Ariosto (41 page)

Lodovico reached over and patted her hand. “You are a good wife to me, Alessandra. You’re a good woman. You must forgive me for my…” He stopped and searched inwardly for the word, but it eluded him. I will eat, I promise you.”

“See that you do,” was her kindly, gruff answer. She watched him until he cleared a place for the tray and moved it. Then she hurried toward the door.

As Lodovico picked at the meal, his thoughts wandered. He could not bring himself to remember the morning, and the terrible messages of the heralds. Instead, he tried to imagine what Virginio was doing, what lodging he had found, what he had seen in Paris, how he liked the Université. He gazed out the window at the hills, touched now with a burnished autumn bronze. The first few leaves were falling, spangling the ground like gold coins idly and munificently flung along the walkways of the garden. All of the roses were gone. In the orchards, Lodovico’s near-sighted eyes could barely make out the men on ladders who brought in the bounty of the trees. It had been a good year, and the harvest was abundant, and only those who feared an early rain predicted anything other than plenty. Lodovico realized with a start that Sir Thomas More might well have arrived in Muscovy by now, and thought that it would be a pleasure to read of that distant and fabled city.

On his plate the food had grown cold, though he hardly noticed it. Lodovico began to gather up the pages on the table into a neat pile. He tried not to look at what he had written, but now and again, a phrase or a few lines would catch his eye and he would stop to read them over, his critical eye searching for imperfections which he found all too often for his taste. Perhaps no one but himself would see the awkward phrases and infelicitous images; the work would need revision, and he thought back to the twelve years he had spent in revising
Orlando Furioso
. He could not feel stimulated by the prospect of another such dozen years, though he knew that once he had. Testily he put the pages aside, then broke off a bit of bread and put it to soak in the congealing sauce.

When the door opened he did not look up, thinking it was Alessandra coming to hector him once more. Guiltily he popped the chunk of bread into his mouth and began to chew vigorously.

“Lodovico,” Damiano said as he came into the room. “I need you to come with me. Wear your best clothes.” He himself was magnificently dressed in a long silken farsetto in the dark-red of mourning. There was a black mourning wreath on his brow and white mourning bands on his elaborately puffed and slashed sleeves. His Venetians were the same dark red and the slashing showed linings of white satin. On a gold collar he wore the badge of la Federazione–a knotted rope worked in plaits of gold and silver. Lodovico had never seen him wear the badge at any time other than full state functions.

“Where are we going?” Lodovico asked as he got to his feet.

“To Andrea Benci’s festa, of course.” He watched Lodovico closely and saw apprehension, quickly concealed, tighten his face. “Do not be concerned, my friend. I will not behave stupidly. I am on guard against such things now.”

“Very well,” Lodovico responded cautiously. “Will you tell me why you are going?”

Damiano gave him a swift, acute stare. “Because I don’t want to create any more doubts than now exist. If I stay away, it will only add fuel to the fires started by Napoli and Sicilia. I can’t let that happen.” He folded his hands and studied the elaborate rings that flashed on his fingers. “I have little in reserve now. I had thought that when Sir Thomas returned, there would be time and information enough to shore up the breaches in la Federazione. I hadn’t realized how far our enemies had come. Sir Thomas, if he left Muscovy tomorrow, would not be here in time to divert their intentions. So,” he said more quietly, “I made an honest man a spy for nothing.”

Lodovico recalled the troubled tone of Sir Thomas’ letters, and could not find the words to deny this.

“And my son—my damned child—has given the dissident members of la Federazione the lever they need to turn us back to the old ways of petty, belligerent states. When Sir Thomas returns, he may well find Austria and Spain picking our bones.” Damiano’s voice had grown louder again, and ragged. He breathed deeply. “I am going to the house of Andrea Benci for his festa, where perhaps I may learn something to save us. I must do this.” He dropped his hands to his side. “I am depending on you to help me.”

Lodovico pushed the tray aside and put a little iron figure of San Giorgio on the stacked pages. “I will need time to change,” he said.

As be bowed his two late-arriving guests into his banqueting hall, Andrea Benci said in an undervoice, “Primàrio, do you think this is wise? With what you have undergone today, might it not be better if you kept…”

Damiano stopped him. “I am dressed in mourning. You need not fear that I will forget myself.”

“I did not mean to imply that, Primàrio,” Benci assured him, and allowed Damiano and Lodovico to precede him through the tall double doors to the two huge rooms where the festa was being kept.

