Ariosto (6 page)

Once again emotion threatened to overcome Lodovico. He could only bow in acceptance of this trust. “I will try to be worthy, great King. If God gives it to me, I will find death in your cause the finest triumph of my life.”

Before Alberospetrale could speak again, the crowd parted and this time women approached. Falcone cried out as he saw them, and then went hastily to greet them, giving reverences to each of the women as they came up to him.

“This is my wife and daughter,” Alberospetrale informed Lodovico, indicating the first two women. They were quite tall and handsome in that exotic way that reminded Lodovico of the women of the Great Mandarin. “Queen Giallopampino and Princess Ombrenuvola,” he said as Lodovico bowed with consummate grace to each woman in turn.

The third woman hung back, and it was Falcone who brought her forward. “And this is my betrothed, of the Scenandoa people, the Princess Aureoraggio.”

Lodovico was speechless. He had never before seen such a woman, one so lovely, whose every feature was in such perfect harmony with all the rest of her. Her dress was simple jeweled leather, and yet she outshone the Cérocchi women as a torch does a candle. At that moment, Lodovico wished for a quarrel to force upon his courageous ally Falcone only so that he could defeat him and claim this woman for himself. He bent to brush her hand with his lips. The fingers! Her touch! His pulse drummed in his temples like a call to arms. With an effort he relinquished the hand.

“I am a fortunate man,” Falcone said simply, but to Lodovico he sounded intolerably smug and haughty.

“A very fortunate man,” Lodovico agreed in a voice suddenly hoarse. “The Scenandoa, you say? I have not encountered them yet, I think.”

Aureoraggio spoke then, and her voice was soft as the music of trees stroked by the springtime wind. The words, charmingly mispronounced, enchanted the great Italian hero. “We are the neighbors of the Cérocchi, and live three days’ march from here. We are not a very large country, not nearly as vast as the land of the Cérocchi. We could not do you so much honor, but you would be the more welcome.”

“If it came from anything that is yours,” Lodovico managed to say with all the ardent gallantry that bloomed in his heart, “it would be a finer gift than any I have known, if it were only a drop of water.”

Falcone applauded this. “They told me Lodovico is a great poet, but until now, I did not believe it.” He said to his father, “These Italians have a reputation for their art, and I have seen their houses and know that it is true, but until I heard Ariosto speak, I did not know what orators they were.”

Any tension that might have erupted between them dispersed as Lodovico remembered himself. He reached to slap an arm around Falcone’s shoulder. “Come, I will need to find a suitable place for Bellimbusto and then, then there is the war, my friend.”

“Bravely spoken!” Alberospetrale exclaimed, motioning to his selected knights to come forward. “These are the men who will go into battle with you. They will tell you what they have learned so that we may better prepare for the coming ordeal.”

“I welcome their counsel with all my heart,” Lodovico said loudly enough for all to bear. But as Lodovico followed the men into the Cérocchi fortress, he found new worry in his heart. What would he do, now that his strange passion was on him? Could he dare to look at Aureoraggio again, even hear the sound of her feet on the earth, the echo of her voice, and not succumb to her? Falcone was his sworn brother, a noble and valiant Prince, a respected leader of his people. Yet, oh, what was that when compared to the ravages of love and desire that Lodovico nurtured in his soul even as they consumed him?

La Realtà

The fish, predictably, was cold when it reached the High Table in the dining hall of il Palazzo Pitti. Lodovico could do little more than prong at it, letting the tepid sauce drop off the white, flaky perisco. Beside him, Sir Thomas More was attempting to make conversation with Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, but that wily prelate continued to avoid any mention of the English King’s reprehensible and unforgivable marriage to the Boleyn woman.

“Talk to Damiano,” Cosimo said at last with a quick, distrustful glance at his second cousin. “He is of the senior branch of the family and so is His Holiness. None of them pay much attention to the junior branch of the family.”

Sir Thomas was shocked and for a moment could find no response that would not bring shame on the Cardinale, his host, or himself. He took a deep draught of wine and changed the subject.

Lodovico, bored and surly, plucked at the huge, gem-studded sleeve of the English Chancellor. “You’ve got to understand,” he said loudly, to be certain that Cardinale Medici would hear him, “the junior branch is jealous. They’ve always been jealous. They’ve said that they could rule Italia Federata better than the senior branch. Not that they’ll ever have the chance to do so, God be praised. They mocked il Primàrio for not making himself a king when he had the opportunity. That gives you some idea of their feelings for the country.”

Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, glared at Lodovico. “Poets are fools,” he said sweetly.

“Anyone who speaks the truth is a fool,” Lodovico shot back, and motioned for a servant to refill his wine cup. “Poets are cursed with clear vision, and a need to reveal what they see.”

“Visions! As likely inspired by the Devil as…” Cosimo began, and farther down the table, Andrea Benci turned toward Lodovico, ire in his face. He was about to rise and remonstrate when Damiano said in his pleasant, easy tones, “My grandfather said much the same thing. And he was a poet himself.”

At that moment, Lodovico could have kissed his patron. It was precisely this odd, generous quirk in the man that made Lodovico stay with him, though he hated civic functions, hated the silly formalities, hated the subtle cross-currents of rivalries and jealousies. When Damiano, with that casual, deft touch, turned defeat into victory, he felt his loyalty renew itself.

“He associated with poets, too,” Damiano went on. “He was surrounded by them all of his life. They were his favorite society. And artists. Every variety of blessed madman. He used to tell me about the terrible argument that developed between Leonardo and Poliziano. Not that either of them was an easy man at the best of times, but in this instance they were very angry. My grandfather had come upon them in his library. They were shouting, apparently, and using words out of the lowest workman’s tavern. The dispute concerned Buonarroti, who at that time had just returned from Roma. As you may know”—Damiano gestured expansively to his foreign guests—”my grandfather was his first patron. Michelangelo was every bit as unconciliating as a young man as he is now, and he and Leonardo disliked each other most”—he glanced at his Cardinale cousin out of the tail of his eye—”passionately. Poliziano championed young Buonarroti, which infuriated Leonardo. And apparently on this occasion, while exchanging epithets, they’d managed to disrupt the household. My grandfather told me that it was very nearly a week before the two men could speak to each other with anything approaching civility. Both Leonardo and Poliziano had his special genius, and both could be arrogant. Poliziano was not in good health at the time—indeed, he died the following year—and that made him more sharp-tongued than ever, which, in his case, is saying a good deal.” He lifted his goblet. “To their genius, then, and we will do what we can to forget their faults.”

The guests at the High Table obediently lifted their goblets and drank, and for an instant Lodovico was held by the gently reproving, sardonic look his patron gave him before he set down his goblet.

“Sir Thomas,” he said to the Chancellor, taking Damiano’s hint, “I have heard that there are men of great literary promise now at Oxford. Sadly, the only English poet I have read is the one called Chaucer, and only in translation.”

Damiano nodded so slightly that it would not be noticed if it had not been looked for, then directed his attention to the Earl of Wessex.

In the expanded library of il Palazzo Pitti, two fires blazed in matching hearths at each end of the room. There were only ten people in the vast chamber, and all but three of them sat at the northern end of the room where Damiano was, in the best Firenzen’ tradition, serving bowls of sugared nuts to his guests.

“I hope that you will remain here for a week at least,” he said to the Earl of Wessex. “Il Doge of Genova will arrive here in four days, and you have so many maritime interests in common, it would be a pity for you not to have occasion to speak together.” He waited while Sir Warford Pierpoint Edmund Glennard selected a candied walnut and ate it.

“Primàrio…” the Englishman began.

“No, no. I am Damiano to my friends. Il Primàrio, who is he but a puppet of the state? Dantiano, however, is another matter. You will find Damiano much easier to deal with than il Primàrio, I give you my word.” Behind the laughter there was steel and the English sensed it almost as quickly as the Firenzen’, who had known it for years.

“Damian, then,” Sir Warford said, dropping the final
o
as was the English habit. “I’m certain you understand that we are under orders from our King, and our time is not as much our own as we would like. We have been mandated to stay no longer in Federated Italy than three days, which will not enable us to be here when the Doge arrives.”

“How unfortunate,” Damiano said, intercepting a look that passed fleetingly between Sir Warford and Sir Thomas. “Il Doge will, I fear, feel slighted. Perhaps you may find it possible to remain here a little longer, in spite of your instructions. We had planned to offer you a full honor escort to the Austrian border, but it will not be possible to do that until our Lanzi return with il Doge.” He leaned back against the side of the fireplace, his elbows propped on the ledge intended for lanterns.

