Ariosto (10 page)

Il Doge removed his square, flat-topped hat, as a gesture of capitulation. “I will watch for a day, and then we will speak again. You have my word that I will not exacerbate the problems here.” He glanced at Lodovico and gave a significant, questioning wag of his head.

“Lodovico is a poet, not a politician, Damiano said quietly. “Quite refreshing, believe me.”

“You Medicis and your poets,” Ercole said, and for the first time he laughed. “Your grandfather was worse, I understand. It must be something in the blood.”

“So it must,” Damiano concurred. “I am grateful to you, Ercole.”

“See that you remember it,” Il Doge said with a wide, malicious smile. Then he went toward the door, for all the world like a ship under sail. “If I find you’re deceiving me,” he called as a parting shot, “it will be the worse for you.”

“No doubt,” Damiano murmured wearily as he gave il Doge a half bow. “You see?” he said to Lodovico when the door was closed. “They’re all like that. I had Gianpiero at my side before Mass this morning. He feels that Padova was insulted because their delegation did not arrive until after the English got here, whereas Sforza and Gonzaga were here in advance.” He crossed the marble floor slowly, his face expressionless with worry. “Milano. Mantova. Padova. Modena. Rimini. The d’Estes are unhappy. What do they want me to do?” He lifted his hands and let them drop down against his thighs. “My good cousin Cosimo is entertaining a French Archbishop this evening, which is intended to be a slap in the face to me and the English. There’s nothing France would like better than to see an end to the federation, and if they can also embarrass the English, it’s an added pleasure.”

“Why don’t you speak to him—to Cosimo?” Lodovico had fallen into step beside Damiano as he sought the small door at the far end of the loggia that led to his study.

“My grandfather taught me never to acknowledge a wound. If I mentioned Cosimo’s latest treachery, he would know that his dart had hurt me. Like Clemente, I will pretend that I don’t know there’s a gauntlet at my feet, and perhaps we can scrape through again.” He opened the little door and motioned Lodovico to precede him. When he pulled the door to, he locked it carefully.

Lodovico took one of the two chairs on the far side of the writing table. He could not forget the contempt in Ercole Barbabianca’s face when Damiano had introduced him. It stung him as deeply as laughter could. He tried to smooth his straggly beard and thought again that it ought to be trimmed.

Damiano had taken his single, high-backed chair and was reading the various letters and petitions stacked neatly on the writing table. The third letter made him snort disgustedly. “My wife’s brother,” he explained curtly. “He’s in Pamplona now. He wants me to endow a monastery there. That would truly put the seal on disaster.” He sailed the letter to the far side of the table for Lodovico to examine. “Padre Humilidad indeed! Lazaro Frescobaldi is a sham, and always has been. How Graziella can be so true-hearted and he such a rogue, I will never understand.”

“In Spain?” Lodovico said, disbelieving even as he read the letter. “But the Pope has put all Spain under interdict,” he protested. “What can Lazaro be thinking of?”

“His own advantage. When has he ever thought of anything else? First it was that monk Luther in Germany, and now Hieronomites in Spain. It’s a good thing his father’s dead and cannot be shamed by him.” Damiano’s face had flushed with anger. “Don’t mention this to Graziella, will you, Lodovico?”

“Why should I?” Lodovico asked, genuinely confused. He had little contact with Damiano’s wife and on the rare occasions when he did, his wits had a tendency to fail him. Beautiful women often flustered him, and Graziella Frescobaldi was reputed to be the loveliest woman in all of Italia Federata.

The harsh lines left Damiano’s face. “A courtier would have the answer to that question, but I am pleased that you don’t. My wife is an intelligent woman, and devoted to this country, but there are those who would use her scapegrace brother to coerce her…” he did not finish, but turned and stared out the window. “It happened once. In France. Never let her know that I told you.” Suddenly he cleared his throat and picked up the next sheet of folded and sealed vellum.

At sunset the Venezian envoy arrived with a party of ten men-at-arms and a dozen courtiers. He presented himself at once to Damiano in the loggia of il Palazzo Pitti where il Primàrio’s guests had hastily assembled. Damiano had hurriedly changed into a giornea ala scala and taken his seat in the loggia a scant ten minutes before the Venezian company came in through the street doors.

“Primàrio, on behalf of Doge Foscari, greetings from Venezia.” The envoy, Sergio Vanazza, was a tall man, fair-skinned and light blond, as were many of the Venezians. He wore the badge of the Leone di San Marco on a heavy gold chain around his neck and carried the staff of his office.

“Our greetings to him,” Damiano said, with a side-glance at the irate face of Ercole Barbabianca. The Genovese Doge had turned an unhealthily mottled shade of plum as he watched the Venezians introduce themselves.

