Free Ariosto by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Don’t protest, my friend. It’s useless to protest.” He came away from the fireplace and stood staring down at Lodovico. “My grandfather’s best friend was a poet. I hope I am not being a fool to emulate him.”
    “Am I your best friend, Damiano?” Lodovico asked, his pleasure dulled by the suspicion that Damiano was mocking him.
    “After what you’ve heard tonight, I pray that you are.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I meant what I said to Sir Thomas—I will sacrifice anyone I must in order to keep this country united. You will do well to remember that.”
    Lodovico felt an instant of intense fear. He knew beyond doubt that Damiano was perfectly sincere, and he tried to bury the fear under self-deprecating laughter. “If the death of a poet will change anything, then my life is yours use as you will.” As he said it, he remembered that Damiano was a powerful man, larger and heavier than he himself. All he would have to do would be to lock those long fingers around his throat and that would be the end of him. He got quickly to his feet. “I haven’t betrayed you before, Damiano, and I will not do it now.” His voice shook, but it was from terror, not fervor.
    “If you are not in earnest, you will regret it, my friend.” Damiano scrutinized Lodovico’s face, then, apparently satisfied with what he had read there, he put an arm around Lodovico’s shoulder. It was an effort for Lodovico not to cry out at this sudden, threatening familiarity. “It’s late, and you will want to seek your bed. Doubtless Alessandra is impatient to have you with her. If she is anything like Graziella, she will be pestering you until dawn about the kinds of shoes the English wear.”
    Somehow Lodovico was able to snicker at this, and said with the assumption of sophistication he did not feel, “Wives are often so, Damiano. You know how curious women are.”
    “None better.” Damiano gave a sage nod, then changed again with that mercurial temper that often baffled his associates. “That’s unfair. If my wife were not the woman she is, and had been willing to go to France for me to listen to the gossip at court, we might have had soldiers in Torino ten years ago.” His arm fell from Lodovico’s shoulder. “I am grateful to Graziella and Pia and my lovely Carità. They’ve been more loyal than my sons ever were.” As always when Damiano mentioned his sons there was a fleeting anguish in his face. He turned away from Lodovico, gesturing toward the door. “It’s nearly morning and if either you or I intend to be civil to our visitors, it’s time we were asleep. I don’t like to ask this of you, Lodovico, since I know you’d rather spend the time on that new work of yours, but do you think you might find a way to turn out some simple ballade lyrics? The musicians have been protesting at doing the same songs over and over. Maffeo says that he can set the words to tunes quickly.”
    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