Ariosto (27 page)

La Realtà

Damiano de’ Medici was wearing a giaquetta of red Venetian silk and his leggings were particolored red and black. He stood in the antechamber at his Fiesole villa, tapping his long fingers impatiently on the table where Lodovico had spread out books. He regarded the poet evenly as he came into the room, and said, without preamble, “You are sending your son to Paris?”

“He leaves in two days,” Lodovico answered, puzzled by the inquiry, and the manner. He saw that Damiano was noticeably thinner and white shone in his dark hair like a gloss.

“You’re probably wise to do that.” Il Primàrio looked down at the books. “For Margharita?”

“Yes. She learns quickly. As you see, Marsilio Ficino and Luigi Pulci already.” He indicated the
Morgante Maggiore
lying on the table.

“And the
Platonic Essays
, I assume?” Damiano said, picking up the Ficino and opening the volume. “Yes. My grandfather told me that Ficino kept a candle burning before the bust of Plato. Or was it Socrates? He regarded Socrates as a saint, in any case.” With a sudden motion, he closed the book and set it aside. “You decided on Paris for Virginio.”

“Yes.” It took considerable courage for Lodovico to speak again. “Why do you ask? Is there some reason?” He wanted to know how much Damiano had learned of Virginio’s difficulties with the Cardinale, but could not bring himself to frame the question.

“No reason, really. There are times when I see the sons of my…friends doing well. Then I remember my own sons.” The old pain shaped his features. “I have nephews, of course, but it is hardly the same thing.” He dropped into the chair beside the table, where Lodovico usually sat to instruct Sir Thomas More’s daughter, and idly picked up a few of the parchment sheets, glancing through them before looking at Lodovico, one brow raised in speculation. “Margharita’s work?”

“Yes. I have had her writing her own essays. She is a most intelligent woman, Damiano.” He let himself come across the floor and take the smaller, harder chair.

Damiano stifled a yawn. “You’re pleased with her progress?”

“For the most part.” He was quite curious now, and somewhat disturbed. The visit from Damiano was unexpected, and Lodovico could not think of any reason il Primàrio would want to see him, and in such grand clothing. “You are traveling?” he ventured.

Damiano laughed shortly. “No doubt you want to know what I’m doing here.”

Lodovico stiffened. “It is your villa, Primàrio. You are our host, we are your guests. How could you not be welcome here?”

“If I interrupted your working, I don’t expect you to be glad to see me.” He fingered the edge of his ornamental sleeve. “Well? Did I interrupt your work?”

With a guilty flush, Lodovico nodded. “A few verses, nothing to bother about.” It was a clumsy lie. His head was still echoing with the grandeur of his new fantasy.

“May I see it?” Damiano held out his hand for parchment sheets half-hidden by Lodovico’s arm.

“They’re not ready yet, but if you insist…You are my patron.” Reluctantly he touched the sheets. “I don’t have the right to question or object, if you want…”

“Per gli arcangeli!” he burst out, but did not rise. “Will you abandon your pride for a moment? I am here seeking respite,” he went on with some asperity, “and I refuse to wrangle with you, Lodovico. I have disputes enough awaiting me in Firenze. If you don’t want to let me see your work, well and good. I will not argue with you. I don’t
want
to argue with you.” He picked up the volume of Luigi Pulci’s work and thumbed through it, not truly reading.

Lodovico wished he had not offended Damiano. He considered reaching across the table and handing him the incomplete pages as a peace offering, but could not bring himself to do it. Instead he cleared his throat, saying, “I have had a letter from Sir Thomas this week. It was brought by a dyer coming to Firenze. He made good time, I think. Would you like to read it?” The three closely written and tightly folded sheets were tucked into a slim book of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’s essays. Lodovico opened it and held up the letter.

Damiano’s brows rose. “What has he got to say?”

The first part of the letter was filled with traveling details, projected dates of arrival and departure in different cities of Russia.

“Ah, here.” Lodovico found the place and began to read.
“‘Poland and Austria seem content to follow Italy’s lead for as long as the truce with the Turks continues to be honored by both sides. The main concern of the Dukes here is the continuing religious conflicts in the German states. There have been rumors that Savonarola is dead, but his great age makes such gossip inevitable. He preached at Easter and his followers burned a dozen Lutherans immediately afterward. The Elector could do nothing without endangering himself. So far Savonarola has attracted few Poles to his cause, but with German monks traveling here regularly, there is legitimate cause for worry. Though I am a good Catholic and opposed to the enemies of the Church, I could wish that Luther had lived somewhat longer in order to stop the hysteria of these religious wars. If Luther had been willing to be reconciled with the Church before his death, Savonarola’s followers might not be so determined in their persecution of the Lutheran converts. As it is, the atrocities here rival those in Spain….’
Then he says that some of the German leaders would welcome a breakdown in the truce with the Turks because it would give both the Savonarolans and Lutherans a common enemy to fight. Then there is a description of the provisions for the journey. Nothing you do not know yourself. He asks that his family be given guards for any journeys they may take beyond Italia Federata.”

