Ariosto (40 page)

There was general assent from the delegation, though Cesare d’Este of Ferrara raised an objection. “If we refuse to hear these men until tomorrow, it could be that our actions will anticipate their grievances and this…gambit will not be necessary.”

Damiano glanced over the men before him. “D’Este has a point, but I think that it might be well to let to let them speak now. If the Kings of Napoli and Sicilia have already made up their minds, it would seem any redress we might offer comes after the fact.”

Lodovico wanted to object, though he attended only on Damiano’s sufferance. He wished to plead with the men in the chamber that it was too cruel to ask a man to preside at his own destruction, for without doubt the loss of the south would disrupt la Federazione completely. Italia Federata was Damiano’s faith and sustenance and family. The disgrace of Leone, Arrigo, and Regato was nothing to this.

Muzio Maggio bowed to the chamber. “In the name of my King, I thank you for granting me the opportunity to deliver the message I am mandated to present.” He looked toward Damiano.

“Speak, then.” He had leaned back in his chair, an abstract frown creasing between his brows.

“After consulting the wisest and most experienced men in his realm, and having given the entire question his whole attention, the King of Napoli has, with the knowledge and consent of his advisers, decided to demand the return of his army from the Venetian borders and to withdraw his kingdom, militarily, mercantilely, legislatively and scholastically, from Italia Federata and to form with the King of Sicilia a separate and distinct alliance under terms more satisfactory to the King’s Majesty.” At the conclusion of this speech, Muzio Maggio offered a lavishly sealed scroll to Damiano. My master commands me to present this document to you, saying that it contains precisely the same message I have just delivered and carries the full weight of his will.”

Damiano stared at the scroll as if he had never seen one before and did not know what to do with it. He laid his staff of office beside the sealed document and said distantly, “I will inspect it…later. I will have to consult my Console, for unlike your King, I need more than my own will in order to act for la Federazione.”

In the Venetian delegation, Ezio Foscari had been listening with increasing agitation. In the silence that greeted Damiano’s remark, Ezio got to his feet. “So Napoli wishes to withdraw her troops from what calls the Venetian borders. Those are
Italia’s
borders. They are perilous. We have Slavs and Turks and Bulgars to contend with there. We need an army twice the size of the one we have now. And I remind all the delegates and the heralds that it is Venetian gold that pays the soldiers.” He looked around him, turning from one group to another. “Do you remember what it was like before the truce? We keep that truce with honor but we protect it with arms.” His next appeal was to Ercole Barbabianca, who was dressed in his robes of state. “How many skirmishes did you have with France before la Federazione made it possible for you to defend your borders? Genova was in danger of being a French province, a vassal of a foreign King. If any kingdom principate, duchy, county, republic or municipality is intact in this country, it is because of la Federata. If you are all so short-sighted that you cannot see that, then we are lost.” He stared at Damiano as if he might say more, then sat down and refused to acknowledge the cheers that greeted his words.

“And you? Is your message the same?” Damiano asked, his voice slightly thickened, of the Sicilian herald.

“Essentially it is the same,” the herald affirmed.

“Is any detail significantly different that it would require you to recite the contents of that scroll you are unquestionably going to present to me?” His hand had tightened on his staff of office and Lodovico wondered if Damiano might be tempted to use it as a cudgel.

“The documents are very nearly identical, de’ Medici. If you like, I will forgo the recitation if I am assured that the Console will be formally presented with the scroll and it will be read before sunset tomorrow.” He offered the scroll to Damiano, who took it as if it were venomous.

“They are determined to force us to act so quickly?” He was looking at the Sicilian herald, but as he continued, it was apparent that his words were intended for all the assembled delegates. “My grandfather was asked why he refused a title when he had been offered one a second time, and it was his response that the arrogance of nobles is legendary, and when it was wed to power, it was the most potent drug ever developed and was deadly to reason. I had not, until now, realized how accurate he was. Manrico imagines himself the victor in this, but I tell you, and you may tell your master, that he has authorized his own destruction with this folly. The same is true of Rafaele. Tell them to remember this day when Tunisian pirates seize their ships and burn their villages.”

The men in the room heard him out in stillness, and for once there was no whispering, no significant, sidelong glances.

