Ariosto (17 page)

He sat still, shaking his head. “No, no, I think not. I suppose my courage is lacking. I’m certain I would squawk like a duck, being so out of practice.”

“I doubt it,” Lodovico reassured him as he sat down once more. Not waiting for Damiano to make up his mind, he began in his own, rather thin baritone,” ‘Non so che altro paradiso sia,/ quando amor fussi sanza gelosia./ Quando amor fussi sanza alcun sospetto,/ lieta sario la vita degli amanti,/ e’l cor pien di dolcezza e di diletto/ da non aver invidia in cielo a’ santi./ Ma, lasso a me, cagion di quanti pianti/ e questa maladetta gelosia!’”

“That’s beautiful,” Alessandra murmured, 1ooking across the table at her husband. “Don’t you think so?”

Whatever Lodovico might have answered—and he had no idea what to say to her—was interrupted by the young Virginio.

“It’s
stupid!”
he burst out. “Who can love without jealousy? Who would want to? It sounds silly, to be unsuspicious.”

“How do you know, puppy?” Damiano demanded, the mischievous light in his eyes once more.

Virginio set his jaw as his face went rosy as a bake-stove. “I know something about it, rest assured,” he announced with what he had intended to be hauteur but sounded much more like petulance.

“I thought so, too, at your age,” Damiano said kindly, but still amused. “I don’t know how my grandfather bore with me.” His voice changed and he laughed easily. “Yes, I do. He remembered his own youth, as I do. Those lyrics of his were written when he was older and had learned better.” He drank his wine slowly and deeply. “It’s going to be a beautiful night, I think.”

Lodovico watched as Damiano rose and went toward the edge of the courtyard where the end of the garden offered a sliver of a view of Firenze, lying below them. He had often stood there himself, seeing the city darken at evening, watching the distant, pale glare of windows and entrance torches that marked the streets, listening to the tolling of the bells in sudden, solemn conversation.

“Damiano,” Alessandra called after him, but Lodovico put his hand on her arm and motioned her to silence. She gave her husband an abrupt, troubled look, then shrugged.

“I’m going in,” Virginio declared, and almost overset the bench he had been sitting on in his haste to leave the courtyard.

“A difficult boy, these days,” Alessandra sighed as she looked after her son. There was no anger in her. She started to speak again, then lapsed into silence as she heard the door slam.

“He will be off to his studies soon, and that will end these displays of his,” Lodovico assured her as he got to his feet. “He thinks he is bored here, and so he tries to liven his days.” He took up the cup Damiano had left behind, refilled it and his own. “He will treasure this summer later, but now it only distresses him because he is certain that life is passing him by.”

“That’s ridiculous. He’s hardly old enough to shave.” There was an unbelieving sharpness in Alessandra’s tone, and she at last looked into Lodovico’s eyes. “It
is
ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Lodovico said sadly, “but at that age, there is such urgency. It is later that we learn to savor our days.” He turned away from her and walked across to where Damiano stood, silently looking down on the soft, distant lights of his city, lights that warmed the spring darkness the way the little candles before their shrines relieved the darkness of San Lorenzo, Santa Maria Novella, Santa Croce, San Marco, Ognissant, Santa Trinità, and all the other churches of Firenze.

Damiano’s face was sullen as he stared upward at Andrea Benci. The old courtier had not yet dismounted, though he had arrived some little time before.

“We have need of you, Primàrio,” he repeated in a manner that was at once demanding and subservient.

“I appreciate that,” Damiano snapped back, putting one hand to his aching head. “I only wish that you had not been quite so prompt in the exercise of your duties. And you need not remind me that Cardinale cousin would be insulted by my experience; he’s made that very plain.” He looked back toward the passage to the courtyard. “We are having soft cheese this morning. Come eat with us.”

“I broke my fast two hours ago, Primàrio.” There was a tone in his voice that implied that Damiano was being lax because he had not done the same.

From his place by the door, Lodovico called out, “We would be pleased if you would join us. The cook can press some fruits for you, Benci.”

There was a swift look of approval from Damiano that delighted Lodovico even as Andrea Benci said, “I haven’t the time. Perhaps another day.”

“Don’t be churlish,” Damiano admonished him. “Lodovico does well to ask you, and it is not kind of you to respond in such a manner.”