“Naturally. That’s all arranged.”

Lodovico turned the page over. “Here’s something. About your son. Would you like me to read it?”

Damiano’s eyes were weary with old pain. “Why not?”

“Let me find the place,” he said, reading quickly be certain that there was nothing too unpleasant. “Ah, here.
‘As part of the Austrian contingent, Leone de’ Medici was one of those in the company that forms our escort to Minsk He has a caustic wit and is not well liked by his comrades…’
There’s some mentioning of the nature of the escort, and the condition of the roads…” Lodovico said as he read of Leone’s gambling excesses. Until Leone had left la Federazione, his gambling had been the subject of constant quarrels at embarrassment to Damiano. “There’s more here.
‘Leo de’ Medici remarked that he was not anxious to return to Firenze, but had almost decided to join his brother Renato for a time. He said that he thought Gianpiero Frescobald might come into France and they would all stay at Nemours until something more attractive was offered them.’
That is all he has said about Leone.”

“France. Nemours,” Damiano said slowly. “France.”

“Leone is not foolish enough to try to return to Italia at this time,” Lodovico hastened to assure Damiano.

“That wasn’t my concern,” he responded, shaking off the melancholy with determination. “What else does Thomas have to say?”

“There is a comment here that may interest you.”
‘Word has reached us on the road that Spain is seeking allies against Italia, but as yet none of the rulers approached are anxious to defy the Pope and stand with Spain. While it is true that the Spanish holdings in the Far East are increasing, and their two colonies in Africa are most prosperous, without colonies in the New World, there is little chance that they will have sufficient to offer an ally that would compensate for being under interdict.’
He also has reference to the Low Countries.
‘It is rumored here that the Dutch might be willing to join with England against France, if proper terms can be agreed upon. I don’t give much credence to the rumor because I know Henry Tudor. He is anxious for an alliance with Russia and will not easily settle for less. Mistress Boleyn’s child will seal the bargain. As I recall, she should deliver in August or September, so it may be that you will know soon whether a Russian Princess will come to England or an English Princess will go to Russia.’”

I haven’t had word on that,” Damiano said in the silence. “I haven’t had word on a great many things. I am,” he went on rather distantly, “on the road to meet the court party of the Doge of Genova. Ercole is going to honor me with his presence again. In this weather, too.”

“Why did you choose to ride in the heat of the afternoon?” Lodovico could not resist asking.

“I don’t know. Penance, perhaps A need to be alone. There were very few people on the road.” He slouched in his chair. “Is there anything else from More that has bearing on the state?”

“Not really. He has found copies of a great many Italian books in Poland. He discovered a number of interesting manuscripts. There is a Swedish scholar in Warsaw who is very promising. A Turkish jewel merchant opened a business in Minsk. The King of Denmark is said to be buying French cavalry companies. Apparently Denmark and Sweden fear what may happen to them if Russia and England become allies.” Lodovico looked over the rest of the letter.

“He has already warned me of that—not but what it was unexpected. He also tells me that Ippolito Davanzati sends messages to Roma with great regularity. Which of my relatives does he write to, I wonder. If he is intelligent, it will be to Clemente, but I am not convinced that Ippolito has thought so far ahead.” He stared at the dusty toes of his boots in silence.

The day was hot and the listless breeze did little more than stir the air enough to spread the heat throughout the valley. There were summer smells, so intense they were almost visible, flooding the afternoon. Here in the antechamber it was cooler, and the shutters were half closed to ensure there would be some refuge from the implacable sun.

“Do you think it wise to continue your journey? You’re enervated now, and another hour in the saddle…” Lodovico tried to give il Primàrio the firm smile that would indicate he knew best.

“It’s tempting, but there are other considerations.” He continued to stare at his boots. “Many other considerations.”

“They must be important,” Lodovico capitulated feeling inane.

“I certainly hope so,” Damiano answered, his voice thickened with a fatigue that went far beyond the tiredness of his body. “I feel I’ve been in a bath, I’m so wet. My shirt is soaked through and this giaquetta will be equally wet in another hour. But what else can I do? Ercole is an officer of la Federazione, a very high-ranking one in a critical area. I would insult him unbearably, if I did not ride out to meet him. I have an escort of Lanzi waiting at San Gregorio already, and a dozen courtiers at the villa of Giovanni Tornabuoni. We’ll gather there, feast, and in the morning proceed in state to Firenze.” He sighed heavily, as if the prospect of lavish entertainment sickened him.

