Ariosto (37 page)

Di Lozza had gone to the window and stood looking out on the evening. The last of the sunset had faded from the sky and only a blush in the western sky hinted that the day had just ended. He refused to acknowledge Lodovico’s presence.

Lodovico selected one of the four chairs and sat in it. There were candles and a lantern to light the room, which pleased him. He would have liked to have something to read, but there was nothing in the chamber but statues and paintings, so he contented himself with staring at a
Flight into Egypt
. In this light and at this distance, the edges were softly blurred and the color stood out boldly.

“Paintings,” di Lozza announced, “are idolatrous.”

“Perhaps they are, if you are seeking idols.” He said it mildly, more to indicate he had heard than to make comment, and so he was surprised when di Lozza rounded on him in fury.

“I tell you that they are damnable! They are tools of the Devil! They are sent to confuse the people into error and sin!” At each of these statements, he struck his fist into the opposite palm.

“But the saints have said that there is much that painting can teach us,” Lodovico said, hoping to calm the man.

“They were in error. God despises those excesses. He needs nothing more than the earth and sky to teach us His lessons. The rest is vanity. Worldly men don’t understand that. Only men of God know. Men of God see beyond the world.” He shook his head. “If a man’s servants speak against him, if they give warning in their hearts, it must be God at work. Loyal servants defend their masters, as priests defend God. If there is no reform…”

“If there is no reform,” Lodovico prompted when it seemed that di Lozza had lost track of what he was saying.

“Savonarola tried it, and he was sent away as punishment. He was a willing, ardent servant of God who cared nothing for the world, who sought to end the corruption around him. A Godless Pope and a reprobate Prince sent him to Saxony. Yet he was not silenced. I will not be silenced. You may send me away, but still the servants will know that the master is degenerate, and they will accomplish…” Quite suddenly he stopped. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No,” Lodovico answered gently.

Di Lozza accepted this mutely. He began to walk around the room, pausing at each statue and picture to look at it. His expression was that of a man looking into a charnel house and his nostrils were pinched by the spiritual stench.

As the man in white made his censorious tour of the room’s treasures, Lodovico watched him. What was it about di Lozza that disturbed him so much? Was it simply that he had attacked Lodovico’s work, which was more painful than if he had attacked with swords and cannons? He had to admit that was probably the case. Yes, Lodovico told himself, when it came to his work he was touchy as a bear in spring. He tried to be philosophical and find amusement in his antics, but he could not. He could laugh at the unkempt state of his beard and the run in his silken leggings, but he was unable to detach himself from the words he scribbled on paper. Words on paper! Ephemeral things, he thought in a stern way, but the rush of his pulse denied it. He stared at di Lozza, forcing himself to concentrate on the man, to put his inner debate aside. There we something he must do. He cleared his throat.

“Tell me—you said that when a man’s servants speak against him it bodes ill.”

“And so it does,” di Lozza affirmed. “It is the part of the servant to be loyal to an honest and Godly master.”

“Yet you said that there were servants who spoke against their master. Did you mean il Primàrio when you said the master?” He knew the answer, but he could think of no other way to get the man to discuss what he knew.

“I meant all those who are without true faith and who plunder the Kingdom of God with their blasphemy.” He had stopped beside a small, gilded Madonna, a fresh-faced, placid young woman in a garden dandling a sober-miened infant on her knee. The work was by Fra Filippo Lippi and regarded as a great treasure. Carmelo di Lozza perused it, his lips tightening. “A disgrace. The man was no more a monk than you are. He littered all Toscana with his bastards! But he dared to paint Maria in all her purity.”

Lodovico wanted to suggest that it might have been the only way Lippi could experience purity, in that serenely stupid and vacant woman. He turned the conceit over in his mind and thought it was worth exploring. Innocence and ignorance were often assumed to be the same thing, he noted, and yet they could not be. Then he remembered what he had to do. “Were you speaking in metaphor about servants, or have actual servants been talking to you?” he persisted.

