Ariosto (36 page)

The rest of the Cicora party, hearing this, added their impressions and then let the man continue. “We were at a loss, for in the dark we did not know how far it was to be safe to venture without being similarly trapped.”

“Accettafosco,” Lodovico said quietly to the fallen man, “you are safe. You are free.”

“If it were not for Ariosto, surely our comrade would already be hunting with his ancestors. While we debated among ourselves how best to proceed, this good man stripped off his garment and was crawling toward Accettafosco.” At this confession, he looked abashed.

The men with Massamo and Falcone stared at Lodovico as he rose from the prostrate figure. “I know I am a fright, covered with mud as I am,” he said with a hesitant smile, “but I trust you will excuse me.” He looked at all the warriors gathered in the narrow clearing. “Accettafosco must be bathed and warmed, and I would like the same for myself. And,” he added diffidently, “if one of you would be kind enough—though I would not blame you for refusing—to lend me a cloak. I am soaked through and I’m quite cold.”

Falcone signaled imperiously. “Any man here would be honored to have you accept his cloak.” He turned to the Cicora warrior. “Nettocchio, I charge you with the task of caring for Accettafosco. See that he is bathed at once. We will march at midnight, so he must be ready by then.” As he rapped out these instructions, he drew his own cloak from around his shoulders.

“My Prince,” Lodovico said as it was held out for him, “I cannot. It will be ruined.”

“Take it, take it,” Falcone insisted before turning to those who had accompanied him and Massamo Fabroni. “I have heard mutterings from some of you, whispers that we are not to trust the Italians who fight beside us. There are those of you who think that they would abandon us at the first real danger. Is there any of you who believe that now?” His piercing eyes challenged them all to answer. “Come, I give you the opportunity. He extended his hand as if offering consent to any who came forth. “No one? Not one of you thinks that Ariosto is a fraud and a coward? Yet I have heard those words, I thought. How was it I was so misled?”

Lodovico felt a great humility possess him. He held Falcone’s cloak in front of him, staring at the fine doeskin and splendid ornaments on it. He felt that his presence sullied it, and turned to Massamo. “My friend, may I have your cape?”

The Lanzi captain goggled. “A Prince’s cape is better than mine,” he sputtered.

“But I am a soldier, not a Prince,” Lodovico pointed out with a gentle smile. “Your cape is more fitting.”

Falcone began an amazed protest, but Lodovico handed back the beautiful cloak. “If, at the end of the battle, you wish me to have it, then give it to me. For the test of valor will be passed and we will be wholly aware of whether such an honor is merited.”

Reluctantly, Falcone took his cape. “It will be as you wish. At the end of the battle, if we both are both still alive, it will be yours.”

Lodovico smiled gratefully at the Cérocchi prince. “I thank you, Falcone. He was already sliding Massamo’s cape about his shoulders. “Soldiers’ cape endure much abuse, and this will make little difference.” Then, quite suddenly, he wiped his hands as clean as he could on the sides of his thighs, then put one hand on Falcone’s shoulder, the other on Massamo’s. “Look at us,” he said, amusement glinting in his fine chestnut eyes. “What foe can overcome men like you?”

“Or like you?” both men responded at once, and, all three caught in the heartening glow of brotherhood, they went together through the crowd out of the clearing by the marsh, accompanied by the cheers of their men the muffled quacking of ducks.

La Realtà

Amid the gorgeous velvets and brocades, the man was conspicuous for the absolute simplicity of his white woolen lucco. Carmelo di Lozza walked the length of the banquet hall of the Palazzo Pitti, looking straight ahead, apparently unaware of the susurrus of whispered speculation around him. He was not more than twenty-five; his hair was clipped raggedly short to demonstrate his humility and renunciation of worldly vanities. Yet what there was of his hair was flaxen blond and it glistened like a halo. His face was as aloof and as beautiful as a Botticelli saint, and his eyes were deep, serene pools of cerulean blue.

“Why doesn’t he complete the allusion and wear a crown of thorns?” a voice in the crowd sniggered loudly.

From his place by the sideboard where he was pouring wine for Margaret Roper, Damiano spoke sharply. “I have given instructions to you all that there will be no disrespect. If you cannot abide by that, you must leave.” He let his voice drop back to normal conversational levels, though in the sudden quiet it carried throughout the hall. “There you are, Margharita. Italia Federata has no finer vintage to offer you.”