Andrea Benci blinked, unaccustomed to being addressed in that way, and straightened himself in the saddle. “I must refuse this kind offer,” he said stiffly. “Someone must make the proper preparations for il Cardinale. I fear I cannot stay if His Eminence is to be greeted as he deserves.”

“Do as you think best,” Damiano said, resigned. “I will be along when I am done. And I remind you that we’re not to see Cosimo until prandium, which gives me ample time to finish my meal here, ride back to Firenze, change my clothes, and spend a little time in my study before my cousin requires me.” He made a gesture that dismissed Benci, and came down the path toward Lodovico. “What you told Benci about the pressed fruit—will you have her press some for me? My head is filled with devils this morning.”

“Certainly,” Lodovico said, feeling lamentably pleased with himself for being able to continue his private conversations with Damiano despite the demands of il Primàrio’s high office. He nodded toward Benci as he stood aside for Damiano to pass through to the courtyard and was amazed to see fury on the secretary’s face, and a naked jealousy that was subtly twisted with gloating.

La Fantasia

Bellimbusto rose eagerly into the air, curvetting playfully after his lazy days in the Nuova Genova stables. His enormous wings thundered like well-filled sails, and they smoldered black and bronze as the sun struck him.

Lodovico felt the same elation as his splendid mount. To be airborne again! To set forth at last toward the enemy! His laughter was deep and full. He hated the waiting, the endless delays and preparations while the enemy made undiscovered progress. He was in his element, and laughed once more as he looked around at the thinning morning mist and the receding ground.

Now he could see the first rise of mountains in the distance, looking a furry blue. Here and there bands of green showed meadows and fields among the trees, and the glint of silver, like carelessly flung coins, marked the course of the river that curved its way from the mountains to the ocean.

Below and behind him were the lines of his troops. Falcone rode with Massamo Fabroni at the head of the soldiers. The Cérocchi prince was mounted on a huge red stallion that Lodovico had admitted he would have chosen for his own had he not been riding Bellimbusto. The old Lanzi captain was mounted on a rawboned liver-chestnut known for his unflagging energy and uniformly bad temper. They were a strange pair, to be sure, but the men behind them were certainly as ill-assorted as their leaders. Yet thought Lodovico as he brought Bellimbusto wheeling in an enormous circle over this unusual army, with the help of God, they might yet emerge the victors. The implacable enemy could be overcome.

As the shadow of Bellimbusto’s wings passed over Falcone, he looked up and lifted his bow in solemn greeting. Lodovico returned the salute and added one for Massamo Fabroni, then set his mount’s head toward the west.

Up here the winds were singing high, taunting songs that Lodovico knew well presaged a storm. To the south he could see an ominous dark line in the underbellies of towering, pink-shot clouds. The air itself crackled its anticipation. There would be time enough to make a good advance, he hoped, but this night they would have to stop early and make a secure camp. Fleetingly he wondered if Anatrecacciatore had called up the storm to harass the men who rode against him. It was possible, he knew. He had seen just such sorcery in the land of the Great Mandarin, though there the storms had come snaking in out of the desert, hot and treacherous as Turkish bandits. Here, the land was vaster and more verdant, yet Lodovico sensed that Anatrecacciatore would turn this to his advantage if he could.

As Bellimbusto’s wings strummed the air, Lodovico found himself remembering the leave-taking of that morning. He had no one to embrace him with the tenderness and fervor that so many of the men inspired. He had stood a little apart, desiring no pity for his isolation. But Falcone had found him, and had brought Aureoraggio to him. What torment he had known in that instant! He had been near to forgetting himself, but instead had murmured a few courteous remarks to the Scenandoa princess before thanking the Cérrochi prince for his consideration. Now he could see Aureoraggio’s face in the clouds, could hear her soft accents in the crooning wind. He told himself sternly that he should be watching the ground beneath him, not dreaming of that unattainable maiden. He sat straighter in his saddle and was glad that he had not brought his chittarone with him, for this way he had no excuse to lose himself in music.

Some little time later, he was far ahead of his troops on the ground. The forest rolled out below him, endless, with fewer and fewer clearings and cities to be seen. Lodovico marveled at the immensity of it. What would the lone traveler be faced with in that forest below? It was a sobering reflection. These forested mountains, resting in their blue-green haze, how often had they swallowed up men with the same casual ease that the sea devoured sailors? He looked toward the west where the mountains were higher, more formidable, and tried to remember what he had been told of the rivers that lay beyond.

