Ariosto (2 page)

“You will have to change your garments, of course,” Benci informed him sweetly and unnecessarily. “Diplomatic receptions have always required full formal wear, or had you forgot?” “I haven’t.” They were precisely the kind of clothes that looked most incongruous with Lodovico’s rough-hewn features.

“Of course I must dress. I will not be long,” he said in a firmer voice as he got to his feet. He hoped that Alessandra had remembered to re-stitch the knot of pearls on his sleeve. It was bad enough that the garment was over four years old and looked every hour of it; to have the jewels falling off it would cause the kind of snickering he loathed. There was also, he recalled with a rush of embarrassment, a wine stain on the hose where clumsy servant had overset a tray at the last official reception. Perhaps he should rub wine on all of the stiff, slashed short pantaloons so that the mark would not be noticeable.

“We will begin in the loggia, so that the people will be able to watch il Primàrio receive the Englishmen.”

Why, Lodovico asked himself, does Benci insist on calling Damiano il Primàrio, as if they had never exchanged more than bows? He nodded, to show he had been paying attention, though the pattern of sunlight on the inlaid floor was more interesting to him. The light bands were so narrow and intense that they seemed solid, like long, cloudy crystals thrust in at the window. There was little movement of air in the room, so that the dust motes hung without motion in the stillness He turned various similes over in his mind: like topazes—trite. Like liquid butter—atrocious. Like the voices of bells and trumpets—perhaps. Like water from a golden spring—too precious. He sighed as the incomplete pictures jostled in his mind and the bars of light made a snail’s haste across the floor.

Benci’s voice reached him like the droning of a kitchen fly. “You will recite your verses there and then the entire train will move into the Grand Hall for the formal speeches. You will be called upon to read some of your own cantos after the meal. Perhaps the Orlando, though most of us have heard it before.” His tone was snide. “You’ve been working on something new—”

“It isn’t ready yet!” Lodovico said shortly. “I won’t foist unfinished work on Damiano’s guests.”

Benci nodded condescendingly. “Il Primàrio expects you to sit beside the ambassador’s secretary at the Great Table. That, of course, is the Chancellor, who is not here in his official capacity. We must be certain that we all remember this.”

The bars of sunlight were thinner now, and reminded him of the light through yellow autumn leaves, or the shine from new- minted coins. On the whole, he liked the leaf image better, but thought that there had to be a phrase that had more translucence. Church windows were much too obvious and overused. Lodovico had stopped listening to the sound of Andrea Benci’s voice. He had learned to endure this folly over the years, but he wondered what had become of those days when a distinguished poet like himself needed only a fine woolen lucco to wear for these occasions, for his genius was considered more important than brocades, or whom he sat beside at table. He rolled up the parchment sheets and turned to regard Andrea Benci with what superiority he could summon. “I will be ready shortly, you need not fear. You may inform Damiano that I will not fail him, or that cursed Ambassador with the impossible name. Wessex. Glennard. Sir Warford Pierpoint Edmund Glennard. By God’s Holy Wrath, what am I do to with that?” Without waiting for a response, he passed Andrea Benci and hurried from the study.

La Fantasia

They had feasted for the first part of the night, the Italians, the few Frenchmen, and the Cérocchi vying with one another in the sumptuousness of the foods presented. All the dishes were displayed by gorgeously liveried footmen. They carried each gigantic platter the length of the hall, held aloft, to the accompaniment of the musicians on the dais at the end of the huge room who twanged and tooted and thumped for each new gustatory temptation that was carried in for the diners’ approval.

Andrea Benci, in an outmoded and ill-fitting giornea, sat to Lodovico’s right and the Cérocchi Prince to his, left. Lodovico gave generous praise to the excellence of the food and its appearance. He tasted every dish set before him but his mind was already engaged with strategy for the defense of this city. The Fortezza Serpente was said to be dangerous and the men who owed fealty to its king were known for the fierceness of their wars and their scorn of pain.

“Honored Ariosto,” said the Cérocchi Prince with great care in his pronunciation, “those of my nation are eager to aid you against these vile intruders. The king of my people, my father, has asked me to tell you that all of our warriors and wizards are at your disposal to command. Your fame has come before you, and your splendid reputation. If Damiano de’ Medici himself had come to us, we could not be more contented.”

