Ariosto (4 page)

“It’s a busy year. Il Primàrio has need of me in these times.” It was true—Firenze had seemed the hub of the world since 1530, and now, two and a half years later, there was no sign that the activity was diminishing.

“There are villas in the hills less than half a day’s ride from the gates,” Alessandra said with a touch of asperity. “If you must be near at hand, then let de’ Medici put you in one of those.”

“If there is an opportunity, I will ask about it. A summer in the country would be pleasant.” He stood back and looked at himself in the, small, expensive mirror of Venetian glass. He sighed his resignation and gave a last twitch to the brooch. The knot of pearls lay on the table where their luminous beauty derided him. As he put the mirror down, he accidentally scattered the pearls.

“Oh, no!” Alessandra cried as she saw the milky jewels rolling across the brightly painted floor planks, “Lodovico, how could you?…your pearls!”

He shrugged and smiled “It looks well enough with the brooch. I doubt anyone will notice.” As he reached for the two scrolls he had tossed onto his writing table, he gave his wife a quick kiss, a kind of apology that she was not to be included in the evening’s gathering. He knew how much these occasions meant to her—far more than they meant to him. “I’ll tell you all about the reception. Who was there, what they said, everything. I’ve promised to join il Primàrio and the English party after the banquet, but I won’t stay too late.” This, he knew, was a polite fiction. He had been looking forward to a long conversation with Sir Thomas More, whose writing he so much admired.

“Remember what they’re wearing,” she prompted him. “And tell me if that Wessex man is as handsome as everyone has said. Some of those English are like angels.” She tweaked his beard. “But most of them are pigs.”

“Better for the angels.” He laughed as pulled on his soft velvet cap from which he had removed the bedraggled ostrich feather. “See what you can do with the pearls while I’m gone. Perhaps you can put them on the corsage of your blue brocade gonela.” It was her newest, only three years old, and was quite flattering to her, the blue making her rather pale eyes appear brighter. “You can wear it tomorrow at the garden festival.” He added then, more gently, “The banquet will probably be terrible. You know what it can be like—everything for show and nothing for taste and all of it cold.”

Alessandra gave a complicated little gesture and waved him out of the door.

Cosimo, Cardinale Medici was waiting in the antechamber when Lodovico entered, and as soon as Lodovico knelt and kissed his ring, he said, “I don’t know what’s got into Damiano, receiving the English when the Pope is in dispute with the King of England.” He had piercing, somewhat protuberant eyes of a muddy hazel color that always disturbed Lodovico. Those eyes rested on him now, and the imperious voice rapped out questions. “Has he said anything to you? Is it another one of his whims?”

“I don’t know, Eminenza. I am only his poet, not his adviser.” As he stood he felt the run in his calzebrache widen.

“Yet he discusses things with you, “the Cardinale insisted. “And this Sir Thomas More, certainly, is as much a writer as a court official. It would be just like Damiano to ask your opinion rather than mine. I tell you, the Pope is distressed at this incident.”

Pope Clemente VII had begun life as Giulio de’ Medici, the illegitimate son of Damiano’s great-uncle Giuliano, who had fallen under assassins’ knives twenty years before Damiano was born. Both the Pope and il Primàrio were as fervently committed to their family they were to their mutual dislike. Cosimo, being the most important member of the junior branch of the family was often caught between the two powerful men.

“He hasn’t discussed the matter with me, Eminenza,” Lodovico said as evenly as he could, knowing Cosimo’s capricious temper.

“He discussed banning slavery with you,” Cosimo persisted, clearly expecting a response.

“He discussed that with everyone. It was a difficult question. Firenze had always permitted slaves. And it was his first major act after Magnifico’s death.” Lodovico wished he could escape from the scarlet-clad prince the Church. “I know you felt he made the wrong decision, Eminenza.”

“And you think he made the right one?” Cosimo demanded in his harsh voice that was more suited to military leader than a churchman.

“I have said so. Because I would not like to be slave.” He tried to smile self-deprecatingly but could not quite manage it. “If you have argument with Damiano, why not speak to him?”

“I fully intend to, you may be sure of it. The boy’s been avoiding me since I arrived from Roma. I won’t tolerate many more insults. Damiano may be the leader of the Medici and il Primàrio, but I am Cardinal and it is not only myself he affronts, but the Pope and Holy Church.” It was typical of Cosimo to support his arrogance with all the political and spiritual weight he could muster. “He is walking a dangerous path, Ariosto. The Church has brought greater men than Damiano de’ Medici to their knees.”