He was distracted by the sound of birds, a joyous, shrill sound that seemed to well out of the trees below him. Lodovico leaned back in his saddle, delighted to hear the twittering chorus. He was astounded when, in the next instant, Bellimbusto let out a distressed cry and dipped suddenly before striving desperately for greater altitude.

Lodovico gripped his saddle with both hands, staring around in bewilderment. He tried to speak reassuring words to his mount, but in a moment his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth as he saw thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of birds erupt from the forest beneath them and begin a frenzied upward assault. The sound that up until that time had charmed Lodovico now took on the sinister characteristic of a war cry.

Valiantly Bellimbusto drove upward, his wings thundering his fear. Lodovico gave him his head and moved high in the saddle to give him more upward balance. The sound of the birds grew louder and louder, a terrible shriek like the mightiest storm wind.

The first attackers arrived, the small, swift birds with beaks and talons sharp as needles. They darted about the hippogryph, shrilling their wrath, plunging and diving at the eyes and neck of Bellimbusto and at the face and chest of Lodovico.

Fumbling for his great sword Falavedova in the ornate saddle scabbard, Lodovico was struck for a moment at how absurd it was, being high in the air battling sparrows, larks and linnets. These were creatures of beauty, of delight, not of this savage assault. He could feel blood on his face where the birds had struck and gashed him. Even as he dragged the sword from its case, Lodovico wondered how he could use it against such little, rapid foes. The long blade was designed to shear through armor, not feathers, to strike down soldiers, not songbirds. He felt helplessness as he saw the steel flash in the sunlight.

There were other sounds in the air now as the predators came upon them—hawks, falcons, eagles, powerful and restless as great cats, splitting the wind with faces like arrows. Their hooked beaks and keen eyes were quick to use the smallest weakness, quick to rip and tear. Their talons sank into flesh and their cries were screeches of loathing. Lodovico felt Bellimbusto lurch and scream as two white-headed eagles gouged for his eyes. The fabulous mount slid sideways on the wind as if seeking to escape from the tormentors that filled the air so densely that it was impossible to see what lay more than an arm’s length ahead. Infuriated now, Bellimbusto flailed out with his taloned front quarters and flung one of the fulvous-feathered eagles spiraling toward the forest that they could not see beneath them.

Though it offended his soldier’s pride, Lodovico began to lay about him with the flat of his blade, slapping the birds out of the air, sending them hurtling down. He could no longer aim to strike, but swung the sword wildly, praying that he did not touch his mount and end it for them both in one, long drop to the earth. Was this what the minions of Hell had endured at the hands of the angels? he wondered for an insane instant. With each swipe of his sword, he could feel the press of feathered bodies, hear the chorus of the wounded, but he saw little, and he felt as a blind man must when set upon by marauders. He yelled encouragement to Bellimbusto and sensed the answering strength.

Yet it was not enough. The larger, heavier birds were on them now, the geese, curlews, plovers, and turkeys. They were more dangerous than the hawks and eagles not only for their greater size but for their ferocity. Three enormous golden swans began to worry at Bellimbusto’s hindquarters even as the geese plucked at the black-and-bronze wings. Bellimbusto howled in protest, his gilded rear hooves striking out uselessly sending him and his rider lurching through the sky.

In panic Lodovico almost dropped Falavedova a clung to the high front of his saddle. His vision was blurred and his arms were so sore that he could not bear to lift them. With more determination than he had known, he possessed, he forced himself to hold the sword and to stay in the saddle as Bellimbusto rose sharply and dropped with sickening quickness, seeking to rid himself of the birds. There was still force in these movements, but Lodovico knew that it could not last much longer.

“Down! Down!” Lodovico shouted hoarsely to the hippogryph, and fought both dizziness and swifts as his mount descended. He tried to clear his eyes an thoughts. A little more time and the ground would rush upon them and they would be in the murderous branches. He set his knees against the heaving flanks and steadied the animal even as he guided him toward the forest below. There was a chance, he realized. He had seen a river sliding under the trees, and knew that there might well be beaches or grassy stretches near it.