How has young Domenico served you ill?"
There was a pause, then Beniamino whispered something I could not hear. I caught only the words "my little brother" and then the other man spoke again, owlish and considering.
"I always heard he was one for a wench. In the guardroom they say any woman is good enough for him—once—same as his father and brother."
Beniamino made a gagging sound. "I care not; he can take a toad to bed with him if he will. But I say he is no fit soldier! Carlo's mad to risk so many men under an untried general. Thank the saints I serve on the left, under good old Sandro! He'll see his soldiers through. It's a crime he's not
the heir when he's five years older than that... brother of his."
" 'S a bastard," his friend observed wisely, "can't succeed."
"He would if that silver devil died." Beniamino turned. "Come on, I want to drink bad luck to Domenico. Perhaps he'll be killed before his men are all slaughtered."
Two days after that, Beniamino was gone with the rest of Duke Carlo's army, leaving Fidena yawning empty of the soldiers who had hurried like black ants through the fever-hot streets. Those who were left went about their business with heavy hearts, and now and again I heard the duchess's name on someone's tongue like a curse.
Those were the waiting days, the hot days, when Fidena brooded as though it awaited some monstrous birth, and everyone was at once impatient and fearful. The city was cloaked in an uneasy quiet. Days passed without news from the border, and rumors began to buzz again like angry mosquitoes; but now Antonio cared little, for the citizens came flocking in day after day to exchange the latest tidings and drink to the duke's success. His sullen look was gone now—if Cabria was on the brink of disaster, it was not his concern, so long as he made money.
It was a week later that news came; I was helping Celia in the kitchen when, midway through the morning, the couriers came galloping in at the southern gates of the city and cried the news through the streets. All we heard was the noise of hooves and a confused shouting; then a roar went up from the street outside, and Antonio went running out of doors like a madman. Celia and I ran after him to the door, united for once in a common astonishment.
In the street Antonio was fighting his way through the crowd, his bulk forcing a passage towards the rider on the sweating chestnut horse. The man had drawn rein perforce—the crowd had grown too thick for him to move—and the press of yelling people was beginning to alarm the horse, who was fretting and shifting uneasily. The rider was shouting, but not a word of what he said could be heard above the din.
Antonio's fat hand closed on the horse's bridle—I saw the rider glance down, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, but then Antonio screamed something above the noise and tugged the horse's head around. The man sat still in the saddle as the beast began to turn, taking no notice now of the mob's questions, only ducking his head as he rode under the Eagle's gateway.
"Quick, wife!" Antonio's voice was hoarse with excitement. "Some wine for Duke Carlo's messenger!"
Celia turned to me. "Do as he says! And bid the servants be ready—if all these follow him to hear his news, our fortunes are made!"
I turned and ran with my head ringing from her impatient cuff. A jug of the best wine from the cellar and one of the new cups—and then I was in the taproom, gasping out orders for the potboys, and Celia was snatching the things from my hands to pour for the duke's messenger. The room was filling, more people crowding in at every moment, and I realized suddenly that I had been forgotten. I let myself be thrust back against the wall by the jostling crowd, praying that amid so many I could stay here unnoticed. Celia's eyes were only for the messenger, who had downed his wine in one gulp and was holding out his cup to be refilled. Without his helmet he looked far less forbidding; a young man with bright blue eyes in a face shining with sweat, pleased with the attention he was getting. As he drank again, I noticed the tapsters moving among the crowd, serving as best they could, so that even those who had come in from curiosity were having to pay to stay.
Fifty pairs of eyes at least followed the motion of the man's arm as he put down the cup and wiped his mouth; then someone called, "What's the news?"
At once the babel broke out afresh, every man clamoring for the latest tidings without waiting to hear them told. Antonio roared, "Silence, and let him speak!" and as the messenger rose to his feet, the shouting died away to an anxious muttering.
"What of Duke Carlo's army?" someone shouted.
"It was a great victory." The young man smiled around at the shout that greeted his words. "The enemy is driven back towards Naples, and our soldiers are on their way home again."
"Did they give battle?"
"When did it happen?"
"Has the duke regained Arriccio?"
"He will have done by this." The messenger looked at the last speaker. "He met with the enemy in the hills between Arriccio and Castle Fucino and so routed them that I doubt they will wait in Arriccio for his coming."
"Castle Fucino!" Celia shrieked. "The duke's own summer garrison! But that is only two days' march from here!"