Margaret was already flushed and the rosy hue deepened. “I am sure it is superb.”

“God rewards true faith,” Damiano responded impishly. “I trust our vintners can do as well.” He was resplendent tonight in a long farsetto of sea-green silken damask over narrow, knee-length slashed Venetians. Two years before, the high Spanish ruffs had been all the rage, but since Clemente had put Spain under interdict, the fashion had changed and now Damiano showed himself at its forefront with a wide, ruffled collar of French lace. His silk leggings were held by embroidered garters fastened below the knee, and he was shod in soft, duck-billed slippers. He allowed Carmelo di Lozza to catch his attention at last.

“I was summoned,” di Lozza said. He had a beautiful voice, as well, and he was clever enough to use it.

“Yes.” Damiano regarded him steadily. “I’ve heard amazing things about you, di Lozza.”

“And I of you,” was the answer.

Damiano studied the man more closely. “What am I to infer from that remark?” He indicated the impressive gathering. “I have no secrets from these people—and could not have even if I desired a few—and anything you might say to me in private can as well be said here.”

Carmelo di Lozza reluctantly looked around. “I would not change my answer for the convenience your followers, de’ Medici. I am only a tool in the hands of God.” He cast his eyes down. “You cannot awe me with your fine company and your riches and your luxurious viands. I have seen the flight of angels and I know that earth has nothing to compare to it.”

“No doubt,” Damiano agreed. “We do the best we can, however.” He motioned to Lodovico, who stood off to the side. “Come here, my friend. I want you to listen to this saintly man.”

Lodovico obeyed unwillingly. When he had been told the day before of the plan for this evening, he had found the whole idea distasteful, and now that the confrontation was underway, he recoiled from it. He could not bring himself to defy Damiano in this place, with his enemies all around him. “I am here, Primàrio,” he said as he touched Damiano’s shoulder.

I am glad of it, good poet.” He lifted his voice so that it would carry through the drone of conversation. “You are a man of genius and wisdom, Lodovico. There is a special gift of vision that is the blessing and the curse of poets, and you have it in abundance. And therefore, you will be more knowledgeable than I, than most of us here, in this case. Until now you have had only your Muse to counsel you, but now the choirs of heaven may add their efforts to your inspiration.” He turned back to di Lozza. “That is one of the many things I have heard about you, that you speak with the angels. Do not, I pray you, disappoint us.”

Inwardly, Lodovico shrank from the sarcasm Damiano heaped on the man in white. He wanted to tell il Primàrio that it was a tactical error to alienate this self-proclaimed visionary, but he had listed all his objections already and knew that it was fruitless to do so again. He muttered, “I want nothing from this man.”

“Lodovico!” Damiano admonished him. “Who else may we rely on, if not you? My cousin Cosimo is not here, so we have no officer of the Church who is of high enough rank to judge the merit of this man. Without the Cardinale, we have to improvise, and you yourself have told me before that poets, saints, and madmen are all brothers.”

Di Lozza was gazing at Lodovico, and for an instant his candid blue eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “So you are the idolatrous poet Ariosto.”

“I wouldn’t describe myself that way,” Lodovico answered good-naturedly. He was determined not to be offended by any challenge di Lozza offered him. “I am a good son of Holy Mother Church, or I try to be.”

“That is not good enough. It is easy to say in this company, in this room.” Carmelo di Lozza permitted his gaze to travel through the room, over the guests and the furniture and the paintings and the statues. “Surrounded by luxury, supported in your vices, you confess with pride and then you commit them afresh, supported and encouraged by the man you call il Primàrio.”

“Vice? Luxury?” Lodovico demanded, the unnecessary accusations stinging him. “This is the first new giornea I’ve had in five years. My wife and I live simply, because we must. Yet I know that I am fortunate. My patron is not a whimsical man, and he is generous. I am encouraged to write what I wish to write and not what he would like me to write. There are few poets who can say that. If you rebuke me for what you see as privilege, then remember that without this so-called privilege, I could not realize my art. If I had to break my back digging in the earth, or ruin my eyes weaving cloth, or wear out my learning attempting to teach recalcitrant children, then all I would ever have done is scribble a few lines that would be forgotten. But this man and this court offer me a haven, so that instead of a few sheaves of incomplete verses, I have now a body of works, of epics and plays and romances…” He was as astounded as the rest of the gathering at this outburst, and was not certain where it would lead.