“The occasion of an unofficial visit from representatives of the King of England must be a pleasure to us all,” Sergio Vanazza enthused.

“You will allow me the pleasure of making you known to Sir Thomas More, Chancellor of England; Sir Warford Glennard, Earl of Wessex; and William Catesby, Esquire Royal,” Damiano said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have surrendered to the Turks.

“A great honor!” Sergio exclaimed, bending his knee to Sir Thomas. It was a courtesy far beyond that required by custom, and it set the hall rustling. Ercole Barbabianca could be heard to swear comprehensively.

Lodovico, standing near il Primàrio, saw the annoyed frown that flickered across his face and was gone. He took the scroll from the sleeve of his lucco and asked in an undervoice, “Do you want the verses now?”

“No, I want to be at table. Still it might be as well if you read them. Anything to stop this debacle.” He put one hand to his eyes as Lodovico drew back, aghast. “Pardon me for that, my friend,” Damiano said very softly. “By all means, read the verses. Perhaps then Vanazza will cease this display.”

Lodovico accepted the instructions and stepped forward, holding up the scroll as much as a gesture to get attention as to prepare himself. He saw that the Venezian Envoy had got to his feet and was looking thunderous. “‘On How Venus, Goddess of Love, Was Born of the Sea at Venice,’” he announced in a loud, harsh tone, and waited while the gathering fell silent.

When the messenger arrived from Napoli, Damiano flung the book he had been reading across the room and almost overturned his chair as he rose. “Now Napoli! Damn every one of them to perdition!” He walked the length of his library and glowered at Andrea Benci. “I suppose I’ll have to receive him,” he said darkly.

Benci’s expression was wonderfully smooth. “He has come a long way. It is not his fault that his King sent him.” The old courtier folded his hands at his waist and waited with maddening politeness.

“All right!” Damiano muttered, adding to himself, “Who is doing this? Why?”

Though Andrea Benci, who was across the room, did not hear this, Lodovico, who had risen at Damiano’s outburst and stood little more than an arm’s length away, did. He wished he could question Il Primàrio, but concern stopped him. Andrea Benci was in the room and the messenger from Napoli was eager to be presented.

“Bring him in here. I won’t snap his head off. Apologize that I am not more formal. Tell him that we don’t have official court functions on Wednesdays, or something similar. Heaven forefend that he should think he has been insulted.” As soon as Andrea had closed the door, Damiano put his hands to his head. “I am going distracted!”

At that, Lodovico decided to speak. “You think that someone is doing this? How can you discover who it is!” He decided not to offer comfort, since he did not know how it would be taken.

“No. No, I don’t.” He breathed deeply and then straightened himself. “Someone must be doing it, though, and doing it to embarrass la Federazione. First Genova, then Venezia, then Rimini, and now Napoli. We’ll have the Pope on the doorstep next and all the demons in Hell will be on us.” Damiano began to pace. As he walked his simple, short, woolen guarnacca swung above his knees making a gentle, rushing sound. “This was supposed to be an unofficial visit. That way we did not need to risk challenging the Pope. Now everyone in Italia seems to know of it, and unless the English leave quickly, Clemente must notify us of his displeasure.”

“But who would want to do this?” Lodovico asked. “War is one thing, but why bother with…”

“Why waste the money and lives in a war when there are other ways of fighting? Why do you think I want Sir Thomas to bring me news of Russia and Poland? I had hoped that Poland, being Catholic still, might refuse to be allied with the Russian and English churches, but for that I’d need Clemente’s cooperation, and now…” He stopped at Lodovico’s steeply-canted desk and leaned against it. “I think that the Pope would say prayers of thanksgiving if that alliance is made only to repay the injury he thinks he has received from me.”

“You can explain that to Clemente, surely,” Lodovico said, putting his book aside.

“Can I?” Damiano asked sadly. “Should I even make the attempt?” He grimaced and was about to say more when the door opened again and Andrea Benci escorted the messenger from Napoli into the room.

“Oh, God,” Damiano said in an undervoice to Lodovico as he recognized the man. “He’s a cousin of the della Roveres.” That family had been the sworn enemies of the Medicis for five generations.

“Primàrio de’ Medici?” the messenger said with the slightest of bows as he came into the library.

“Good day to you, Adriano Montini,” Damiano greeted the arrival with courteous reserve. “Your King has somewhat surprised me.” As he spoke, he strolled toward the visitor, his hand out for the scroll Adriano carried.

“It is my King who is the more surprised, Medici,” was the sharp return as Adriano Montini slapped the scroll into Damiano’s outstretched hand. “A visit from the Chancellor of England, and the King of Napoli was not informed?”