Lodovico pondered if Damiano wanted him to join the party, and was about to ask when Damiano went on.

“We will banquet late tonight, in the larger courtyard of Palazzo de’ Medici. Ercole has got it into his head that he would rather stay there than Palazzo Pitti, though why, I can’t imagine.” He pulled his plumed hat from under his arm and propped it on his knee. “Christ alone knows what Barbabianca wants.”

“Do you wish me to try to find out?” Lodovico asked in a rush.

Damiano stared at him, then chuckled. “You? Well, he would never suspect you.” His chuckles turned to laughter. “Gran’ Dio, Lodovico Ariosto a spy!”

“You mad one of Sir Thomas,” Lodovico snapped, and was shocked to see the quick, sobering change his words brought to Damiano.

“Yes, I made a spy of that good, honest man. If I could have thought of any other way to accomplish the task, I would have done it.” He rubbed his jaw, grimacing. “That was a reprehensible act, but it is done and I have convinced myself that it was necessary. But I will not make a spy of you, my friend. I wish to leave this world with at least one man uncorrupted by me.” He tapped the plume and set it nodding. “I have spies in my cousin Cosimo’s household, and a most attentive nephew at the Papal court, but it does not please me. What would these men be, if I did not have need of them. My daughter Pia, in her nun’s habit, is still my spy. Will God forgive me that, do you think?”

This sudden, grim turn of mind alarmed Lodovico, who said lightly, “Who suspects a poet?”

“No one,” Damiano sighed, “and I would not want give them cause. Fiesole is a sanctuary more secure than the Church,” he said, looking around the antechamber, at the plain white walls and painted ceiling beams.

“You do not want my help?” Lodovico asked, not quite disguising his hurt. It was galling to think that he would not be permitted to assist il Primàrio, to be trusted by him. What could he do to convince Damiano he could be useful, when Damiano believed that Lodovico was only capable of writing verse and plays, of teaching Italian to Margharita, and not able to make his way in the subtle world of the court? He lifted his chin, showing the worst of his freshly trimmed beard, and ducked his head quickly.

“Want your help?” Damiano echoed. “You do help me. Knowing that you are here, removed from the sewer that is Firenze, that helps me. I think it may be the one thing that keeps me sane. You are my assurance that…” He stopped and drew a long breath. “Lodovico, my second cousin covets Firenze. Indeed, he covets Toscana, all of la Federazione. It is not enough for him to have the seven tassels and red hat, he wants more temporal authority.”

Lodovico bit back a remark about the other thing that Cosimo, Cardinale Medici coveted, fearing Damiano’s response.

“I know this. I
know
it. But I can find nothing. I am learning how wars begin. There are moments when it would be so easy to order the Lanzi to seize one of the cities where Cosimo has allies. I would feel then that I had accomplished something. But waiting, searching, knowing and having no proof…!” His hands came together and tightened as if around a throat. “Benci has discovered two of the Cardinale’s spies in my household and has got rid of them for me, but he admits that he is baffled. He has tried to place men in unsuspected stations in the Cardinale’s followers, but has not succeeded.” Again he studied the feather in his hat, then tapped it to set it nodding once more. He gazed at it, abstracted, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to come from a long way off. “My wife. My wife is in France. She has said that she is going to Nemours, to my uncle’s estate there, as part of a diplomatic mission.” He was fascinated by the movement of the plume. “That is a lie. Graziella has left me.” Suddenly he looked at Lodovico. “There is a French nobleman, very handsome, very rich, not consumed with statecraft, not wedded to his country, who is besotted with her, as I have been. He is to be her host. That is the name we give it. He has a wife somewhere, making this respectable. His estate is conveniently near Fontainebleau, which will continue the fiction of the diplomatic visit for a little while.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “No one knows this, not for certain, though there are the inevitable rumors. No one knows.” His face was blank now, and his dark, long-tailed eyes averted. “I sensed this was coming, but I never thought it would actually happen. It seemed impossible. Graziella, leave me? Why? For whom? So far, I have told only you. My confessor does not know. Benci suspects, but I have not confirmed it. I will maintain the pretense as long as I am able to.” He cleared his throat. “My wife and my sons…And Ercole Barbabianca is waiting for me to greet him and give him lavish entertainment.” There were tears on his face, but he did not notice them. “I have told myself that it is wiser she is gone, for if there is treachery—and I fear there will be treachery—she will be safe. I will have spared her that. And once she is a widow, she need only wait a year…”