“I am no priest. I hear no confession. But there are those who are troubled in soul, and they come to me when they can find no succor in this venal city. They tell me that the churches are stuffed with pomp but the Majesty of God is missing. I have said that it is because the state is guided by an ambitious and worldly man. The churches are tainted with the desecrations of the civic leaders.”

“What servants?” Lodovico asked, determined to stay on the subject.

“Knowing ones,” di Lozza answered smugly. “I am not so foolish as to listen to every complaint as valid, or to assume that a dissatisfied scullery maid has legitimate cause for her protests, but highly-placed men, who are close to…” A crafty look came into his eyes and he looked away from Lodovico. “It does not become me to speak of it, for though I have no vows to keep, yet I regard what has been said to me as protected by the seal of confession.”

“Then why tell me at all?” He knew the answer, even if di Lozza did not, and it disappointed him. Up until that moment, di Lozza, in his own way, had been boasting. He did not tell of his great deeds, but he did revel in his influence. So Carmelo di Lozza was a fraud, whether he recognized it himself or not. It was an effort for Lodovico to contain his indignation. Here was a man posing as saintly, but who was as engrossed in manipulation and the wielding of temporal power as any of the greedy courtiers in the banquet hall. He wanted to grab the pleated front of di Lozza’s lucco and shake him as he would a disobedient child. What caused Lodovico the distress was the realization that part of him had wanted di Lozza to be genuine, to be nothing but a misguided but well-intentioned man in the throes of a religious passion. Lodovico felt cheated and sullied.

Di Lozza had picked up a small ceramic figure, a study by the great, irascible Buonarroti. He turned over in his fingers, his face intent. “He is at Roma, is he not? With the Pope?”

“Yes,” Lodovico answered. “Clemente has known him since they were boys. Buonarroti is older, of course.”

“He has done much for the Church, hasn’t he? He’s not a priest, either. I have heard the Cardinale say that he would like to see more sacred works in Firenze.” He put the figure back on the narrow table.

Lodovico, recalling the terrible interview he had witnessed, had nothing to say. He looked down and discovered that there was a rip in the front of his giornea, very small, but still a rip. How had it happened? he wondered, thinking back over the evening and the one previous occasion he had worn the garment. He could not account for the tear, but there it was, reproaching him. He pressed the rent together with his fingers, as if the cloth could heal itself.

Di Lozza turned away and went back to the window, refusing to speak again until the understeward knocked on the door, more than an hour later.

Margaret Roper stared at the Papal seals on the letter handed to her. Giulio de’ Medici had been taught penmanship by the finest calligraphers in Firenze and a simple request looked like poetry in his elegant hand. She had kissed the wax impressions under his signature when it was given her, but could not bring herself to read the missive.

“My once-removed first cousin wishes you to come to Roma,” Damiano explained. “He has sent me his instructions. I gather that your father wrote to His Holiness and told him what he was doing in Russia. Because Henry is not likely to receive Sir Thomas kindly, the Pope is extending his hospitality to your entire family until such time as all of you are properly welcomed in England.”

Lodovico, looking up from the papers Margaret had given him, drew in his breath sharply. Henry Tudor had thrown down the glove when he had divorced his wife Katherine and married Mistress Boleyn and now the Pope was taking up the challenge. Open defiance of the Church would not be tolerated. Lodovico glanced at Damiano, but il Primàrio’s face was a polite mask and he could read nothing there.

“But why?” Margaret Roper asked finally, the very question that burned in Lodovico.

“He says that he wishes to honor your father and his family for your steadfast faith. You are an example to Catholics everywhere. It’s in the letter.” Damiano had folded his arms over his chest.

Lodovico’s apartments in Palazzo Pitti were on the south side of the north wing, three pleasant, light rooms overlooking the terrace and the enormous gardens. Damiano was adding a third orchard higher up the slope and there were dusty tracks through the flowers to the incomplete plantation. It was a warm day, with early autumn sunlight flooding through Firenze like the gilt rays in Fra Angelico’s paintings. Until the messenger had arrived, Lodovico and Margaret had been enjoying what they still called a lesson, but had become an erudite conversation. The arrival of the messenger changed that.