This expression of faith touched Lodovico deeply. It was a moment before he could answer. “Good Falcone,” he began at last, using the Italian form of the Prince’s name, “such a tribute coming from one so distinguished as you are is a great treasure. You may be certain that I will do all in my power to be worthy of your trust, though it cost me my life, which is a paltry thing, when all is said.” He took his cup and raised it to the Cerocchi Prince. “I pledge by this wine and by my honor that I will place you above my brother in my loyalty and affection so that together we may rid this magnificent land of the odious forces of the Serpente.” With a grand gesture, he tossed off all the wine in his cup.

Falcone reached to clasp him by the arm. His reserve, which was marked, had been set aside after Lodovico’s great oath. His dark eyes glowed in his wide face and the jewel set in the fillet on his brow seemed to grow brighter. “Superb warrior!” he exclaimed. “My friend.”

Their embrace was greeted by cheers from all those gathered at the feast. Even the servants raised their voices in approval, and two of the dogs scavenging under the long tables barked loudly enough to be heard over the commotion.

At last Lodovico turned to the assembly, his hands raised for silence. “Good friends! Citizens of Nuova Genova!” he shouted and waited for them to become quiet once again. “It is a fine thing to have such dedication, but it is better still if we remember that it is God Who will give us the victory, if we are worthy. Let us kneel and commend ourselves to His care for this venture.” Then, with profound humility, Lodovico rose from the table and went to the seat of the old bishop who served in the Cathedral of Santissimo Redentore There he knelt with enviable grace, and lowered head to be blessed.

The entire company followed his example, kneeling beside their chairs. Even the Cérocchi who attended the banquet listened in awe as the venerable Ambrosian priest pronounced his benediction in a surprisingly resonant voice. “You who will go among the servants of Satan,” he thundered in Latin, “and you will take with you the shining sword of the Archangel Michael, for as Michael triumphed over the Devil and bound him forever in Hell with the Might of God, even so you, with the power of virtue within you, will triumph over this vile spawn of sin.” He made the sign of the Cross over Lodovico, and then over the rest of the company.

The Cerocchi looked solemn, and the Italians went silent as they considered the dangers that waited them. One of the Frenchmen was seen to turn pale.

Lodovico sensed this mood, and he looked at those gathered for this impressive feast; he was a fine sight—tall, magnificently attired, his collar with the Order San Basillo hanging on a wide gold chain glinting in torchlight, his face alight with zeal. His bright gaze rested a moment on the face of each of the men who were congregated in this hall. “Comrades! Do not let yourselves fall prey to fear now. It is certain that you know far better than I what we must face in the vast and unknown lands where the forces of the Fortezza Serpente live. Yet, the falcon”—here he nodded toward the Cérocchi Prince—”has always been the enemy of serpents and he will strike valiantly at his enemy, with all the might of his blood and his honor. And are we not promised by God that those who fight in His Name will have victory over their foes? Take heart then, my comrades, and be sure our cause is just and our triumph assured.”

Andrea Bend could not speak for the tears that rose in his eyes. He took Lodovico’s nearer hand and wrung it fervently.

“Oh, no,” said Ariosto, “old friend, no weeping. This is a joyous time.” He looked from the Podestà to the guests at the banquet. “For to how many of us is it given the privilege to face the enemies of God? Even those who will fall in battle, as must happen to some of us, surely, will have earned themselves a place at the Right Hand of God among the Saints and Martyrs. I tell you now, I would rather die transfixed by a Serpente lance than live to old age in decadent luxury and die forsaken by the world and without the comfort of the promised Glory of God. What true warrior could wish for any death but that gained in honorable combat? What true Christian could desire anything more than to give his life in a cause that is the same as the cause of God Himself?” He turned toward Falcone. “The Cérocchi follow their own gods, but we know them to be men of valor and worthy of this great task. Surely God will not despise them if they war on His behalf in this cause, for it is the way of fighting men to show their valor through worthy deeds and the opportunity to gain in strength. Then let each of you Italians make a brother of every Cerocchi warrior, so that like the great fighters of old, like Achilles and Hector and that staunch Roman Horatius, like the great knights Roland and Oliver, like the Spanish Cid who drove the heathen from his land, we, too, may stand for all time as the measure of bravery mixed with courage, of fidelity and devotion.”

