Ariosto (42 page)

“Lodovico; quickly,” Damiano whispered softly, pulling at Lodovico’s voluminous sleeve.

“At once,” Lodovico said, blinking to recall himself. He fell into step beside Damiano as they left the banquet room through a side door. “Damiano…” Lodovico began, wanting to put his thoughts into words.

“In a moment,” Damiano insisted. He looked up and down the hall they had entered. “It’s too easy to be overheard. The room with the tapestries. How convenient!”

“Damiano,” Lodovico said again, determined to make his friend listen. “I will speak softly. But you must listen. It’s important.”

“Yes. I am listening,” Damiano said. “It’s about Andrea Benci, isn’t it?” He pounded one fist into the other palm. “Benci. Benci. French pinks.”

Lodovico was very nearly distracted by this. What had French pinks to do with anything? But he resisted the urge to ask and said, “That man Renaldo Tommassini, when I was at your villa in the country. He came there once and asked for Sir Thomas’ letters. He said that you had…” Then he remembered. “No, he said that your secretary had sent him. Damiano…”

“I know. I know.” They started up a narrow stairwell. “Benci. So he sent Tommassini. Did you give him the letters?”

“No,” Lodovico said with a spurt of satisfaction, and though he knew it was not his perspicacity but his offended pride that had stopped him, he permitted himself a moment of self-congratulations. “His manner insulted me, and I said that I would give the letters to you myself.” Which, he knew, was more or less the truth.

Damiano clapped one hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You humble me, my poet-friend. I do not know what inspired such loyalty in you, but I will thank God for it on my knees every day of my life—however long that may be.”

This addition stopped any protestation that Lodovico might have made, and he felt the apprehensive cold, which he had kept at bay with assumed confidence, return with bone-numbing keenness.

At the top of the stair, Damiano motioned for silence, and led the way down the hall. He stopped at last before the curtained entrance to a corner chamber. “The room with the tapestries,” he said caustically. “But who needs doors in the house of an ally?” He pulled the hangings aside and gestured to Lodovico to enter. “It will take him a few moments to dispatch ears to this room,” he went on softly, then flung one of his jeweled rings across the room. “
Political
whore!
” He said the words softly but with such vehemence that Lodovico reacted as if Damiano had shouted. “Cozening, recreant traitor!”

“Damiano!” Lodovico stepped back, horrified.

“Benci. Benci. Benci. It was there all the time and I could not see it. My secretary! By all the devils in Hell!” He rounded on Lodovico. “Self-effacing, submissive, willing…!” There were three chairs in the room and Damiano sank into one of them and put his clasped hands over his eyes. “Blind, blind! Christ forgive me for my unpardonable stupidity.” His voice broke. “Jesu, how could I not have seen it? How?”

Lodovico crossed himself and felt his eyes brim. He tried to find a few words of solace, but his tongue would not obey him and his mind stubbornly refused to provide him with what he wanted. Instead, he could feel a part of himself—and at that moment, he loathed himself for it—step back from this appalling room and watch it, cataloguing the weight and color and sound of despair so that later he could remember it in his writing. He bit the insides of his cheeks deliberately, forcing his attention to immediate action. With unsteady strides he crossed the room to the chair and Damiano. “Oh, my friend,” he whispered, and he crouched beside the chair to put his arms around Damiano.

When the worst of his torment had passed, Damiano opened his hands and looked down at Lodovico with reddened eyes as he drew a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. With his thumb he sketched a blessing on Lodovico’s forehead. “You deserve more from me than this, but it is all I have.”

“Then I am richly paid,” Lodovico said as he stood once more. His knees cracked, and he was able to chuckle at it. “Age,” he explained unnecessarily.

Damiano nodded. “Age.” He straightened himself in the chair. “Well, let us play this travesty through to the end. Who knows, I may even accomplish something.”

Lodovico wanted to tell Damiano that he had already subjected himself to enough, but he knew it was useless. “Whom would you like to speak with first?”

“If Cesare d’Este is here, it may be wise to bring. him first. Otherwise I will have to choose between Ercole and Ezio, and no matter which one is selected, the other will feel slighted.”

“And Benci?” He hated to ask the question, but could not bring himself to return to the banquet room before he knew what Damiano intended to do.

