Ariosto (25 page)

The Lanzi grumbled an incoherent protest, but his hands did not move toward his weapons, nor did he take the belligerent stance of a brawler.

Then one of the French mercenaries got to his feet. There was a pile of winnings beside him—coins, a saddle, a short sword, and a boar spear. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and regarded Lodovico with a sneer. “There is more to be won, Ariosto.”

“I say that there is not,” Lodovico responded at once. He could sense violence in the Frenchman and felt his body tighten in anticipation. It would take more than words to persuade the man.

The Frenchman swaggered forward a few steps, a rictus smile on his swarthy face. When he was slightly more than an arm’s length away, he took a stance, legs apart, and rocked on his heels. “Who are you to give us orders? We hear a great deal about your supposed bravery, but where are the deeds to prove it?”

Cries of protest and approval came from the Lanzi, and a few of them withdrew judiciously, recognizing danger. Massamo Fabroni put up his hand as if to bring to a halt to the impending battle.

“No,” Lodovico said, stopping Massamo. “I will not have my courage doubted. If this man insists that we put the matter to the test, so be it.” He was tugging off his guarnacca, which he flung to one of the Lanzi corporales near at hand. “Hold this for me,” he said, and gave his full attention to the Frenchman, who was untying the lacing of his farsetto.

“Well enough, Messer’ High-and-Mighty Hero,” the Frenchman mocked as he began to turn up the sleeve of his old-fashioned shirt. That garment was none too clean and the number of stains and patches it had made a melancholy pattern that was too easy to read.

Lodovico secured his rolled cuffs at the elbow with silken ribbons. The medals on the fine gold chain shone and winked in the luxurious mat of hair on his chest. He saw with consternation that there were Cérrochi and Cicora in the crowd gathering around them. It would be a difficult matter to keep the fight private.

“Fear defeat, do you, Ariosto?” the Frenchman taunted him as he took up his fighting posture; slightly crouched, his arms held out and curved forward, ready to seize and crush. He moved lightly for a man his size, and the firelight lent a statue-like bronze color to the thick muscles of his neck and chest and arms.

“Every man fears defeat,” Lodovico answered coolly, “when it faces him.” He, too, fell into the attitude that the Frenchman had adopted. He was aware that the Frenchman was bigger and heavier than he, but was probably slower as well, depending too much on bulk and brawn and not at all on wit to win.

The opponents circled each other warily, and the men watching sized up the fighters. One or two called out bets, Massamo Fabroni quickly stopped this. “Honor is at stake here—nothing else.”

It was the Frenchman who made the first move. He lunged forward suddenly, his arms swinging and grasping. It was an overconfident maneuver, the careless tactic of a man who was not used to skillful fighting. Lodovico sidestepped him easily and twisted the Frenchman’s arm to pull him back in position. The Frenchman howled and swore, his free arm windmilling in an attempt to land a blow on his tormentor’s body. It was an easy thing for Lodovico to evade these reckless flailings, and he grinned as he stepped back from the Frenchman.

There were Cesapichi soldiers in the crowd now, and talk spread through the encampment that there was a battle among the foreigners. More of Falcone’s army hastened to watch.

Lodovico and the Frenchman had resumed their careful circling, and again it was the Frenchman who attacked first. This time, he kicked out forcefully, trying for a shin or a knee or the groin. Lodovico skipped lightly away and the Frenchman, carried by the force of his motion, came near to falling. This brought a scattering of appreciative laughter from the men watching. Lodovico frowned as he heard this, for he sensed it would enrage the Frenchman.

He was correct. This time the Frenchman did not wait for a favorable moment. He charged Lodovico, head down, more like an angry ram than a soldier. His large arms reached out, and this time he caught Lodovico around the waist and bore him backward toward the cooking fire.

Now the place was alive with shouts, and Massar Fabroni strode forward to break up the fight.

“No!”
Lodovico ordered. “This must be finished!” Even as he cried out, he swung his legs off the ground so that the Frenchman, already bent nearly in half and running, had to take all of Lodovico’s weight onto shoulders. He faltered, stumbled and fell heavily, Lodovico pinned beneath him.