Family quarrels always distressed Lodovico, and so he said nothing but, “An unfortunate situation,” to Cosimo, Cardinale Medici before he went to the far corner of the room and pretended to study the new painting there. It was by Giovanni Rosso, and not entirely to Lodovico’s liking. Forms seemed to be spilling out of the canvas, and the perspective was distorted to play tricks with the eye.

A moment later the door of the antechamber opened and Ippolito Davanzati came into the room. He was resplendent in a giornea ad alie of cut velvet embroidered with jewels, and was quite odiously handsome as well. At twenty-three, he was heir to the third largest fortune in Firenze. “Cardinale,” he said as he genuflected perfunctorily and kissed the proffered ring. “Most of the others are gathering in the sculpture garden, though the artists aren’t very happy to have it so. Would you grant me the honor of escorting you there?” His manner avoided insolence by the finest edge. At the last moment, he gave Lodovico his attention. “You’re here too, are you, Ariosto? I was certain Benci had told you where you should be.”

Lodovico despised these smooth-talking politicians. “I’m afraid he forgot to mention it,” he responded with fierce civility.

“And perhaps your mind was on other matters,” Ippolito suggested so kindly that Lodovico longed to slap his beautiful face.

“For God and the Devil!” Cosinio burst out. “Lead us to the others, Davanzati. The ceremony must be about to begin. We would be insulting”—he was clearly insulted himself—”if we were not there with the rest of the court to welcome the English, no matter how foolish and ill-considered their visit may be.”

Reluctantly Lodovico followed Cosimo and Ippolito from the room, dreading the next few hours. He walked the familiar hallways of Palazzo de’ Medici to the sculpture garden that opened on the Via de’ Ginori.

It was a small courtyard, and much of it was given over to fine marble figures. Here Donatello had worked, and Ghirlandajo, and the young Michelangelo Buonarroti. A few of these masters’ works were there, but more of the room was taken up by new, incomplete works of the latest Medici artists.

Today it was hard to study the sculpture, as the place was filled with the unacknowledged aristocracy of Firenze. Lodovico knew most of them, loathed almost. half of them, loved perhaps ten of them. He found himself a convenient corner and opened his scrolls as if studying his verses for the ceremony. In this way he kept himself until the orders were given to proceed to the little piazza between Santa Maria del Fiore and the Battistero.

From the Porta Maggiore of the Fortezza da Basso, along the Via Faenza and the Via de’ Cerretani to the steps of Santa Maria del Fiore and the doors that depicted the Gates of Paradise, the way was strewn with fragrant spring flowers. All of Firenze’s sixty thousand citizens seemed to have come out for the day to view the procession of the ambassadors from England. Every window, every doorway, every balcony and available rooftop was crammed with people, and now, as the afternoon deepened and the rich golden shadows lay across the Arno Valley, turning the houses the color of copper and their roofs the red of old wine, a hush fell at last.

Then la Vacca, the deep-throated bell in the tower of the Palazzo della Federazione, began its slow, lowing toll, and it was soon joined by the bells of Santa Maria Novella, Santa Trinità, Ognissanti, San Marco, San. Lorenzo, Santo Spirito, Santa Maddalena de’ Pazzi, San Jacopo Oltrarno, Santa Felicità, and the carillons of Santissima Annunziata and Santa Croce as well as the distant bells of San Miniato al Monte. It was a splendid, brazen cacophony, an ocean of sound merging and echoing down the streets as the first company of Firenzen’ Lanzi entered the Porta Maggiore of the Fortezza da Basso. So great was the clamor of the bells that the trumpets and sackbuts of the soldiers’ band were completely unheard, though they were loud enough to pierce the tumult of cannon in battle.

Between the Battistero and Santa Maria del Fiore, the welcoming committee stood. There were all the Console members who had been in the sculpture garden earlier, each in long and dignified robes with wide jeweled collars of office, a few wearing the various colored ribbons of their particular Confraternitàs. There were the senior representatives of the Artei, the powerful guilds that were the commercial heart of Firenze and Italia Federata. There were the Ducas of Milano and Mantova, each with his own impressive retinue. There were greater and lesser clergy—whole constellations of bishops, priors, and priests, all in the greatest finery the occasion allowed. With them, very grand in red and tasseled hat, was Cosimo, Cardinale Medici, his keen, measuring eyes flicking over the crowd as he waited.