Di Lozza cut him short. “These things in which you take pride are ornaments of Satan. You do not dedicate your work to the Glory of God. You say that you are supported. So would you be in a hermit’s cell, in a cloister, but no, you must have worldly acclaim for your profane writings.”

“That’s not so!” Lodovico cried out because he feared that it was.

“Then it would be better for you to leave this place, this city, and live in obscurity rather than spend your time in creating lying tales of heathenish cowards for the delight of these degenerate wastrels.” He said this calmly, with that strange composure that was as distinctive as his clothing.

My tales aren’t lying. They’re romances, fictions…” His ire was rising and he was aware that in some subtle way this imposter in white was baiting him. He tried to recall all his good intentions, all the admonitions he had given Damiano on the benefits of tolerance, but none of them came to mind.

“Are they parables to show the Will of God? They are not.” Di Lozza tucked his hands into his ample sleeves and gazed down at the intricate parquetry of the floor. “Why do I subject myself to this, to the shame and the ridicule of you impious villains?” A dreaminess stole over his features and he smiled slightly. “God, my God, You have mandated a task that fills me with trepidation. Guide me.”

Lodovico was prepared to dispute further with di Lozza, but he felt Damiano’s hand on his arm and heard a soft, restraining word in his ear.

Carmelo di Lozza sank to his knees and the banquet hall grew silent. The man in white was trembling and his head lolled back. His features were contorted now, as if in pain or ecstasy, and his breath was loud in his throat. “O God, O God, O God,” he intoned.

One of the courtiers tittered nervously.

“Sin, sin, sin, all around me. Cleanse this place, I beseech You. The stench—ah! The chastening rod and scourge must be felt. There must be good men to lead, men of God, not the world.” Suddenly di Lozza began to weep. “I mourn for you, Firenze. Lost, benighted, led into the trackless wastes of degradation.” There was spittle on his lips and his beautiful voice was harsh, high and grating. “There must be one to lead them back. Your Princes on earth, my God. Send us Your Prince to be our Prince!” With this last frantic plea, Carmelo di Lozza toppled to his side, shaking, sobbing, his face recognizable.

Damiano stared down at him. “Who has told him this? Who has made him believe?” He spoke softly though it was hardly necessary in the eruption of sound that filled the banquet hall. He beckoned to Lodovico. “When he comes to his senses, take him into the withdrawing room upstairs, the one with the two Verocchio bronzes. I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Lodovico said, averting his eyes. “I know I wasn’t supposed to get angry, but when he said my work is lies, well…” He was abashed, realizing how completely he had disappointed Damiano. His intentions had been good, he told himself defensively. But he had been provoked beyond anything acceptable.

“You pleased me very much, Lodovico,” Damiano said candidly. “I had not expected that—of either of you.” He glanced swiftly around the hall. “I had better have the musicians start playing dance tunes or there will be chaos here.” He was about to move away when Lodovico stopped him with a question.

“Primàrio, what if he will not talk to me? After what passed between us…” He gave a helpless jerk to his shoulders.

“After what passed between you,” Damiano said with mirthless laughter, “he will undoubtedly want the last word.” He moved away through the crowd and stopped only to talk with Margaret Roper before motioning to one of the servants.

Lodovico squatted down beside the twitching di Lozza. He noticed that no one in the crowded hall was willing to come near them. With a sigh he watched the distorted, angelic features, waiting for the seizure to pass.

Andrea Benci held the door to the withdrawing room open. “I hope that you will not be long,” he said to Lodovico, making a point of ignoring di Lozza.

“We will be as long as is necessary, but no longer,” Lodovico assured him, and waited while Carmelo di Lozza went through the door. He could not resist turning to the old courtier and adding, “As il Primàrio’s secretary, doubtless you have other duties to attend to.”

“Doubtless,” Benci snapped. He glanced once at di Lozza and muttered a few words under his breath. “Have the understeward supply your wants,” he added before slamming the door closed.