“I have to show this princess to her new palazzo,” Lorenzo said. “Then we’re ready for a game of calcio!” He strode off with many men following him and congratulating him on the bird’s beauty and skill. I turned to Leonardo.
“How do you play calcio?” I said. Leonardo clapped his hand over his mouth, giggling.
“You’ve never played?”
“Who has time for games when there’s money to earn, to stave off starvation and misfortune, ruin, abomination, and death?” I demanded. I’d never liked games since Massimo, my old friend from the street, had sold me to Bernardo Silvano. I knew how seriously people took competition, even when it purported to be for entertainment.
“Easy, easy, professore,” Leonardo said, with a quieting motion of his hands. “Calcio is a simple game. There’s a leather ball, and you get it over the other team’s line; that’s a caccie. You run with the ball or pass it to someone else to run with. You can kick it, too.”
“Sounds simple,” I agreed. “What are the rules?”
“What do you mean, rules? You get the ball over the other team’s line. But you have to do it skillfully. If you make a bad attempt, that’s half a caccie for the other team.”
“So how do you get the ball over the other team’s line?”
“Any way you can.” Leonardo shrugged.
“YOU’RE ON MY TEAM, of course, I must have men of forza around me,” Lorenzo said cheerfully, tossing me a green lucco. The other team’s color was white. “I must see for myself some of that bastard mettle that Nonno praised, and use it as well as he did!” So that was the test. How well I play for him. I didn’t like it one bit, not the test, and not the intention behind it. If I proved myself worthy, Lorenzo would press me into service; my freedom of choice would be limited. If I proved unworthy, he’d discard me, rescinding the protection I had long enjoyed from his grandfather. Neither outcome appealed to me.
“Give a lucco verde to my comrade Neri here,” I responded, jerking my thumb at the lad. Lorenzo gave Neri one of his lightning-fast scans.
“Reinforcements,” he said. “Clever.” He threw another green tunic to me. I motioned to Neri, who was sucking on a blade of grass and standing in a patch of sun with Leonardo. Neri gave me a big lazy grin and shambled over. I tossed the lucco and he shucked off his torn and patched farsetto and slipped it on. I, too, doffed my farsetto and pulled on the green lucco.
“You have a real nice camicia. I hope you don’t love it as much as you love your horse. You want Ginori kept nice and clean,” Neri said earnestly. “Everyone’s camicie get ripped up and torn off during calcio.”
“Have you played before?” I asked. He brightened.
“Sure, lots of times. I’m real good,” he said. “I don’t get hurt easy because I’m so big!”
“So what are the rules?”
He scratched his shaggy head. “You have to get the ball over the line for a caccie.” He pointed to a chest-high wooden fence that ran the full width at each end of the field, a flat expanse cleared of grass behind the villa.
“I gather that,” I said, between clenched teeth. I saw wooden benches being placed around the sides of the field under colorful, beribboned tents. Babbling women in festive dress, whooping children, and jabbering old men were streaming from the house and grounds to take seats. I was surprised to see so many people gather during the plague. A throaty cheer went up and Cosimo was hobbling out. Contessina held one arm and a short man in his thirties held the other. Cosimo raised his hand in greeting. He caught my eye and waved. I asked Neri, “How exactly is a caccie accomplished?”
“There are two teams of twenty-seven men,” Lorenzo answered. He gestured for the greens to gather around him. He introduced me only as “Luca” to the other Verdi, many of whom had old noble names. Lorenzo explained, “The object of calcio is to get the ball over the other team’s line. You can run with it, throw it, kick it, or pass it to another player. You have to avoid the other team’s defensive players, who will try to block you any way they can: by knocking you down, punching you, kicking you, anything.”
“Anything?” I asked.
Lorenzo touched his misshapen nose. “How do you think I did this?” He winked. “You’re not afraid, are you, Bastardo? After all I’ve heard about you from Nonno? Or is it that you reserve your courage for him?”
“The only honor is in winning,” I answered dryly. The Verdi around me cried, “Bravo!” and clapped me on the back. Lorenzo winked, having caught the irony, but also nodded.