Andrea Benci moved among these diverse and occasionally hostile groups with astounding ease. He chatted, arranged, informed, always unruffled, never awkward. His giornea of deep, wine-colored velvet was admired by everyone. He took this, and everything else, in his stride, turning aside any and all compliments with a graceful modesty that made Lodovico itch to strangle him.

Somewhat apart from all this stood il Primàrio, Damiano di Piero de’ Medici. At thirty-five, he was in the prime of his life, a tall, saturnine man with dark hair and straight brows. The mark of his Magnificent grandfather was on him, but it was less a matter of actual facial resemblance—though he did have the wide Medici jaw, long-lidded dark eyes and the firm, thin-lipped mouth of that family—than manner. He carried a civic staff in one hand and from time to time he tapped it against his shoulder. Other than that one nervous gesture, he did little to show his impatience, but Lodovico knew, after the close association of twelve years, that il Primàrio was becoming very irritated. Damiano wore his brocades with a nonchalance that Lodovico envied, though he did fiddle with the stiff, gold-embroidered tabard that was the only mark of office he would tolerate.

When at last the troop of Lanzi clattered and jingled and trumpeted their way into the piazza, they were accompanied by cheers that almost overwhelmed the voices of the bells. Damiano sighed and motioned to Lodovico to join him as he moved to the front of the reception committee.

The Capitano of the Lanzi dipped his flag-tipped ceremonial weapon and climbed out of the saddle. “Primàrio!” he bellowed and was only just audible, though no more than ten steps away.

Damiano motioned for him to continue.

“The ambassadors from England!” He gave a sharp, unheard command to the mounted Lanzi, and they parted to allow a second party of horsemen to approach.

Compared to the lavish grandeur of the Italians, the English company was drab. At their head the Chancellor of England rode, and with ill-concealed relief, pulled his horse to a stop. He dismounted wearily, his dark-brown, fur-collared cloak dragging on the ground as he came toward Il Primàrio. His fine, sharp-nosed face set itself in a smile. “Primàrio de’ Medici?” he said formally. “In the name of Henry Tudor, King of England, of that name, the Eighth, I greet you.”

There was mischief in Damiano’s dark eyes as he took the Chancellor by the hand. “You are welcome in Italia, Sir Thomas More.”

More’s somber features relaxed slightly and he reached up to straighten the square- cornered cap on his head “I am mandated to present to you, Primàrio, Sir Warford Pierpoint Edmund Glennard, Earl of Wessex, Envoy to Italia Federata. Also”—he paused and indicated the oldest man in his party—”William Catesby, Esquire Royal to the former King, father of the Duke of Clarence and presently the Earl of Warwick.”

“You are all welcome, were there ten times as many of you,” Damiano assured him with half bows to the English party. “It is an honor to have such distinguished foreigners in our country. Lodovico Ariosto will express our sentiments for us.”

Nudged forward, Lodovico ground his teeth as he reached for his scroll. His giornea seemed not to fit any longer. He was certain that it was a waste of time and no one would hear him. He paused while the trumpeters of the Lanzi played a fanfare and the bells were stilled, and then, hating the whole occasion, he began to read in a voice that was so strained and high that it was near cracking. What an ordeal it was, he thought, to read for these English with the impossible names.

La Fantasia

Falcone stood beside Lodovico’s magnificent mount and stroked the glinting feathers of his folded wings. “He is amazing,” the Cérocchi Prince whispered in awe for the third time.

“I’ve had him since he was a yearling. He was one of the two I brought down out of the mountains,” Lodovico said, unable to keep his pride out of his voice. “You should have seen him then. He was all legs and feathers and every attempt he made at flying was simply pathetic.” He gave the beaked and taloned hippogryph another familiar pat on the neck. “He’s fine now. On land or in the air, I’ve never seen his match. I can’t imagine anything that could best him.”

“We were shocked at the horses brought to Nuova Genova,” Falcone said. “We’d never seen anything like them before, but this… He surpasses everything!”

“Yes, he is something special,” Lodovico agreed. “I’d offer to let you ride him, but he doesn’t take too well to strangers on his back. We might be able to ride him double. If we don’t have to go very far, he’ll be able to carry two of us.” While he was pleased that Bellimbusto was so much his own mount, he thought it would be a pleasure to see Falcone riding him in the sky. “Your name alone should give you the right to ride him. A falcon like you…” He stopped in mid- sentence. “I’ll send word to Italia. I’ll tell them that you must have one of Bellimbusto’s children.”