The
next day I hardly noticed how hard I worked or what was said to me. My mind was
too full of what I had learned, and all day I lived with the desperate hope
that somehow I might learn more. Celia must have thought me blockish, for I
moved through the day's tasks with a stolid patience that no gibe of hers could
spark into retort.
That
night Beniamino was back with a new drinking companion and a fresh piece of
news. The duke was preparing to go with his troops to drive out the invaders.
"Taking
his sons," Beniamino said. "Both sons. Two. Dukes and little dukes
all over the battlefield."
"Sandra's
not a duke." Beniamino's friend was nearly as drunk as he was. "He's
a bastard."
"He's
a glorious bastard. A real experienced soldier. I love him. 'Sworth ten of his
fancy brother."
"Ssh!
'S Domenico that's heir to the throne. And got command of the right
flank."
"He
got it because he's a della Raffaelle. Show him an enemy—just one—and you won't
see him for dust. I swear he only agreed to come so's he'd be near the handsome
soldiers."
"No."
There was a sudden note of fear in the other man's voice. "He does not
run, Beniamino. I served under him in Genoa when old Carlo sent us out against
the Hapsburgs, and he's afraid of nothing."
"If
he had a good second-in-command—"
"He
would have none. I tell you..."
"No.
Don't tell me of him." Beniamino was breathing heavily. "With any
luck he'll be killed, and my blessings on the Spanisher who can do it."
"That's
treasonous talk. How has young Domenico served you ill?"
There
was a pause, then Beniamino whispered something I could not hear. I caught only
the words "my little brother" and then the other man spoke again,
owlish and considering.
"I
always heard he was one for a wench. In the guardroom they say any woman is
good enough for him—once—same as his father and brother."
Beniamino
made a gagging sound. "I care not; he can take a toad to bed with him if
he will. But I say he is no fit soldier! Carlo's mad to risk so many men under
an untried general. Thank the saints I serve on the left, under good old
Sandro! He'll see his soldiers through. It's a crime he's not the heir when
he's five years older than that... brother of his."
"
'S a bastard," his friend observed wisely, "can't succeed."
"He
would if that silver devil died." Beniamino turned. "Come on, I want
to drink bad luck to Domenico. Perhaps he'll be killed before his men are all
slaughtered."
Two
days after that, Beniamino was gone with the rest of Duke Carlo's army, leaving
Fidena yawning empty of the soldiers who had hurried like black ants through
the fever-hot streets. Those who were left went about their business with heavy
hearts, and now and again I heard the duchess's name on someone's tongue like a
curse.
Those
were the waiting days, the hot days, when Fidena brooded as though it awaited
some monstrous birth, and everyone was at once impatient and fearful. The city
was cloaked in an uneasy quiet. Days passed without news from the border, and
rumors began to buzz again like angry mosquitoes; but now Antonio cared little,
for the citizens came flocking in day after day to exchange the latest tidings
and drink to the duke's success. His sullen look was gone now—if Cabria was on
the brink of disaster, it was not his concern, so long as he made money.
It
was a week later that news came; I was helping Celia in the kitchen when,
midway through the morning, the couriers came galloping in at the southern
gates of the city and cried the news through the streets. All we heard was the
noise of hooves and a confused shouting; then a roar went up from the street
outside, and Antonio went running out of doors like a madman. Celia and I ran
after him to the door, united for once in a common astonishment.
In
the street Antonio was fighting his way through the crowd, his bulk forcing a
passage towards the rider on the sweating chestnut horse. The man had drawn
rein perforce—the crowd had grown too thick for him to move—and the press of
yelling people was beginning to alarm the horse, who was fretting and shifting
uneasily. The rider was shouting, but not a word of what he said could be heard
above the din.
Antonio's
fat hand closed on the horse's bridle—I saw the rider glance down, his hand
going to the hilt of his sword, but then Antonio screamed something above the
noise and tugged the horse's head around. The man sat still in the saddle as
the beast began to turn, taking no notice now of the mob's questions, only
ducking his head as he rode under the Eagle's gateway.
"Quick,
wife!" Antonio's voice was hoarse with excitement. "Some wine for
Duke Carlo's messenger!"
Celia
turned to me. "Do as he says! And bid the servants be ready—if all these
follow him to hear his news, our fortunes are made!"
I
turned and ran with my head ringing from her impatient cuff. A jug of the best
wine from the cellar and one of the new cups—and then I was in the taproom,
gasping out orders for the potboys, and Celia was snatching the things from my
hands to pour for the duke's messenger. The room was filling, more people
crowding in at every moment, and I realized suddenly that I had been forgotten.
I let myself be thrust back against the wall by the jostling crowd, praying
that amid so many I could stay here unnoticed. Celia's eyes were only for the
messenger, who had downed his wine in one gulp and was holding out his cup to
be refilled. Without his helmet he looked far less forbidding; a young man with
bright blue eyes in a face shining with sweat, pleased with the attention he
was getting. As he drank again, I noticed the tapsters moving among the crowd,
serving as best they could, so that even those who had come in from curiosity
were having to pay to stay.
Fifty
pairs of eyes at least followed the motion of the man's arm as he put down the
cup and wiped his mouth; then someone called, "What's the news?"
At
once the babel broke out afresh, every man clamoring for the latest tidings
without waiting to hear them told. Antonio roared, "Silence, and let him
speak!" and as the messenger rose to his feet, the shouting died away to
an anxious muttering.
"What
of Duke Carlo's army?" someone shouted.
"It
was a great victory." The young man smiled around at the shout that
greeted his words. "The enemy is driven back towards Naples, and our
soldiers are on their way home again."
"Did
they give battle?"
