Ariosto (8 page)

Though Lodovico did indeed resent the intrusion on his time, he said, “I’ll do what I can, Damiano. Maffeo might have asked me himself.”

“But you could have refused him,” Damiano said mischievously. “You would not refuse me, however. Or so I hope.”

Lodovico gestured fatalistically, thinking as he did that this strange request, coming from Damiano in this way, flattered him, and though he could not admit it, he said, “It will be my pleasure.”

“I doubt it, but I thank you for doing it.” They were at the library door now and Damiano stopped, giving Lodovico one long, searching look. “I wish I could send you with the English to Muscovy, my friend.”

“Send me with the English?” Lodovico asked, dumbfounded. “But why?”

Damiano’s face darkened. “A reluctant spy is dangerous. If there were someone else to keep watch…” He shrugged. “I’ll have to find someone. Perhaps young Ippolito Davanzati.”

“That fop!” Lodovico burst out, injured that Damiano would place more confidence in that beautiful shallow young man than in himself.

“Precisely,” Damiano agreed. “He’s rich, self-indulgent, vain, and venal. Hardly a man Sir Thomas would confide in, or trust. Ippolito hates me. If he were convinced that the journey to Muscovy would in some way harm me, he would be eager to go. My Cardinale cousin would insist upon it.” He put his hand on Lodovico’s shoulder. “You’re too much my friend, and that would make you an object of suspicion, which would endanger you, Sir Thomas, and the mission.”

“I am willing to face danger,” Lodovico said quietly, but with a certain frightened pride.

“You may have to yet,” Damiano said, and under his jocularity there was a steely grimness. “It isn’t necessary now, but it may come to that.”

“Damiano?” He could sense a retreat in the other man, and wondered if, inadvertently, he had annoyed il Primàrio. He fixed his thumbs in his narrow, rosetted belt. “Tell me how I am to assist you and you may be sure I am your man.” He winced as he heard the fabric at his waist tear, then looked down, chagrined, at the dangling brocade belt.

“San Pietro del Pescatori!” Damiano stared and laughed, brown eyes sparkling. “What are you wearing such old clothes for? I know that poets are said to be unworldly, but Lodovico, this…?”

“It’s the best I have,” Lodovico said stiffly as he gathered up the ruined belt.

“Then order something new. I can’t have you looking threadbare. It makes me appear mean. Tell Rodrigo to make you something appropriate. Two giorneas and one of these French-style doublets.” He shook his head. “Those doublets. If they get any shorter, we’ll have to pad our bums as well as our thighs and calves. You’ve seen what the English are wearing now—codpieces like Turkish cushions! That monstrosity that Sir Warford had on…”

“Outrageous,” Lodovico nodded, though he had been more amused than shocked by the English fashions. He realized, irrelevantly, that Alessandra would be delighted to hear of Damiano’s instructions. “My wife and son could use new garments,” he ventured.

“Of course. You needn’t wait for me to give you permission. Let Rodrigo know when you’ve decided you want something more. You’re not unreasonable in your demands. Two new suits of clothing in a year is quite acceptable; three, if there are state reasons for the third.”

Lodovico inclined his head. “As you wish.”

“Lodovico,” Damiano said kindly, “you’re not here on sufferance, and I won’t deny you any sensible request. But I can’t watch over you either. If there is something you require, give the order for it. If you have doubts, ask me, but don’t wait for me to authorize it before you act. I have too much on my mind for that.”

“Thank you,” Lodovico said, not certain why.

Damiano’s long hand dropped. “Watch More while he’s here, Lodovico. I want to know what he does.”

“As you wish.” Even as he accepted this assignment, he felt some of the pleasure of his meeting the Chancellor of England go out of him.

“It’s not what I wish, but what I must do.” Abruptly he turned and pulled the door open, and without another word strode away down the hall.

La Fantasia

Somehow Lodovico survived the evening celebration with the Cérocchi, but much of it seemed a dream. He could not look at Aureoraggio without feeling his love go through him like a lance. When she moved, the earth trembled. When she spoke, the wind was hushed and the water in the nearby river was silent. Like the sunbeam for which she was named, she shone among the others. Nothing was more graceful than the motion of her hands. The very air was perfumed by her breath.