“You’re my kind of calcio player,” he said. “Tough and determined. Nothing matters to me more than winning. I keep men who help me achieve that close beside me.” He leaned his mouth close to my ear, so only I could hear his words. “And those who can’t help me win are given away.” He looked pointedly at the Bianchi, and I turned to follow his gaze. I saw a lean young man run onto the field to join the game. He was obviously wealthy and well liked by the other nobles, who were teasing him about his late arrival. Then the young man turned around, and my stomach dropped. There was the face that haunted my nightmares: a bladelike nose over a pointed and jutting chin. I whipped back around before he could meet my eyes. I knew in my bones that the Silvano clan would remember me.
“Pietro Silvano,” I whispered, with my windpipe closing up.
“I’m glad to hear you understand the stakes,” Lorenzo said.
“FORZA VERDI!” cried some of the spectators, while others screamed, “Forza Bianchi!” Giuliano de’ Medici, Lorenzo’s handsome and precocious brother, captained the whites. He was a few years Lorenzo’s junior and he strutted around, blowing kisses to the women, who giggled. One fat matron stood up and called out something about the skinny shape of his legs in his hose, and Giuliano cupped his crotch at her, which elicited much laughter and hooting. Lorenzo rolled his eyes. He wasn’t one to waste time grandstanding, but instead barked out instructions. He assigned me to defense and told Neri to receive passes. Then a drum rolled and a trumpet sounded a fanfare, and an expectant hush fell over the spectators. The players took their places on the field. I stood in back, noting where Pietro Silvano was and resolving to stay away from him. The sport was gone from the game, which no longer felt like a game to me.
A youth in a green lucco carrying a green flag took his place in front of the wooden fence at one end of the field, and a white-lucco-clad, white-flag-carrying youth did the same thing at the other end, marking each team’s line. There were sly cries for them to hold their flagpoles higher to make their teams proud, which caused them to blush. The trumpet sounded three quick blasts. A portly referee with a plumed hat tossed the ball into the air, and mayhem broke out.
Lorenzo was taller than Giuliano and, naturally, willing to jump higher and hit harder to get his hands on the ball. He batted it toward a green player, and men exploded in running patterns all over the field. I ran toward Lorenzo, intending to clear Bianchi from his path, as I guessed defensive players were supposed to do. Neri followed, and two Bianchi tackled me. I hit the ground hard and was pummeled without mercy. Fortunately, Neri had seen me go down. The two Bianchi went flying off me, and Neri grinned.
“You’re supposed to do that to the Bianchi,” he hollered, so I’d hear him over the uproar of players calling to each other and spectators screaming.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I yelled, wiping blood off my lip. Neri sprinted off, and I looked around for Lorenzo, Silvano, or the ball. It was a mistake to linger, because the next thing I knew a Bianchi was diving at me from the air. He hit me and we rolled over and over on the ground. This time I didn’t let myself get pinned. I brought my knee up between the man’s thighs, hard; he squealed and rolled off me. I leapt up and ran in a zigzag pattern. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but it was better to move quickly than to stand around and get tackled again. Silvano ran at me but veered off in another direction. The next thing I knew, the leather ball flew at me. I caught it hard in the stomach. The wind left my body and my eye
s felt as if they were going to pop out, but I didn’t stop running. I clutched the ball to my chest and looked around for someone to pass it to. Neri was kicking men off somebody. I continued running in an eccentric pattern, and then Lorenzo, lucco torn and blood on his face, hopped up from the ground by Neri. Lorenzo waved. I threw the ball as hard as I could at him. It was heavy, but he caught it squarely and was running even before he’d brought it all the way into his solar plexus.
Four whites threw themselves at Lorenzo, but I dove in to trip them. Lorenzo burst free, closed in on the line, and threw the ball over. Cheers erupted, and the drum rolled again as the trumpet and horns blasted another fanfare.
We set up again, and I stayed in back, noting where Silvano was on the other side of the field. His white lucco was ripped and he had blood on his face, as most of us did. I wanted to approach him from behind and knock him out without him seeing me.
The referee tossed up the ball again. Again mayhem broke out. This time I knew better than to loiter. Four Bianchi closed in on me. Now they were mad because I’d aided in a caccie. I used every trick I’d ever learned as a street urchin and a condottiere to elude them as well as stay out of Silvano’s line of sight. Still, a Bianchi barreling at me from behind grabbed my arm and spun me around like a top. I stumbled into the group of Bianchi, who threw me down, leapt on me, and flailed away at my face and ribs. It felt like forever but it was probably only a few moments before Bianchi were being heaved off me like bags of grain being tossed off a pile. I hopped to my feet, punching out with my fist at a Bianchi. I caught him in his nose, which exploded in a shower of bright scarlet blood. The man went down clutching a fistful of the ribbons of my tunic. Trusty Neri was panting as he stood next to Lorenzo.