Yells of protest burst from the mouths of the spectators and many of the men pressed closer to watch the fight. It appeared that Lodovico was in danger, for the Frenchman, in the blind determination of fury, was crawling toward the fire, shoving Lodovico before him as a dog might push an overlarge bone.

Lodovico scrambled under the big Lanzi, trying to gain purchase on the dirt and stop his rush toward the flames. He sank his hands in the Frenchman’s hair and brought his head down, using the pressure to lever himself upward at the same time. The Frenchman grunted, then moaned as his forehead scraped the dirt. He pivoted on his knee and tried to wrap his arms around Lodovico’s waist in order to drag him back onto ground.

But as Lodovico regained his feet, he stepped behind the Frenchman, seized one of the burly arms and began to draw it backward and up, forcing the Frenchman to his feet, and then onto his toes.

“My arm…” the Frenchman protested in a voice that was little more than an agonized squeak. “My shoulder…”

Lodovico tightened his grip and lifted again, ignoring the sound the Frenchman made and the echo of the men around them. “You wished to prove something, Lanzi?” he whispered, holding the bigger man in that wicked position.

“I…No…” The Frenchman made one frantic swipe with his free arm, then howled as Lodovico raised his captured arm a hand’s breadth higher.

“No? Are you satisfied, then? No more challenges?” He kept his grip on the arm, but shifted his weight so that if he Frenchman had any more tricks in his bag, he would be ready for them.

There was no need. The Frenchman nodded many times, “let me go. I didn’t mean anything…It was a lark, is all.” His thighs were quivering from standing on his toes so long. “Please, Ariosto, let me down.”

“No wore gambling, my French friend,” Lodovico murmured, though he knew every man around the fire was listening.

“No…No more gambling.” The words came out in high, hissing bursts. He collapsed in a heap as Lodovico released his arm and stood back, looking at the others as if seeking another challenger.

“Yes. You’re wise,” Lodovico said, the fierce smile still showing his teeth. He looked around him. “Let this be the last of the dicing. We must fight with the zeal of monks if we are to prevail, being reckless only in valor. Those who have lost their arms tonight—reclaim them.” He stilled the moan of protest this announcement produced with a quick gesture. “You may think that your honor is here, in a leather cup with bits of bone, but I tell you, your honor is on the battlefield, against the foe. Lost arms will be returned. Money, well, that is another matter, and whatever has been won will stay with the winner. Money is little when lives are at stake.” He looked at the Lanzi one last time. “I scorn the contemptible man who holds dice more precious than courage.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked through the Lanzi.

Without a murmur, his men made a path for him and watched him in respectful and shamefaced silence.

Cifraaculeo sat in his tent, his long cape of tooled white deerskin pulled around him. The enclosure was redolent with strange aromatic gums that blacked in a brazier nearby. From time to time the high priest of the Cérrochi rocked, making noises in his throat. His white hair, usually neat, was disheveled and darkened with smuts and his face had the closed look of those close to death.

“How long has he been like this?” Lodovico asked Falcone in a whisper. They stood together near the doorflap, both reluctant to venture farther.

“Since the guards were set last night. He told Lincepino that he wanted to locate the forces of Anatrecacciatore before we penetrate into this forest any more deeply.” Falcone was clearly distressed. He regarded Cifraaculeo with uneasy eyes, his fingers moving over the breastplate of hollowed bones strung with golden beads that was the armor of most of the Cérocchi and Pau Attan. It was a soft, clicking noise, not unlike sound of rosary beads moving through devout hands.

“And he entered this state then?” Lodovico felt a grue of fear slide up his spine.

“Yes. He chanted a few sacred songs, drew his cape around him and sat, even as you see him. I know that priests have powers and talents that most of us cannot achieve, but this…” He let his hands fall to his sides. “I have been watching him since our guards were posted and there has been nothing—nothing. He moves back and forth a little, and once spittle drooled from his mouth, but otherwise…”

“What is it you think?” Lodovico asked, not wishing to mention the terror that had touched the Cérrochi’s heart.

“I think that he had sent his spirit out to spy on Anatrecacciatore, and that the sorcerer has caught and holds it prisoner, and will only return it as his creature, and a spy among us.” Falcone had whisper this, as if they could be overheard by the high priest. “If Cifraaculeo is enthralled, then no one is safe.”