There were endless speeches, or so it seemed to Lodovico as he sat in the great hall of the castle of the Cérocchi King. Ballads were sung of the exploits of the heroes and the perfidy of their enemies. Great scholars told of the history of this gallant people and the priests commended them to the care of the Cérocchi gods. Through it all, Lodovico struggled with himself, forcing his eyes not to look at Falcone’s betrothed, stilling his voice so that he would not declare his love, or betray himself to his valiant comrade.

Toward the end of the gathering, the great wizard-priest Cifraaculeo rose and came to the hearthside. He was ancient, gnarled as a Grecian olive tree and of the same silvery darkness. Unlike the others who were garbed extravagantly, he wore only a long, simple robe of supple, white deerskin. A cap of long pheasant feathers covered his steel-white hair. As he approached the hearth, the Cérocchi grew silent.

“I have listened tonight,” Cifraaculeo began in a voice high and quivering with emotion, “to the reminders of our glory and the bravery of our people. This good Italian”—he acknowledged Lodovico with a grave gesture—”has brought us pledges that inspire us all. The water is wide, Cérocchi, and the wiles of the enemy are endless. Though we wish for the promised allies who will be our brothers, still it is not wise to place faith in them until we see them gathered before us. No!” This last was to Lodovico, who had risen to protest. “I do not dispute your honor. I wish only to remind you all of the treachery of Anatrecacciatore. Think of his power, his malice and his goals. Even now, speaking here, we are in danger. Who among us is invulnerable to his great magic? Think! Who can be sure that an evil ghost sent to watch and listen has not entered his body and is at this moment letting Anatrecacciatore overhear every word we speak? Who? I have my spirits to protect me, but so subtle is our oppressor, so versed in loathsome spells, that no one can be inviolate. Take my warning to heart, for I give it with the last of my hope. If we fail here, then we are doomed forever.” He had raised his hands in a gesture not unlike a Papal benediction.

“Cifraaculeo!” Lodovico cried out in answer to this. “I am a foreigner here. And though it may be as you tell us, yet I think that a sorcerer would not know how to possess me or any of my countrymen. We do not know your ways, and that in itself may protect us.”

“Bravely spoken!” Falcone said.

“Bravely and foolishly spoken,” Cifraaculeo corrected him. “Ignorance is no protection. How can you resist an enemy you do not know, cannot see, have not identified?” His questions brought a rustle of uncertainty to the gathering. “Yes, you think of this, do you not? You see now that your promised aid might be worse than no aid at all.” He turned toward Falcone and his father Alberospetrale. “You are to lead us, you stalwart men, and our warriors will follow you loyally. But still we must be warned that they are placing themselves in danger, for it may be that the Prince and the King have been possessed by the hideous imps of Anatrecacciatore, for the purpose of destroying you all.”

“Wait!” Lodovico commanded, and got to his feet. “It is not fitting that I speak so to you, venerable Cifraaculeo, and did not my honor move me, I would refrain now. But though you give good counsel, and warn us of the hazards around us, still you give us a greater disservice, for if we cannot trust one another, we cannot go into battle. Those who fight side by side are brothers, and as brothers they must trust each other.” He turned, regarding each Cérocchi warrior in turn. “Who among you is willing to stand at my side in battle?”

Half of the men responded loudly and Falcone leaped to his feet with a great shout.

Lodovico seized Falcone by the arm. “Yes! And I have called you brother,” he declared, trying fruitlessly to turn the image of Aureoraggio from his mind as he met Falcone’s eyes.

“And will the rest of you feel so when the man beside you plunges his lance into your vitals?” Cifraaculeo asked, his demeanor changing as rage filled him. “I do not wish to be the last wizard-priest of the Cérocchi, but I tremble. You wish to war against a terrible evil, and for that each of us is grateful. You will not triumph, however, if you deceive yourselves. You have seen the warriors of flint and frost, and know their relentless force. You have had to battle the inflated skins of your dead comrades, and known only sinking horror at such combat. And that is only a part of Anatrecacciatore’s strength. He will send you dreams of slimy, gobbling horror that will drive you to madness. He will visit you with fires and rains that will turn your line of march into endless desolation. Every creature in the forest will be at his command, and there will be ravening wolves, monstrous bears, enraged panthers—even the squirrels will be your tormentors.”