Music and conversation faltered as Damiano strode into the room, and in the middle of the floor a few of the dancers missed the figure of the bel riguardo in the peregrina. Taking advantage of this, Damiano strolled into the banqueting hall and gestured his greeting.

Immediately the activities were resumed, but at a quickened, fervid pace, as if all in attendance had been caught napping and were determined to make amends.

Lodovico reached Damiano’s side as a group of young men came hurtling across the room. He recognized Tancredi Scoglio among them, and his lips tightened to a thin line. “Damiano…”

The back of Damiano’s hand touched his shoulder and Lodovico was silent. “Good evening,” he said to the young men.

“Primàrio,” one of them blurted out, his words not quite clear. “There is a rumor in the city. They say that Ippolito Davanzati is dead. They say that…” He realized then to whom he spoke and the rest was lost in mumbling.

“They say that my son Leone killed him,” Damiano finished for him, and only Lodovico sensed the iron control that kept his voice even. “That is what I have been told, and considering the source I have no reason to doubt it. As you see, I mourn my son. The message was three weeks old when it arrived and by now the execution must have been carried out.”

A pity about Ippolito,” Tancredi said boldly.

“A great pity,” Damiano agreed.

“And good riddance to…” Tancredi began, but one of the others hushed him.

“Per la Virgin; Scoglio, remember who it is,” one of them hissed, and Tancredi muttered a few words under his breath and crossed his arms in a manner at once defiant and sulky.

Lodovico looked about, seeking a means to extricate Damiano from this company, but everywhere he looked, he saw the same eager voracity, the same destructive hunger that shone in the faces of these young men. He tried to fold his arms but the huge padded sleeves of his giaquetta made this extremely difficult, and he was reduced to planting his hands on his hips, thinking that this bulky silhouette was a great nuisance, and wishing now that he had selected a more restrained fashion for his most formal clothes. He listened to the young men ask questions and waited for Damiano’s answers.

“I don’t know,” Damiano was saying to one of the Strozzi youths. “I was not informed of the nature of the burial services given Davanzati. They are of the Orthodox faith, but I hope that God can translate from the Russian as He does from the Latin. Perhaps the Poles had a priest in their train, in which case, a Mass will have been said. I’ve already dispatched orders to Santa Trinità for Masses for Davanzati, and for prayers for my son.”

“I’d think you’d be relieved,” another in the group said insolently.“A son like Leone must be an embarrassment.”

“You’re drunk,” Damiano countered mildly, but Lodovico could see the white around his mouth, and heard the tremor in his voice.

“Not so drunk that I don’t know a convenient accident when I see one,” the voice shot back, becoming more assertive and louder.

“Renaldo Tommassini,” Damiano said pleasantly, dangerously, “if you repeat that again tonight, or at any time in the future, you will learn more than you want to know about convenient accidents.”

At the mention of Tommassini’s name, Lodovico turned quickly, looking into the roistering young men for the speaker. He recognized the man at last, though Tommassini had frizzed and dyed his hair in the current fashion.

Renaldo Tommassini started to take up the challenge but was quieted by his companions.

“Damiano,” Lodovico said softly, “Ercole Barbabianca is in the adjoining room with several of his court. They will be eager to see you.”

“Such tact,” Damiano said, sotto voce, before bidding the young men a pleasant evening. As they crossed the room, he added, “They were harder to face than I thought they would be. That Tommassini…”

“Did you have a falling out with him?” Lodovico asked, puzzled by what had passed between Damiano and Tommassini.

“Falling out? I never had a falling
in
with him. Men of that stamp are not…reliable.” He paused to nod to an elder Gaetani, saying, “You are a long way from Roma, Signor’.”

“True, but here I am more content. He had the grand manner of the old aristocracy, and though his head was bald and more than half his teeth were missing, he conducted himself with a grace that enchanted Lodovico as he watched him.

“You are very kind,” Damiano said, touching cheeks with the old man before continuing on with Lodovico.

“But,” Lodovico said, resuming his question, “if you do not trust Renaldo Tommassini, why did you use him as a messenger?” He could still remember that high- handed young man demanding Sir Thomas’ letters, and he had to fight down the impulse to denounce Tommassini in front of all of Benci’s guests.

“What do you mean, use him as a messenger? I’ve never employed him in any way.” Damiano had stopped walking and was looking at Lodovico with sudden intensity.