Margaret bent her head over the page and studied it as if she had no knowledge of Latin whatsoever, and was trying to find one recognizable word. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly and looked toward Damiano for an explanation.

Damiano refused to meet her eyes. He strolled to the nearest window. “His Holiness doesn’t like Henry Tudor usurping his authority. He feels the King of England is overstepping himself.” He stared out into the afternoon. “I think that he has every intention of settling the question of Papal supremacy once and for all. Spain has been a necessary evil, and the German States, well, no Pope has known what to do with the German States. But England, that is another matter. If England’s rebellion is tolerated, then who might be next? France? He can’t allow that.”

“But how will this serve him?” Margaret demanded, then flushed. “I am sorry, Primàrio. It may be that we are an embarrassment to you. My father implied as much in one of his letters…” In her confusion, her Italian faltered and she spoke in English. “He told me that your situation is awkward with Clement.”

“I gather from what Lodovico has told me that Sir Thomas was very much troubled by the differences between my Papal cousin and me.” He picked up the letter. “It is not only the King of England he is asserting his power over, but the Primàrio of Italia Federata, as well. Church and state don’t run in harness well in Italia.” There was a hurt in Damiano’s eyes as he looked from Margaret to Lodovico. “Neither is willing to match pace with the other.”

“But His Holiness is a Medici, isn’t he?” Margaret asked, bewildered.

“Yes, and a member of the senior branch, but a bastard. There is the difficulty. Within the family, he is in a slightly subordinate position because of the illegitimacy, though he is of my father’s generation. Yet, because he is of the senior line, he is in a slightly superior position to, say, my cousin Cosimo, and Cosimo is his inferior within the Church as well. No doubt there are times Giulio would be happy to see Cosimo in my place.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind, Margharita. You and your husband may remain here, if that is your desire, but I fear I must comply with the Pope’s request and send at least part of your family to Roma.”

Margaret smoothed the soft fabric of her dress. She had adopted the Italian fashions entirely now, and her light-brown hair shone under an embroidered cap. “I would not want to be separated from my stepmother and my sisters and brother. I am certain that William would prefer we stay together, as well. Forgive me, Premier. We have had nothing but kindness from you…”

“Your father might dispute that,” Damiano said quietly.

“He understood,” Lodovico put in. “He assured me he did, and saw that it must be for the best.”

“Did he, my friend?” Damiano put his hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “You’re a daughter worthy of your father, Margharita. I can find it in myself to envy him you.”

Margaret had been at the Italian court long enough to know how things stood with Damiano and his sons, and so she did not answer at once. “It is my fortune to be very like my father,” she said at last, picking her words with care. “I think that another man might have found me to be a hoyden and disobedient. God was kind to us.” She folded her hands and assumed the appearance of tranquility, though her eyes burned.

Whatever Damiano might have said was stopped as Alessandra bustled through the door. She was carrying a small basket of mending, and her hair was escaping from the netting that covered the coiled braids. “Ah!” she cried when she saw Damiano. “Next time you must warn me.”

There was an uneasy moment while Lodovico shifted in his chair, and then he shrugged. “I didn’t know myself until Damiano walked through the door. It was a usual lesson afternoon…”

“Your lessons!” Alessandra beamed at Margaret. “I am so pleased that they have continued. I was afraid that, even back in Firenze, with Virginio off in Paris, I would never see a young face or hear educated conversation. I was afraid that I would have to pass my time among the women who speak of nothing but servants and sewing and trinkets. But having you here…” She sighed happily and settled into a high-backed chair near the window. “I’ll try not to interrupt. Do go on.” She had already opened the basket and was selecting a thread from one of several wound on wooden spools.

“We weren’t doing lessons,” Lodovico said when Damiano and Margaret had refused to speak. “There has been a message from the Pope.”

“Nothing disagreeable, I hope?” Alessandra asked. “His Holiness is a little high-handed at times.” She chuckled. “Do you remember the time when he came to a governing convocation with half the Papal court? High Mass every morning in Santa Maria del Fiore, full rituals in all the churches, and all the whores in the city tottering between bed and confessional for most of April.”