“You,” he went on, addressing the Milanese herald. “If you bring me more of this idiotic irresponsi—”

Orfeo Dardo bowed, and dared to interrupt. “No, Primàrio, I do not. I am sent with a message that was brought to Milano by a Polish emissary. Francesco Sforza, my master, read the message and sent it on to you as quickly as I could ride here. The Polish messenger wished to deliver the scroll, but my master reminded him that he did not have the access to you that I have.”

“What is in the scroll, Dardo?” Damiano snapped.

“This is an official document from the English mission to the Grand Duke of Muscovy. It informs the Italian state”—he chose his words discreetly, Lodovico thought—”that Ippolito Davanzati was killed by a sword wound during an evening of…debauchery. The man who killed him is being held by the Russian state for execution.” He faltered, staring toward the windows.

“Go on,” Damiano said, his words devoid of feeling.

“I am most truly sorry to tell you this, Primàrio. Believe me.” He held out the scroll, and as Damiano leaned down to take it, he said softly, “Leone de’ Medici killed Ippolito Davanzati.”

Damiano’s hand closed convulsively around the scroll and his face became a mask. “Leone de’ Medici killed Ippolito Davanzati,” he repeated clearly. “Dardo, tell your master that…that I appreciate his haste. There is no way that such an act could be excused or concealed. Assure your master that the proper…acknowledgments will be dispatched at once to Poland and Russia.” He started to rise, then stopped, remembering where he was. “I…”

Andrea Benci, who had been sitting at his writing table to the side of the delegation, got to his feet and came around the end of the table. “Delegates of la Federazione,” he said at his most urbane, “considering the grave nature of the documents presented by the heralds, perhaps it would be wise for you to declare recess, and for the Console to meet in the morning immediately after Mass, to consider the proper response to Napoli and Sicilia.”

“Sensible,” Ercole Barbabianca agreed and motioned his delegation to follow him from la Camera della Federazione. The Genovese contingent was the first to depart.

The men were uncharacteristically quiet as they left, most exchanging only a few, whispered words. Cesare d’Este approached Damiano’s place on the dais, and murmured something to il Primàrio that brought a grateful, tortured smile to his lips.

At last the room was empty. Lodovico rose and came across the floor, thinking that his soft-soled shoes made more noise than he would have thought possible. He stopped at the foot of the dais and looked up. “Damiano,” waited in silence some little time, “come. Let’s go home.” It was, he thought, like addressing an invalid or a lost child. The unblinking stare Damiano directed at the three scrolls on the table before him was a blind one.

“I will be in the secretarial offices, if il Primàrio should want me,” Andrea Benci said to Lodovico without attempting to speak to Damiano.

Lodovico was incensed at this treatment of his friend. “If you wish Damiano to know a thing, tell him yourself.” How much of this irate response came from his own dislike of Benci he did not know, and in this instance he was not willing to examine his conscience.

Andrea Benci looked affronted. “I did not wish to trouble him with such a minor matter.” He delivered his rebuke with the expression of one who has experienced the ultimate boorishness. “If you are not willing, however…”

“Damiano is present and hears you.” Lodovico turned away from Benci and refused to look at him again.

“Primàrio,” Benci said with a bored sigh, “I will be in my offices if you should need me.”

“Thank you,” Damiano murmured, and looked up from the scrolls.

Lodovico turned back just in time to see Andrea Benci favor Damiano with a slight, respectful bow. He felt himself fill with rage as if his vitals were swollen with it. What effrontery! What self-serving arrogance! He wished he had the courage to shout at Benci, but he could not–not now, while Damiano had the look of one with a relentless fever devouring him. He contented himself with a short, caustic laugh.

Andrea Benci glared at Lodovico, then trod across the room. At the door he turned, as if the matter had just occurred to him. “My festa this evening. Do you think I should cancel it?”

This question roused Damiano. He glanced once again at the scrolls, then slammed his palm on the table. “Per San Giorgio, no! Those scum in Napoli and Sicilia would boast of it for years. Have the festa, and be sure that all of the Console attends. I will not allow those disloyal knaves to garner any satisfaction from their rashness.”

As he bowed his acceptance of this order, Andrea Benci inquired, “And you, yourself? The matter with…your son…you may prefer not to join us.”

Damiano hesitated. “I will tell you later.” He was looking now at the third scroll.