"When
did it happen?"
"Has
the duke regained Arriccio?"
"He
will have done by this." The messenger looked at the last speaker.
"He met with the enemy in the hills between Arriccio and Castle Fucino and
so routed them that I doubt they will wait in Arriccio for his coming."
"Castle
Fucino!" Celia shrieked. "The duke's own summer garrison! But that is
only two days' march from here!"
The
young man grinned. "You need not fear. The enemy is safely driven back.
They got no further than five leagues north of Arriccio, and we were at their
backs by then. The duke went beyond them and then turned short, meaning to fall
upon their rear guard."
There
was a murmur; some of the older men disliked the strategy, but the greater part
were as breathless with impatience as I was.
"What
happened?" The question came from a dozen throats. "It was where the
road to Castle Fucino runs downhill and winds into the Sant' Angelo pass. We
followed them so stealthily that they had no warning. The duke divided the army
and placed himself and his men on the left and his son the lord Domenico and
his forces on the right. They were to wait above and mop up the fliers after
the lord Bastard—my lord Alessandro—had led a charge down the center."
He
paused and took a gulp of wine. The whole room was hushed, waiting.
"It
looked as though it would work at first. Lord Sandra's men came over the brow
of the nearest hill and straight into the enemy's rear guard. They split and
fled downhill, and it looked like a rout until one of those damned Spaniards
rallied his men, and they took a stand among the rocks at the mouth of the
pass. It brought Lord Sandra's men up short, because the pass was narrow and
steep just there, and the Spaniards could not be swept away by another charge
from before or behind."
Antonio
moistened his lips. "What did the lord Bastard do?"
"Drove
his men forward in any case. They were being slaughtered like prime cattle.
Three hundred men and more dead, they say, but I came away before they were
numbered."
I
thought of Beniamino's tipsy faith in his commander and hoped that it had
survived the fighting. Celia threw up her hands.
"Holy
Mary, what a dreadful thing! How can you call that a victory?"
The
messenger's grim face lightened. "It was so, in the end. The enemy was making
sport with our men for so long that at last they would not rally for a fresh
assault; they said it was hopeless and would not budge for all the Bastard's
curses. We thought we were all lost—the Spanish were three times our number—but
then the right wing started to move."
"The
right wing!" I did not realize I had spoken until I heard my own voice.
The messenger glanced round.
"Yes,
without waiting for the duke's order. Lord Domenico charged his horse straight
down on the enemy at the very mouth of the pass. The ground is so steep there,
it is a miracle that he and the horse were not killed. But he slid most of the
way in a hail of dust and stones and went for the enemy flank. As soon as his
men saw it could be done, they charged down too, and the Spanish broke and
fled. With horsemen dropping out of the sky like cannonballs, I dare swear they
had had enough."
At
that moment I caught Celia's eye and cursed my careless tongue. If only she
would look away from me for an instant, I might be able to slip back to the
kitchen in safety—but just as I began to draw back, the messenger took up his
tale again, and I stood still, spellbound.
"They
clawed their way up the other side of the pass, most of them, and ran straight
into Duke Carlo's men. Some escaped to the north, but by then Lord Sandro was
so choleric about his own part in the battle and being rescued by his own
younger brother that he purged his anger by chasing the stragglers." He
tossed the last of the wine down his throat. "I heard they chopped a man down
as he hid in someone's vineyard, and Lord Sandro laughed and said the blood
would make the vintage richer."
I
shivered, less at the jest than at the crowd's ghoulish appreciation of it.
Celia
said, "And now? Do the troops come back here with the duke or return to
their garrisons?"
The
man shook his head. "I do not know. The battle was scarcely over when I
came away—the duke sent six of us in haste to bring the news to the duchess, so
that she would know he was safe."
Remembering
all I had heard, I could not forbear smiling— more like the duke had sent the
message to discomfort his detested wife and smash her hopes of revenge. Now the
messenger was taking his leave; he had to make speed to the palazzo, he said,
and proclaim the news as he went. Now was the time for me to be gone if I were
to escape retribution. As softly as I could, I edged around the wall towards
the nearest door; I could escape through it into the yard, and from there I
could reach the kitchen. The click of the latch was drowned in the sound of
farewells as I slipped outside and closed the door behind me.
Out
in the street the shouting had died down, but one or two loiterers still waited
by the gateway for news. I flinched from the curious stares and was about to
run towards the kitchen door when a hand gripped my elbow from behind. I
twisted quickly in the sticky grasp to find myself facing not Antonio, but a
total stranger.
As
soon as he spoke, I recognized his voice; he was one of the city merchants, a
regular customer who cared more for the courtesans who traded in the Eagle than
for Antonio's wine. I had often heard Celia complain of how little Messire
Luzzato spent in an evening. His hazel eyes were glistening as he stared at me,
and he was pursing his lips as though I were a sweetmeat he fancied.
"Where
are you going, wench? The way to the street is through that gate yonder."
"I
know." I tried to free myself from his grip. "I work in the kitchens
here."
"Do
you so? Why have I not seen you before, then? I come here often, and I would not
forget a wench like you."
"I
do not come down to wait upon the guests."
"They
wait upon you above stairs, is that it?" The merchant's eyes gleamed.
"To think that fat oaf Guardi never told me! Well, that is soon remedied.
Hold out your hand."
I
put my free hand behind my back, and he laughed.
"No
need for this coyness! Ask your master if I am not liberal enough when a wench
is kind. Hold out your hand, and then we can go into the stables yonder and do
our business."
He
was fumbling with his purse as he spoke, and I tried desperately to jerk away
from him. The coins spilled, and he looked up with the smile gone from his
face.