“You’re learning,” Lorenzo sang. Then he and Neri were off again, sprinting out at angles from each other, and I dove at a Bianchi who’d stumbled to his feet.
Another cheer went up, and this time the Bianchi had scored a caccie. The trumpet sounded, the referee whipped his hat off at the Bianchi, and the white-flag bearer ran down the field with Bianchi players falling in behind him. Most of the players bore crimson stains on their white lucchi, and many men wore no lucco or camicia at all, as they’d been torn off. Silvano was one of these shirtless men, standing in front, close to Giuliano. He appeared not to have seen or recognized me. I slunk back behind some of the Verdi. Leonardo gestured to Lorenzo. Only magical Leonardo could have commanded him thus, because Lorenzo trotted over and bent close to the boy’s golden head to listen. Leonardo gesticulated and Lorenzo nodded, and then Lorenzo ran out to talk to Neri and a few other Verdi. They huddled together, and then the trumpet sounded for us to take up our positions on the field.
The referee tossed up the ball, and Lorenzo crouched instead of jumping, which allowed Giuliano to bat the ball. Young Giuliano didn’t expect to lay hands on the ball. He hit it badly. It sputtered to the ground and Lorenzo grabbed it, ran directly into the Bianchi, and then swiveled to throw the ball to Neri, who had burst out alongside him, plowing down Bianchi as a bull might knock over sheep. Neri didn’t hold the ball but dropped it in front of himself and kicked it in midair. It was a great feat of strength because the ball was heavy, and it arced into the air and landed in the waiting arms of a fast Verdi who was close to the Bianchi line. The Verdi quickly tossed the ball over the line, and the crowds roared. Another caccie for Verdi, and this one on the very heels of the Bianchi caccie. Lorenzo gave Leonardo a thumbs-up, and the cheeky boy grinned and swept his hand out in an elaborate bow. Even then I knew I was watching the birth of a friendship. I wondered if, instead of taking up my own destiny, I was facilitating the destinies of other men in returning to Florence. What had I let myself in for?
Later—I lost track of time in the brutality of the game and in the necessity of staying out of Pietro Silvano’s view—the score was four–four. I was bruised and spattered with blood, mostly from other men. One of my ribs was cracked, but, as always, I’d given as good as I’d got. The man who’d cracked my rib had limped off the field with a broken arm. The Bianchi had just scored a caccie and Lorenzo looked over at Leonardo, who was standing beside the seated Cosimo. Leonardo ran out from under the tent. Lorenzo went to him, and they conversed, with Leonardo pointing at me. Lorenzo waved me over.
“You play offense now,” he said tersely.
“What? I don’t know how. It was luck that I passed you the ball for the first caccie,” I said in dismay. “I’m just trying to keep from getting thrashed every play!”
“Stand up front on my left. I’ll send the ball your way.”
“In front? Are you joking? The Bianchi will kill me! They’re mad about the guy’s arm I broke!”
“The guy is Leopetto Rossi, scion of one of the oldest, richest families in Florence, and he’s going to marry my sister Maria,” Lorenzo said, with a sideways look. Just as the rest of us were, he was nicked and bruised all over. He wore the blood with superb indifference, like a triumphant war horse, and plunged into the heart of the action with every play, eliciting cries of “Bravo, Lorenzo!” from the women and old men. I think he would have been humiliated not to be bloodied and bruised. He might have looked indifferent to his own position. It was what he feared more than anything.
“Yeah, your rich brother-in-law has a lot of friends, and they’re all out to get me now,” I said grimly. I hoped the enmity I’d engendered during this game wouldn’t linger.
“It’s not personal”—Lorenzo squeezed my shoulder affectionately—“it’s calcio.”
“What about Silvano?” I retorted in a low voice, so no one else could hear.