Falcone had come forward, the jewels of his clothes shimmering where the light caught them. Without a word, he took the dagger from his ornamented sheath and held it out to Lodovico.

“Ah!” Lodovico clapped him on the shoulder, took the dagger and kissed the blade before offering his poignard to the Cerocchi Prince. Falcone accepted the poignard and put it into his ornamented sheath, though it fit badly.

Now the hall was once again filled with cheers. The old bishop rose and pronounced the Benediction as Lodovico heard his own battle cry “Omaggio” shouted back at him like the thunder of waves.

It was well into the night when the festivities ended and the men of Nuova Genova went to seek their beds. Lodovico stood in the empty hail, watching a few of the palazzo dogs fight over the remains of a haunch venison. He had found he could not sleep, so full was his heart. His hand rested on the hilt of Falcone’s dagger and he felt the same stirring of gratitude and humility that had nearly overcome him at the banquet.

“Troubled?” asked a voice behind him.

Lodovico turned quickly and saw Falcone standing in the doorway, a cape of tooled leather around his shoulders covering the finery he had worn earlier.

“No, not troubled,” Lodovico answered after a thoughtful moment. “I am often made to remember how fine our men can be.” He put his thumbs into the soft belt at his waist. “As I watched the men give their vows tonight, I was deeply moved…recalling it moves me now.”

“Do you think it will go well?” Falcone asked, coming into the hall with silent tread.

“I hope it will.” He stared down at the floor, doubts welling within him as he considered the magnitude of the venture to which they were now committed. He had seen dedicated men cut down by the fearsome horsemen of the Great Mandarin casually as a peasant scythed down grain. Though he would never say so aloud, he knew inwardly that the selfsame fate could be waiting for all of them at the hands of the men of the Fortezza Serpente.

“Hope?” Falcone said gently.

“It’s all I can do, my Prince. Flying here, I could see how enormous this land is. The wilderness is endless, and what might befall us there?” His handsome face was thoughtful now, and though there was no fear in him, he admitted to an inner caution. “You know this country far better than any of us, and certainly better than I, who have just arrived. I have heard tales of mountains and rivers so long and so formidable that most will not dare to cross them. From the air such things should be easier, enabling us to discover what lies ahead without having to confront it at once, but I would be a fool to say that there is no challenge to us.”

“Your mount…” the Cerocchi prince began, then faltered. “We have only just seehorses in this land, and your mount is more than that.”

“He is part gryphon,” Lodovico explained. “There has long been a legend of this animal. It was said that Roland himself rode such a steed, but there was no proof. And then, when I was with the expedition in the Orient, I learned more and eventually found the animals in a remote valley high in the mountains. It took every bit of gold I possessed to get two young ones, but I was convinced it would be worth it.”

Falcone’s eyes glowed. “I have learned to ride a horse,” he said with a grin. “I am sure that I could ride your animal as well.”

The confidence of this statement made Lodovico laugh. “I hope that you can. We will need men who are capable of all military arts if we are to succeed in our plan.”

“The troop ships…” Falcone was serious once again. “Are they coming, truly?”

“Yes. It takes time to cross the ocean, even when the weather is favorable. Il Primàrio gave his word, and that is the surest bond this side of the Word of God.” He saw the skeptical expression in the Cérocchi’s painted face. “That’s true, Falcone. Il Primàrio is a good and just leader who does not treat his people badly. He has said that the might of Italia Federata will stand behind all those in Nuovo Genova and he will not forsake us.”

“But Italia Federata is far away, and we have heard that there are other demands on il Primàrio. If other matters intervene, we might be set aside…”

Precisely that possibility had worried Lodovico since he had left Firenze, but he refused to voice it now. “He is not the sort of man who abjures his promise.”

Falcone’s smile tightened and his lips grew thin. “I don’t know what to respond then. I do not wish to insult you, Ariosto, but you must allow me my reservations.”