Il Primàrio’s face tightened as he took a deep, hissing breath. “Benci. Yes, Benci. There is nothing I might say that he will not be privy to by morning. He is for later, my friend. For the moment, I will have all I can handle with Ferrara, Genova, Venezia, and Milano.”

La Fantasia

As he neared the edge of the Cérrocchi encampment, Bellimbusto suddenly faltered and plunged. Lodovico was thrown from the saddle to fall heavily, stunning himself as he struck the earth. He had a vague impression of men running toward him before he lost consciousness, and when next he opened his eyes, Nebbiamente was holding burning feathers to his nostrils and Falcone had his hand on Bellimbusto’s reins.

What happened?” the Cérocchi Prince demanded of Lodovico without preamble.

Lodovico shook his head as if to clear away the reddened swirls that crowded his mind and sight. He motioned awkwardly for Falcone to draw nearer, and then forced himself to speak. “The warriors…the flint and frost warriors…they’re coming…I’ve seen them. They’re closer…through the valley already…We’ve got to get to the…highest ridge and secure it. Anatrecacciatore’s army travels much more rapidly than I thought it could…They are on a fast march and I do not think they will rest until after they have fought us. If they rest at all.” He attempted to get up, but Nebbiamente restrained him.

“A bit longer, Ariosto,” he cautioned. “You’re badly bruised by your fall.”

“Badly bruised,” Lodovico said contemptuously. “If bruises are the worst I suffer this day, I will count myself the most fortunate of men.”

“Then you think it will be today?” Falcone asked, his face quite serious.

“I think it must be today.” He hated to lie on the ground when there was so much to do. “I have no time for this” he declared impatiently, but allowed the priest to smear a vile-smelling grease over his forehead and wrap two lengths of cloth around his brow.

By the time he was on his feet again, he was feeling more himself, and was able to answer Falcone’s questions coherently and with greater lucidity than he had been capable of when he had come out of his swoon. Already warriors were hurrying on tasks set them by the Prince, and there was the unique exhilaration that is the prelude to battle. Each man moved with purpose and there was a shine in their eyes that revealed their dedication more eloquently than any words could.

“And the valley is completely desolated?” Falcone was asking.

“Yes, sadly. It was a beautiful place when I first saw it, but now it is as wasted as the desert, sere and barren.” He felt anger on behalf of the blasted valley, two days ago a near-Eden, and now devastated.

“The warriors do more than take lives, then.” Falcone looked over his shoulder at Bellimbusto who limped after them. “They have hurt your mount, as well.”

“They have.” A deeper rage ignited within him, for Bellimbusto was his prize, the one token of victory that was dearer to him than any medal, honor, or gory that had been awarded him. He stopped and reached the bridle.

“What are you doing?” Falcone asked, sincerely concerned.

“I am letting him go,” Lodovico said as he began to unbuckle the girths of the saddle. “I can’t let him fall into Anatrecacciatore’s hands. I will send him off, and when the battle is over, if I am still alive, he will come back to me. He has done it before.” He tugged the high-fronted saddle from the hippogryph’s back. “As soon as I am finished and he is in the air, I will give you all of my attention so that we may prepare for the battle. But I must…” He was drawing off the bridle now, and Bellimbusto pressed his gilded beak against Lodovico’s shoulder, a distressed sound like a mew accompanying this touching gesture of affection.

“If you do not survive, what will happen to him?” Falcone was clearly more distressed than callous, and the abruptness of his question was prompted by affection.

“There is a legend that says when such a creature gives his fidelity, he will return to his fallen master and carry him to their unknown haven for a hero’s burial.” Lodovico rubbed the gorgeous feathered neck. “I would like to think that such a destiny awaited me, but I doubt I’m worthy of such tribute, if it does exist.”

Falcone put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You underestimate yourself, Ariosto, for if you do not belong in such a place, then there is no one who can aspire to it.”

Lodovico smiled sadly as he hung Bellimbusto’s bridle over his arm. “Perhaps that is why the place is a legend,” he suggested. Then he patted his mount and checked the wound on his wing one last time. “You’ll do well enough without me aboard,” he told Bellimbusto. “Very well, then, off you go!” He slapped his mount’s rump, but Bellimbusto did not rise in the air. He turned his enormous, reproachful eyes on Lodovico and gave a little, scornful snort.