“Don’t worry about that letter his family has.” Lorenzo shrugged. I started and Lorenzo smiled crookedly. “Nonno confides in me, too, Bastardo. But victory requires sacrifices, yes? When the referee throws up the ball, run forward and expect it. You’ll be a hero for my team!” The trumpet blared, and everyone took their places. I ran up front near Lorenzo, as ordered, and the man whose position I took grinned and ran back. Several Bianchi saw me, including Pietro Silvano, who shared a smile with the others. My heart sank. I was going to get pounded. Worse, I was going to be recognized. If I survived the pounding, I would find myself carted off to be burned at the stake by Pietro Silvano and the Confraternity of the Red Feather. The referee tossed the ball into the air and Lorenzo leapt for it. I charged into the Bianchi line. A dozen of them tackled me. The air was crushed out of my lungs. I fought with no hope of freeing myself from the scrum atop me, and even less chance of laying my hands on the ball. Then, at the bottom of a heaving, punching mass of bodies, I realized that I wasn’t supposed to get the ball. That was never the plan. I was supposed to do exactly what I had done: run into the Bianchi line, distract them. I had been used. Worse, I had let myself be used, despite all the times over my long life that I had promised myself that would never happen again. Lorenzo de’ Medici did not care for other men’s vows to themselves and their Gods. Staying in Florence for Cosimo, I put myself in the position to be a pawn for his ruthless grandson.
The trumpet blazed out a fanfare; Leonardo’s plan had worked: the Verdi had scored. Then the trumpet and drums rolled out together, signaling the end of the game. The two Bianchi on the bottom of the pile closest to me kept pinching me, and another Bianchi dug his elbows into my knee. Anger flushed through me. I wrapped my hands around a nearby throat and squeezed. It wasn’t Pietro Silvano’s throat, but he was close, perhaps in the pile on top of me, which lent vicious strength to my hands. The man writhed but couldn’t speak. Bodies shifted off me and then someone grabbed my arms and jerked my hands off the Bianchi’s throat. He rolled over and lay on the ground, cursing hoarsely and stroking his bruised windpipe. A number of Bianchi knelt over him, including Silvano, who had his back to me. Neri and Lorenzo stood above me.
“Easy, professore,” Lorenzo warned, reaching down to help me to my feet. “This is a friendly game! We’re not killing anyone today, especially not Francesco de’
Pazzi.”
“Then I’ll save that for another day,” I growled.
Lorenzo’s dynamic eyes danced. “Cheer up, you’re a hero! The Verdi won!”
“Because I took the front and drew off a dozen Bianchi,” I said angrily.
“A cunning sacrifice. You’re none the worse for the wear, and you’ll have a dozen invitations from the ladies tonight!” exclaimed Lorenzo.
“I would have liked to know I was being used!” I snapped. I looked over at Leonardo, who was cheering from the sidelines, and shook my finger at him. He giggled and clapped his hands and danced around, enchanted by my anger. Cosimo caught my eye and clasped his hands over his head again, calling “Bravo, Luca!”
“We knew you’d figure it out, Leonardo and me. I’m interested in that young man,” Lorenzo said, softly but fiercely. “He’s quite unusual!” Then the Verdi team swarmed around us, laughing and clapping me on the back. Lorenzo let the men embrace him and enthusiastically joined in the congratulations. I lost track of him when the Bianchi streamed through the grouped Verdi and everyone embraced and kissed. I backed away. I was in no mood for what would have been fake goodwill on my part. I didn’t want to risk coming face-to-face with Pietro Silvano.
“Well played, Luca Bastardo.” Cosimo laughed. Leonardo, no fool, saw me coming and hid hastily behind Cosimo’s chair. Cosimo reached trembling, gray hands out to take mine. “Well done, old friend! A bold, brave move on your part, that final charge into the very heart of the Bianchi that allowed the Verdi to defeat the Bianchi!”
“That was my idea,” Leonardo said from behind Cosimo’s chair. “Wasn’t that an excellent strategy?”
“Indeed, Leonardo, we must have a discussion about the art of strategy,” I said grimly.
“You can talk about strategy and art later.” Cosimo laughed. “Come, Luca, here is one of my dear friends, the leader of the Platonic Academy—which is the finest philosophical institution in the world—the many-talented scholar, physico, musician: Marsilio Ficino!” A short, slim man a little hunched in his shoulders stepped up and bowed to me.
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