“Then why do you wish to fight at all?” Lodovico demanded of the Cérocchi, turning his back on Cifraaculeo. “If there can only be death and defeat at the hands of Anatrecacciatore, why do you not flee now? It may be that your wizard-priest is right. Yet I would rather die opposing those who would destroy me than perish from my own cowardice.”

This last word stung the Cérocchi. An angry mutter pushed through the warriors and one or two put their hands to their daggers.

“Yes, draw your weapons, Cérocchi,” Lodovico said. “Better to draw them and die honorably than listen to despair. I tell you this: it may be that the forces of Anatrecacciatore will overwhelm us all and we will fall to the last man on the field of battle. I t
may
be. But if you do not fight, then that death is utterly assured.” He folded his arms on his chest and the Order of San
B
asilio glowed in the firelight. “If it were my choice, I would go to battle alone and unarmed rather than turn from such a fight. In our holy writing, we are told that a shepherd boy with a rock and a sling brought down an armed and fearsome giant. If that can happen to a youth of Israel, it can happen to the warriors of the Cérocchi.” He felt Falcone’s arm on his shoulder as he returned to his seat, but all that mattered to him was the smile that Aureoraggio bestowed upon him.

Alberospetrale was on his feet, motioning the suddenly noisy gathering to silence. “What this foreigner has told us is right. We deserve nothing more than dust if we will not protect ourselves and our land. Yet, Cifraaculeo is also correct, for there is more danger here than comes from spears and arrows. We must be on guard at all times. For that reason alone, let our wizards, with Cifraaculeo to supervise them, employ all their arts for every protection known to them. Let them petition the gods of the earth and the air to aid us.”

Cifraaculeo heard this and bowed his submission, but as Lodovico watched him, he thought he had never seen a more cynical expression in a human face.

“What is it you fear?” Falcone asked Lodovico two days later as they strolled down the street of the armorers. Here men sweated over their forges, tempering metal with the blood of goats and hardening wooden staves in beds of hot ashes.

Lodovico did not answer at once. “I fear, I think, the doubts that Cifraaculeo has sown. I have listened to your warriors at night, and though I am inexpert in your tongue, still I know the sounds of anxiety, and I have heard them too often.” He pulled at the short, curls of his neat beard. “If I had not been assured to the contrary, I would think that your wizard-priest was with Anatrecacciatore rather than you Cérocchi.”

Falcone was shocked and did not respond for a moment. “It’s unthinkable. He’s been the servant of our King and our gods for all of his life. Oh, I agree that I has not been useful of late.” His laughter was brief and strained. “He’s an old man and his visions trouble him. His warnings are well taken, for there is always danger from the magic of Anatrecacciatore.”

“Perhaps,” Lodovico said slowly. “The ways of our peoples are often dissimilar, and it may be that I am refining too much upon what I have heard.” Again he pulled thoughtfully at his beard. “I will have to warn my men of these things. I’m afraid that my Italians…”—he made a gesture of dismissal—”they might not understand why you allow your wizard-priest to say such things to you on the eve of war.”

“And do not your priests speak with you?” Falcone gave him a startled look. “I thought, after the banquet…”

“Our priests shrive and bless us, they do not predict disaster. Every soldier will confess and his sins will be forgiven so that he may battle with a clean heart and the praise of God on his lips.” Lodovico recalled his guilty love that so thoroughly possessed him, and was not certain he dared confess it, for he could not, in honesty, say that he repented it. He mastered the sudden tremor within him. He had never before fought with sin on his soul.

“We do not do these things,” Falcone said thoughtfully. “I have seen a mass. Andrea Benci tried to explain it to me. I see why it is desirable to drink the blood of your Great King, because that is the way to strength, but why was there no other sacrifice? A god who is to help you in war should not be offered mere bread. He needs something better to bring his help—a horse or enemy prisoners.”

Lodovico threw back his head and laughed. “No, no, you don’t understand my friend. God has already had His blood sacrifice in His Own Son. He asks no more of us than that we live as His Son taught us, in harmony with one another.”

Falcone’s brow furrowed. “In harmony? Yet you pray to him when you go to war?” He sighed in exasperation. “No, Ariosto, do not try to explain it to me. From what I know of your achievements on the field of honor, I cannot doubt but what your god assists you, and that you are a credit to his power, but if he desires that you live harmoniously, I don’t understand it.” He had been staring straight ahead, preoccupied. Then his expression lightened. “Beloved!” he called out as he saw Aureoraggio approach them.