“He has a will of his own,” Falcone observed.

“Don’t defy me now,” Lodovico said to the hippogryph as his eyes stung with unshed tears. “You cannot fight with such a wing, and if you were here, I would worry for you, and not care for my men and the ordering of the battle as I should. You must go, Bellimbusto. When it is over, come back, but for now, get you to safety.” He laid his hand on the beak as he would have patted a horse’s nose, and then he once again slapped the rump.

Reluctantly Bellimbusto spread his great black-and-bronze wings, and slowly he rose into the air, wheeling once over the camp and then turning eastward.

Though he knew he could not spare the time, Lodovico stood for a little while watching until the hippogryph was nothing but a smudge against the glowing sky.

Cifraaculeo had been muttering unintelligibly for more than an hour by the time the troops of Nuova Genova and Falcone’s army had reached the highest ridge of the hills. His bearers had exchanged anxious looks and at the first opportunity, Fumovisione was sent for.

The fantastically dressed wizard bustled up to the litter, making haste with his customary energy. He had been talking to the bearers and as he neared the litter, he spotted Lodovico with Nettocchio and called to him to join the rest. “We’re seeing disturbances,” he explained with gusto. “We’re within the area of force controlled by Anatrecacciatore. Half the ducks brought with us have died.”

“Half?” Lodovico repeated, incredulous. “What killed them?”

“The malice of Anatrecacciatore. It’s fairly obvious that he is vulnerable to ducks. He can’t manipulate them so he kills them. I wish I knew what force they control that he is so threatened by them. The secret is in his name, but try as I will, I can’t see the nature of it.” He sighed his exasperation and motioned to the litter bearers to move away so he could approach the white-haired old man. “Yes, he’s saying something, all right. I don’t recognize the tongues, but that isn’t surprising.” He leaned close to the high priest of the Cérocchi and gave the man his full attention.

Cifraaculeo sat with legs tucked under him, his face blank as if in sleep, his eyes open and gazing at infinite distances. His mouth barely moved to emit the quiet gibber that had made his bearers distraught.

“No, I can’t assess it,” Fumovisione said as he stood back. “Pity. He might have something worth understanding. I will say this, though, he added thoughtfully as he regarded his afflicted colleague, “I’d be careful about believing what I saw, if I were you. Spells like this one can manifest in some alarming ways. Anatrecacciatore has some skill with spectres and phantoms. You’d do well to be wary.”

Nettocchio, who had overheard this, put his hands on his hips. “That is not encouraging with the flint and frost warriors only two hours away from us.”

The priest shrugged. “You may not wish to hear it, but better to know than to be taken unaware. If your brother came to you and said that you must lay down your arms, what would you do? An honorable man would listen to his brother, and open himself to attack. Be certain that you carry an arrow fletched with duck feathers, and if such a form presents itself, offer the arrow to it. If it will not take the thing, then you know it is a spectre conjured by our great enemy, and deadly. The priests and wizards will be ready to deal with such, but you must be on guard or we will not be able to come to your assistance.”

“The man is wise,” Lodovico said, for he saw the others doubting the bark-garbed priest. “In such a battle as we now face, we must overlook nothing, for surely we will be in the gravest danger the entire time.”

Nettocchio supported this. “Listen to Ariosto. We should be the ones to tell him, but we are so filled with terror that we will not defend ourselves properly.” He tugged an arrow out of his jeweled belt. “See. I have such an arrow already and I would sooner part with my dagger and battle axe than with this arrow. We do not yet know if our weapons will harm the soldiers of Anatrecacciatore, but we have learned that the ducks have a virtue he cannot easily overcome.” He returned the arrow to his belt and looked at the others challengingly.

Listen to the Cicora,” Fumovisione advised the men. “And hasten to get your arrows. The time is short.” He approached Cifraaculeo one more time, and said to Lodovico in a whispered aside, “This bodes ill, Ariosto. It bodes very ill indeed.”

Farther down the slope the branches were snapping a groaning as the flint and frost warriors began their ascent. Lodovico stood beside Falcone behind a hastily assembled fortification of piled rocks. “I have never liked waiting,” he remarked in the dread-inspired silence.