Lodovico had to stifle a laugh, turning it into a cough, for which he apologized.

In that awkward silence, Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, came from the other end of the library where he had been deep in conversation with il Duca of Mantova and Ippolito Davanzati. His scarlet satin robes whispered on the floor as if he brought a nest of serpents with him. “Good cousin,” he said to Damiano with a barely concealed sneer, “I fear I must leave this august gathering.”

“How unfortunate,” Damiano responded with no attempt to dissuade Cosimo.

“My Confraternità is holding a meeting, and since I am in Firenze, it is appropriate that I attend. Gentle- men…” He waited for the reverences of the other men in the library, locked eyes with Damiano once, then swept out of the room.

There was another long silence, then Sir Warford cleared his throat. “Most commendable, attending such a meeting,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Damiano made no effort to conceal his disgust.

“They’re charitable organizations, aren’t they?” Sir Warford asked, startled. “I understood that they were such.”

“Ostensibly,” Damiano answered with a sigh. “They do good work for the country, it’s true enough. But that is not the purpose of the meeting tonight.” He regarded his English guests a moment, then decided to speak. “Yes, the Confraternitàs perform many services for the state. They visit prisoners and the mad, provide clothing for the old and those in poverty. They house travelers and keep two hospitals for children. They also, some of them, have special meetings, such as the one my cousin is so anxious to attend tonight. I believe that this meeting will be for those who like to be whipped and sodomized, though I’m not certain. I do know that my cousin has a taste for whipping.” He could not disguise his rancor, nor did he try to.

“But surely…” Sir Warford began, then broke off.

“There are other pastimes in the other Confraternitàs that are less distressing,” Andrea Benci said hurriedly with a swift, reproving glance at Damiano.

“After all, a Cardinal…” Sir Warford made another attempt to assume a tolerance he was far from feeling.

“And a member of the junior branch of the family,” Damiano agreed sardonically. “He has a great many reasons to wield that whip, or to lie under it himself.” Suddenly, infectiously, he chuckled.

“Primàrio,” Andrea Benci said in a tone that was dangerously like a reprimand.

“It is of no moment,” Damiano said, his manner once again smooth as he turned the conversation into safer channels. “While you are here, you will doubtless want to inspect the various weavers’ manufacturies in the city. You will appreciate more fully why we continue to be interested in English wool.”

The fires had burned down and the library was sunk into a ruddy gloom. Now only Sir Thomas More, Damiano de’ Medici, Lodovico Ariosto, and Andrea Benci remained. Conversation had stopped some little time before, and the men sat in an unusually companionable silence. It was Andrea Benci who broke it.

“I fear age is catching up with me,” he murmured. “The hour is long past when I should have sought my bed. With so much to do tomorrow, and the reception to plan for il Doge…” He got to his feet and nodded toward the other three. “Until morning then.”

“God guard your sleep,” Damiano answered quietly and watched as the old courtier crossed the library.

“Ariosto,” Andrea said as he reached the door. “I would be glad of your company.” He was issuing a command, but Lodovico. chose to ignore it.

“I am satisfied where I am, Andrea. You must forgive me.” He waited for Damiano’s dismissal. If he left the library, it would be because il Primàrio himself had asked him to go, not because his too-autocratic secretary had ordered it.

Damiano said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the deeply carved door, and after a moment, Andrea Benci gave a hitch to his shoulders and left the three men alone. When the silence became oppressive, Damiano said, rather lazily, “And now, Sir Thomas, what is it you’ve wanted to say to me?”

Sir Thomas More was not startled by the question. “I was not aware that I was so obvious.”

Damiano turned in his chair and gave the Chancellor of England a long, hard stare. “When you arrived this afternoon, I thought you were exhausted.”

“I was,” he admitted. “And my feet hurt.”

“So.” Damiano fingered the edge of his giornea’s elaborate hem. It was a nervous, restless gesture. “I also noticed that you ate only half of what was set in front of you, and you’ve yawned away most of the evening. Whatever it is you wish to say in private must be very important to you.” He had not altered his tone, but the words came faster. He waited while Sir Thomas gathered his thoughts.