Lodovico nodded slowly, and said quietly, “When I sought to conquer the Great Mandarin, I saw something like this. There were Magi who could send their souls wandering over the whole of the earth. They wore strange hats and their cloaks were dyed with iron. Everyone was awed by these men, and treated them with utmost respect. Almost always the souls of these Magi would return and then they would preach with great wisdom. But occasionally, some demon would seize the soul while it was on its journey and corrupt it, or subjugate it to its evil purposes, and then the Magus became a ravening beast, more feared than a mad dog. He would frighten the people, attack them, maim and kill them. Sometimes the Magus would become salacious and would assault his people in other ways, abusing their chastity in unspeakable ways.” He watched Cifraaculeo as he spoke, looking for any response—a twitch, a change of color, a tremor, that would indicate that his spirit had once again entered the husk that was his body.

“Do you believe it could happen to Cifraaculeo?” Falcone’s hushed voice pleaded with Lodovico to deny this danger.

“I pray it will not be,” he said evasively. “But I have seen too much to seek a false hope. He must be guarded. He must be watched. If he awakens soon, see that he is fed and made ready to travel with us. If he does not awaken, a litter must be made for him.”

“But do you think he might run wild among us?” The breath was almost stopped in his throat.

“I don’t know,” Lodovico said after a moment. He had already taken one step away from the tent into the chill of the dawn. “But I tell you this, Falcone. If he has been snared by Anatrecacciatore, I pray that he will run wild”

Falcone’s expression was shocked and he was about to utter a protest.

Lodovico cut him off. “What better spy to send among us than your own high priest? Mice are all very well, but a man, a man of much power, a man respected, admired and trusted—what better spy than he? Who would be prepared to doubt him? Who would question what he revealed? Who would risk opposing him, with battle so near? Would you be willing to discount what he tells you, Falcone?”

“But I could not…” He stopped abruptly. His eyes went from Lodovico to Cifraaculeo and he muttered a scared name as he stared at the high priest.

“Could not?” Lodovico questioned, his arched brows raised. “What if you must, my friend?” He could feel the morning damp soak through the toes of his boots, but there was another, more pernicious cold seeping through him, a cold of terror and doubt.

Falcone did not answer at once. His fingers went back to his breastplate and began to turn the hollowed bones. On his face the expression of worry had been wiped away. “I don’t know what to do,” he said at last.

Lodovico nodded in sympathy. “I understand. Do you want my advice?” He studied the face of his Cérocchi friend, the clean line of his jaw and the prominent facial bones that lent him the look of a young prophet. Surely, he thought, Joshua had such a face when he stood over the ruins of Jericho.

“I would welcome it,” Falcone murmured.

“Very well.” Lodovico considered his words carefully. “I do not know how much knowledge is shared by your priests and wizards, but if there is some sharing, then I would gather the wizards and priests of the other people fighting with you, and I would request that each with the gift of seeing in water or ink or flames be set to that work, so that by this evening, we will know how great the danger is.”

“You would not move?” Falcone was startled.

“What would be the use? If Anatrecacciatore has possessed Cifraaculeo then what is the use of moving on? If he has not, then we lose little by remaining in order to learn what we may from the wizards and priests.” He hoped that Falcone would agree with him, for he did not want to dispute with the Cérocchi prince now, when they were in so hazardous a position.

“The Cicora have a wizard, Fumovisione, who is adept at that skill. And there is a priest from Annouaigho who has similar abilities. They call him Nebbiamente, for his mind is a mystery to them all, including himself.” Now that Falcone had a focus for action, his previous manner deserted him. He was decisive and insistent. He spoke crisply and his back straightened in answer to this challenge.

“Get them,” Lodovico said shortly, taking a last look at Cifraaculeo huddled in his cape, his face vacant as a tree in winter.

Falcone nodded and turned away from the tent of the high priest. He strode away, and Lodovico watched him, musing, wishing he could pray.

Nebbiamente came first. He was wire-thin, not particularly tall, a man into his middle years, with a curious expression of care in his deep-set eyes. He listened to what Falcone told him, then went to the tent of Cifraaculeo to see for himself. He returned quickly, his attitude more apprehensive.