“A very brief, very unofficial stay on a journey to the Grand Duke of Muscovy,” Damiano answered, sounding fatigued. He opened the scroll and read it. “Your King is a master of the invective,” he observed when he had finished. “Pray, what does he want of me, other than my abject apology?”

Lodovico wanted to protest the idea. He locked his hands on the tall desk and kept silent. If Damiano had wanted his defense, he would have indicated it.

“I recall that when Henry broke with Roma, it was your King’s opinion that none of us have any dealing with the English whatever. In not informing His Majesty of Sir Thomas’ visit, I had hoped to spare his feelings.” This was said so very smoothly that it was more condemnatory than wrath would have been.

“This is another matter,” Adriano snapped, but there was trouble in his faded brown eyes. “Manrico has been King less than two years, and with the new laws of the federation, his position is ill-defined. This is just another example of the ambiguity of his position.”

“You have that wonderfully well-rehearsed,” Damiano approved. “My congratulations.”

“If you intend to scorn my King…” Adriano’s round face darkened and his voice took on a strident edge.

“Nothing of the sort,” Damiano assured him. “I have been trying to honor each member of la Federazione as he indicated he wished to be honored, though in this instance, I seem to have failed most reprehensibly.” He held out the scroll to Lodovico.

“Damiano?” Lodovico asked. He had never been given an official document by il Primàrio, and he was not certain if that was Damiano’s intention now.

“Take it; take it.” When it was out of his hands, he gave his attention to Adriano Montini again. “Since you have come, you must meet the English, and give them whatever tidings Manrico has seen fit to send, providing they’re civil.”

Adriano looked about to strangle, but managed to say, “It is not for you to question what my King says to the English.”

“Oh, yes it is, as long as the English are my personal guests.” Damiano managed to laugh in his familiar, easy way, though Lodovico could see how much it cost him. “Remember that: the English are guests of this city, not Italia Federata. Firenze and England have done business for centuries, and it is good that the Artei leaders have the chance to deal with them personally from time to time.”

“If they are bargaining, why are you not with them?” Adriano demanded.

“I should think that’s obvious. They’re doing commercial contracts, not diplomatic ones. How many times will I have to explain that? I don’t know how so many of the regional rulers of la Federazione got the impression that there was more to the visit than that.” He gave Adriano a sharp look, then addressed his secretary. “Andrea, take this man to the dining hall and see that he has a decent meal. If the inns on the road are as bad this year as they were last, he must be faint from hunger.”

It was a dismissal, but one that Adriano Montini was not apt to dispute. He bowed, a little more deeply this time. “I am grateful, Primàrio. I trust that you will reserve some time for me while I am here so that this misunderstanding, if there is a misunderstanding, may be ended.”

“I would welcome it,” Damiano said earnestly, and watched until the messenger and his secretary had withdrawn. “A misunderstanding. That is one word for it.”

Lodovico heard the implacable note in Damiano’s voice, and did not speak. In his hand the scroll from Manrico II, King of Napoli, dangled unread. He saw the lines deepen in Damiano’s brow and felt his own forehead contract in sympathy. “Is there anything…”

.Damiano looked up swiftly, as if he had forgotten Lodovico was with him. His frown grew thunderous, and then faded as he said ruefully, “You know, I never intended to drag you into this. I was only doing as my grandfather suggested. He used to tell me that the love of learning and intellect banishes the love of politics—according to il Magnifico, those who love politics are the ruin of nations and those who hate them are the salvation, for only they seek true and workable solutions.” He walked down the library to where a tall portrait hung over the smaller fireplace and stared up at the face there. “ He was sixty-seven when that was painted. You cannot imagine how thin he had become in those last years. Enrico fleshed him out some, but I remember how gaunt he was. He talked a great deal about Poliziano that last year. He missed him, and loved him. He told me to marry a Firenzena, that the family was getting its blood too much diluted by Roman Orsini. He insisted that my father’s second wife be Firenzen’. My mother was a Rucellai. My wife is a Frescobaldi. My daughter Carità is the wife of a Strozzi. What could be more Firenzen’?” His gaze lingered on the exhausted, regal face of Lorenzo, whose large, dark eyes seemed intensified by his pale skin and tinge of pewter hair. “He hated going bald, but he refused to wear a wig.” He stepped back a few paces, still watching the portrait. He shook his head once, twice. “I wish he could advise me now. These last few days, I’ve been going over in my mind all he told me. If only I could get to the bottom of this!” Abruptly he turned away from the portrait and came back to Lodovico. “He can’t answer me, and I’ve worn myself out trying to find someone who can—and will.”