“As you wish. I am confident that no one will expect you, as you may be sure that neither Napoli nor Sicilia will take credit for your absence.” Again he gave the slight, subservient bow and then withdrew, taking care to secure the great double doors behind him.

“So.” Damiano picked up the scroll from Milano, “Leone killed Ippolito Davanzati. Why? Or did he have a reason?” It was apparent that he did not expect answer. “Why so foolish, my son?” He tapped the scroll on the table but made no attempt to open it. “Lodovico,” he said in another voice, “what is the method of execution in Russia, do you know?”

“No, Damiano.” It was an effort for him to speak, and meeting the misery in those brown eyes was more than he could bear.

“Well, doubtless someone will.” He got to his feet walking like one who has been long abed.

“The scrolls, Damiano?” Lodovico pointed to the three lying on the table.

“Leave them. No one will touch them. They’re mere formalities, in any case.” He had come down from the dais. “I need…” He did not say what he needed, Lodovico was too wise to ask.

Margaret Roper heard the news in stunned silence. “Your son…
your
son killed one of the Florentine escort?” she demanded when Damiano had told her all of it.

“There seems to be no doubt of it.” He walked away from her, toward the nearest pedestal on which stood a Verocchio satyr with his grin, his potency and his pipes. “I have to tell the others, Margharita. They must know. It is perhaps just as well that you are leaving for Roma next week.” He was unable to smile, and after the first attempt, abandoned all pretense. “Lodovico, have the others assembled in the courtyard?”

“Yes, Damiano.” His eyes felt hot for want of tears, but he had told himself sternly that his grief would have to wait until later, when he and Alessandra were alone and he would not disgrace Damiano. He went to the study door and held it open.

But Damiano was not quite through with Margaret yet. “You will hear many rumors, and a few of them may be true, but I ask you to remember that I have never told you anything but the truth. Perhaps, when he returns, you will tell your father that for me, as well.” He had taken her hands in his. “Will you do that for a friend?”

“You will do that yourself, Damian,” she said.

“Perhaps,” was his answer as he stepped back, releasing her hand and starting toward the door where Lodovico waited.

“The trouble with Naples and Sicily won’t last,” Margaret called after him. “England has been plagued by Scotland and Ireland for centuries but we have all survived. This is more of the same.”

“Do you think so?” Damiano asked without turning, and he was out of the room before she could protest. He put his arm through Lodovico’s. “I could wish that just one of the Console were as faithful as that woman,” he remarked wistfully as they walked down the corridor. The walls were filled with paintings, and where there were no pictures, the wall itself was decorated with interlacing designs. “I’ve always liked that da Vinci,” he went on inconsequently. “It’s a pity he didn’t finish it, but then, he finished very little. Still, his starts are more splendid than most of the completed work of others.” He stopped a moment and looked back at the study door. “Did you notice? She did not ask me about her father. A fine woman, Margharita Roper.”

“The household is waiting,” Lodovico reminded him gently. “The longer they wait, the more alarmed they will become.”

Damiano nodded. “For a poet, you are an astute man, my friend.”

There was no way for Lodovico to answer this. He muttered a few, jumbled syllables and pulled his arm free from Damiano’s as they started down the short flight of narrow stairs that led to the expanse between the two wings of Palazzo Pitti.

“I think now that my grandfather was wise to prefer Palazzo Medici,” he said before he started out the door. “The old place is more like a fort than this is. We could lock the bar the gates and hold off half the city if we had to.” This was mentioned lightly, as if in jest, but Lodovico knew how little humor there was in Damiano’s words, and before he could frame a reply to this, Damiano had stepped out into the sunlight to face his waiting household.

“You will help no one if you do not eat,” Alessandra was scolding Lodovico as he sat at his writing table, several sheets of unfinished verse scattered around him. “You have obligations to Damiano. You accepted them, and you must honor them. For one thing, you must do your work. You are his poet, not his conscience. For another, if you are weak and snappish—and you get that way when you skip meals, Lodovico, you know you do—you cannot aid him as be must be aided now. You are indulging in pride and vanity, my husband, and these are sins.” She put the tray she was carrying down on an uncluttered corner of the table. “I expect you to eat this. There is pork and vegetables in savor sanguino, and some new bread.” For a moment her exasperated manner faltered and revealed the worry it masked.