The young man grinned. "You need not fear. The enemy is safely driven back. They got no further than five leagues north of Arriccio, and we were at their backs by then. The duke went beyond them and then turned short, meaning to fall upon their rear guard."
There was a murmur; some of the older men disliked the strategy, but the greater part were as breathless with impatience as I was.
"What happened?" The question came from a dozen throats. "It was where the road to Castle Fucino runs downhill and winds into the Sant' Angelo pass. We followed them so stealthily that they had no warning. The duke divided the army and placed himself and his men on the left and his son the lord Domenico and his forces on the right. They were to wait above and mop up the fliers after the lord Bastard—my lord Alessandro—had led a charge down the center."
He paused and took a gulp of wine. The whole room was hushed, waiting.
"It looked as though it would work at first. Lord Sandra's men came over the brow of the nearest hill and straight into the enemy's rear guard. They split and fled downhill, and it looked like a rout until one of those damned Spaniards rallied his men, and they took a stand among the rocks at the mouth of the pass. It brought Lord Sandra's men up short, because the pass was narrow and steep just there, and the Spaniards could not be swept away by another charge from before or behind."
Antonio moistened his lips. "What did the lord Bastard do?"
"Drove his men forward in any case. They were being slaughtered like prime cattle. Three hundred men and more dead, they say, but I came away before they were numbered."
I thought of Beniamino's tipsy faith in his commander and hoped that it had survived the fighting. Celia threw up her hands.
"Holy Mary, what a dreadful thing! How can you call that a victory?"
The messenger's grim face lightened. "It was so, in the end. The enemy was making sport with our men for so long that at last they would not rally for a fresh assault; they said it was hopeless and would not budge for all the Bastard's curses. We thought we were all lost—the Spanish were three times our number—but then the right wing started to move."
"The right wing!" I did not realize I had spoken until I heard my own voice. The messenger glanced round.
"Yes, without waiting for the duke's order. Lord Domenico charged his horse straight down on the enemy at the very mouth of the pass. The ground is so steep there, it is a miracle that he and the horse were not killed. But he slid most of the way in a hail of dust and stones and went for the enemy flank. As soon as his men saw it could be done, they charged down too, and the Spanish broke and fled. With horsemen dropping out of the sky like cannonballs, I dare swear they had had enough."
At that moment I caught Celia's eye and cursed my careless tongue. If only she would look away from me for an instant, I might be able to slip back to the kitchen in safety—but just as I began to draw back, the messenger took up his tale again, and I stood still, spellbound.
"They clawed their way up the other side of the pass, most of them, and ran straight into Duke Carlo's men. Some escaped to the north, but by then Lord Sandro was so choleric about his own part in the battle and being rescued by his own younger brother that he purged his anger by chasing the stragglers." He tossed the last of the wine down his throat. "I heard they chopped a man down as he hid in someone's vineyard, and Lord Sandro laughed and said the blood would make the vintage richer."
I shivered, less at the jest than at the crowd's ghoulish appreciation of it.
Celia said, "And now? Do the troops come back here
with the duke or return to their garrisons?"
The man shook his head. "I do not know. The battle was scarcely over when I came away—the duke sent six of us in haste to bring the news to the duchess, so that she would know he was safe."
Remembering all I had heard, I could not forbear smiling— more like the duke had sent the message to discomfort his detested wife and smash her hopes of revenge. Now the messenger was taking his leave; he had to make speed to the palazzo, he said, and proclaim the news as he went. Now was the time for me to be gone if I were to escape retribution. As softly as I could, I edged around the wall towards the nearest door; I could escape through it into the yard, and from there I could reach the kitchen. The click of the latch was drowned in the sound of farewells as I slipped outside and closed the door behind me.
Out in the street the shouting had died down, but one or two loiterers still waited by the gateway for news. I flinched from the curious stares and was about to run towards the kitchen door when a hand gripped my elbow from behind. I twisted quickly in the sticky grasp to find myself facing not Antonio, but a total stranger.
As soon as he spoke, I recognized his voice; he was one of the city merchants, a regular customer who cared more for the courtesans who traded in the Eagle than for Antonio's wine. I had often heard Celia complain of how little Messire Luzzato spent in an evening. His hazel eyes were glistening as he stared at me, and he was pursing his lips as though I were a sweetmeat he fancied.
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