Stefano Vignaroli - In The Lion's Sign

«But come on! His Imperial and Royal Excellency will certainly be an old caryatid», Lucia replied with an amused air.

«His Highness, not His Excellency», Andrea ran. «In any case, the voice seemed quite youthful. I don’t trust it, I don’t trust it. I will go with you, if you decide to go, whether you ever let yourself go alone! And then we can’t spend Christmas one away from the other, there’s not even a chance. Florence is a beautiful city, one of the most romantic cities in Italy. Better not to waste the opportunity to give you the most exciting kiss of your life over the Arno river, on the Ponte Vecchio.»

«Oh, and since when have you become romantic, you who have always been a pile of muscles and stubbornness?»

«Well, since you made me jealous!», Andrea smiled. «But beyond that, Florence is a beautiful city of art and we could combine the useful with the delightful. After all, someone wrote, “Beauty will save the world” or am I wrong?»

«Fedor Dostoevsky in “The Idiot”. Before you go out of your way to pronounce a quotation, try to be sure you know what it is all about, otherwise, rather than the figure of the scholar, you’ll do the following...»

«...Of the idiot!», he broke out in a laugh, approached Lucia, held her in a warm embrace, brought his lips closer to her perfumed face and began to kiss her.

«The last word is always yours, eh?», Lucia managed to pronounce, while she was panting, trying to catch her breath and taking off her blouse. She felt Andrea’s hands go looking for the bra buckle to unbuckle it, then she saw him take off his shirt to remain shirtless too. The urgency of the bodies in seeking mutual contact dragged them into the bedroom, where fresh sheets welcomed the two lovers now completely naked.

«Beauty will save the world», Andrea repeated, making her understand this time the allusion was addressed only to her.

CHAPTER 7

Riding in the Po Valley in that season was considered by Andrea almost worse than sailing in the open sea. Accustomed to the hills and mountains of his beloved lands, he would never have expected to advance by leagues and leagues in a completely flat terrain. But the worst element was the humidity, the fog that made you lose your sense of direction, so much was thick in certain places, and infiltrated under clothes until you get to torment the bones. Not to mention the paths, which often got lost in the dense bush or led straight to swamps and marshes, impossible to cross, long and endless turns, if not to go back on their own steps to choose another branch of the road. And luckily the two soldiers who accompanied him were practical of the places, otherwise Andrea would have already given up to reach Ferrara, throwing himself on the ground and remaining at the mercy of the traps of the wild nature of the Eridano plain. Finally, coming out from the wood of Porporana, a wide stretch of cultivated countryside extended, towards the village of Pallantone, to the bank of the river Po. After midday, the sun had succeeded in triumphing over the humidity, and so Andrea noticed, not without disappointment, that without protection from the forest and fog, he and the two armigers who accompanied him were completely out in the open and easy target of any malicious attackers. He didn’t even in time to finish this consideration, that two knights strangely barded overcame them of great career, lifting mud splashes and brandishing over their heads daggers a little shorter than those that Andrea was used to use.

«Who are they?», Andrea asked worried.

«Lansquenets. The swords you have seen are called Lanzichenette, or Katzbalger. The latter term, in their language, means cat fur. Someone means that, being the bearers of this weapon of low social extraction, they are unable to buy themselves a real scabbard and therefore use the skin of a domestic feline in place of it. But it is not so. Many Lansquenets, while fighting as mercenary soldiers, belong to the rich bourgeoisie or the Teutonic nobility. The term Katzbalger actually refers to the ferocious ferocity with which they fight. In battle they are able to throw themselves between the first lines of the enemy pike men, passing under the forest of the protruding spears and vibrating those swords like cleavers, in order to break them. But they have no qualms about mutilating their opponents either, aiming at parts of their body not protected by armour. Listen to me, my Lord, they are dangerous people. Better to stay away from them.»

«If they are as dangerous as you report, how come they are free to roam our lands like this?»

«They are mercenaries, and therefore free to put themselves in the pay of the Lord who pays them better. The worst of them are those paid in double money. They are the most ruthless, trained to fight on the front line or in areas considered high risk. And therefore they are paid with double pay.»

«Doesn’t the term “double money” mean that they have no scruples about putting themselves at the service of two masters at the same time, infiltrating as traitors or spies between the ranks of the enemy?»

«Maybe even! I have told you so. These are people who are not to be trusted. But go on!», Fulvio, the trustworthy armiger, continued. «The village of Pallantone is renowned for its taverns. They cook their game like nowhere else that I know of...»

«...And they accompany it with an excellent sparkling red wine. A true delicacy», Geraldo, the other armiger who had never spoken until then, added.

Andrea, crossing the streets of the village, noticed several signs of inns and taverns, but his companions headed safely to the main square, where a flag sign indicated in Gothic letters the Guardians’ Inn of the embankments. In fact, from the square you could distinctly hear the sound of water rushing through the floodplain just behind the buildings on that side. Andrea and his companions tied the mounts to the rings fixed in the outer wall of the tavern, made sure to have swords in their sheaths and entered the room. The room was quite crowded and the smell of game cooked in brine was mixed with the smell of sweat emanating from patrons. A plump man, with a robbed face and a beaded forehead of sweat, with a white sinus tied around his waist, came to meet them and accompanied them to a free table.

«What do you gentlemen like?»

«Bring us a good pie of quails and partridges and rock partridge. And a nice mug of Lambrusco for each one of us», Fulvio ordered, being the spokesman for the whole group.

He didn’t have time to finish saying these words, the door was opened wide in a bad way with a kick from the outside by an individual of strong tonnage, followed immediately behind by another man of his own ream. Both men were holding the sword in their hands, rather than lined up. Realizing the presence of the Lansquenets, most of those present got up from the tables, trying to earn their way out, in order to avoid unnecessary skirmishes with men known for their arrogance and arrogance. More than one man, near the threshold, stumbled by chance into the boot of one of them. The man rolling on the ground didn’t even have the courage to face the Lansquenet’s gaze. He got up, shrugged off the dust and walked out of the tavern with his legs up. Andrea, Fulvio and Geraldo remained at their posts, staring at the newcomers almost with an air of challenge. Those, on the moment, pretended not to even pay attention. They took their place at a table left free by the previous patrons, banging their Katzbalger with thunder over it. One of them grabbed a Lambrusco jug, carried it to his mouth, swallowed ample swigs of it, and finally burped loudly.

«Scheisse! This wine is shit. Innkeeper, bring us some beer.»

«You know very well we don’t have beer where we live», he replied almost stammering the man with the stealing face and the sweating that was increasing considerably. «If you don’t like red wine, I can go down to the cellar and get you a good fresh white. I assure you that you will not regret it!»