“But…” Lodovico began, and then saw their host coming toward them. “Not now. We need privacy.”

Damiano was about to protest, but changed his mind with one crisp nod as he allowed Andrea Benci to catch his attention. “Many of my guests have spoken to me about the signal honor you’ve done me, Primàrio. I wanted to thank you for this tribute. At such a time, it would be wholly understandable if you were to overlook such courteous gestures.”

“It isn’t flattery alone that brings me here,” Damiano replied with a slight, cynical smile. “There are a few political matters that, like it or not, I must attend to before sunset tomorrow. It will be easier to manage this if I solicit opinions informally rather than wait for the meeting of the Console tomorrow.”

“Quite sensible,” Andrea concurred, “and yet, I still am honored that you visit me, as you could have easily commanded the presence of the Console at Palazzo Pitti this evening.” He gestured to the banquet hall. “I am sorry that I had not the opportunity to remove the garlands and replace them with wreaths, but…”

“Under the circumstances, it is not to be expected that you would make such a change.” Damiano indicated the French pinks set out on the sideboards. “It would be a pity to waste those blooms when you must have gone to great effort and expense to procure them.”

Palazzo Benci was a fairly new structure built south of the Arno near the Porta San Miniato al Monte. It contrived to be both imposing and unassuming, for though the rooms were large, there were few ornamentations on the walls and the furniture was ostentatiously simple. The only displays of extravagance were flowers. Andrea Benci beamed at the sideboards. “Indeed, Primàrio. They were brought from Genova in special cases so that they would bloom at the right time. I am pleased that you noticed.”

“I noticed,” Damiano assured him, and Lodovico heard the implacable coldness in his voice.

Apparently Andrea Benci did not, for he went on, “There are not many here who recognize the worth of those flowers, and though it does not become me to say it, I believe that the staggering cost was worth it.”

“Staggering cost,” Damiano repeated. “You have been more successful than I realized, Benci.”

At that, Andrea Benci chuckled, though Lodovico thought it rang false. “Not successful, merely careful. I do not waste my gold on fripperies, he said, running his hand down the velvet panels of his long giornea. “I allow myself occasional luxuries, such as those flowers, and for the rest, I keep strict household. I’ve told you my thoughts on the matter before.”

“Yes, you have.” Damiano moved restlessly, his fingers beating out a tattoo on his leg. “Benci, I wonder if you will be good enough to aid my purposes this evening?”

The smile that Andrea Benci gave in response to this was genuinely delighted. “Of course, Primàrio. It is my function, is it not, to aid you?”

“It is,” Damiano agreed at once. “Then, I would appreciate it if you would assign me a withdrawing room or antechamber where I may speak with the Console members attending your festa. That way, I will not interfere with your pleasures and there will be no awkwardness about my mourning attire.” He waited, his face set in mendacious good fellowship, while Andrea Benci considered his request.

“Yes,” he said a few moments later, “there is a room which is not in use this evening. You have seen it before, I think. There are two tapestries hung in it. It’s on the west side of the building.”

“I know it,” Damiano said at once. “The room with the tapestries. Excellent. With your permission, I will go there now, and shortly I’ll send Lodovico to summon whomever I need to consult. That way, there will be few interruptions.”

Benci frowned. “I will gladly put one of my staff at your disposal. There is no need for Ariosto to…”

“I would prefer that Lodovico do this for me. He has more address than you or I do.” It was blatantly untrue and all three men knew it. Yet there was no way for Benci to deny it without setting himself in opposition to Damiano.

“Of course, Primàrio,” he said stiffly, and gave a bow. “I will not detain you.” He turned on his heel and strode swiftly away.

Lodovico watched him, feeling a certain reprehensible triumph within him. He could tell by the set of Benci’s shoulders that the old courtier was furious and dared not express his wrath. He was gloating a little when he saw Renaldo Tommassini approach Andrea Benci. The distance was too great and the company too boisterous to hear what was said, but even Lodovico’s near-sighted eyes could tell that Tommassini was upset. That did not surprise Lodovico, considering what had passed between Damiano and Tommassini such a short time before, but what startled him was the manner in which Andrea Benci responded. It was obvious that Benci did not want to speak with Tommassini, indeed, not want to be seen with him. Il Primàrio’s secretary cast one anxious glance around the room, and then hurried away from the rowdy young man.