Stefano Vignaroli - In The Lion's Sign

«You will regret it, that you have not served us beer!»

One of the two Lansquenets jumped up and grabbed the man from behind, holding a mighty arm around his neck. Andrea saw the waiter’s face turn more and more red, lifted off the ground by the considerable height of his torturer, his feet dangling a palm from the floor. If he had not intervened, that man would soon have suffocated to death.

«That’s enough!», Andrea exclaimed, standing up. «If you want to start a fight, do not take it out on an unarmed person. There is no fun. Fight as men, and not as cowards, against those who are as armed as you are.»

The Lansquenet, caught off guard, trained his grip, allowing the innkeeper to catch his breath. But his friend, who had been sitting at his table until that moment, grabbed his sword and headed threateningly towards Andrea. The latter, extracting his sword from its sheath, tried to study at a glance his opponent.

Many muscles, but little brain. I have to play smart. Let’s see. The sword is strong, and held with only one hand. But the guard is peculiar, consisting of an iron rod shaped in the shape of eight, like that of the great battle swords. I can parry its slice down, but I couldn’t let the weapon slip out of his hand. I would be unbalanced, at that point, and the crossed return would leave me no escape. In the blink of an eye, with a single blow, he could pull my head off my neck. And goodbye Andrea!

«Why are you meddling in things that don’t concern you, friend? It’s not good manners to interrupt a discussion in which one has no voice. Especially for a nobleman who has embroidered the design of a rampant lion on his tunic. Come on, show me how much of a lion you have in your blood!»

Only the set wooden table separated Andrea from Lansquenet. Fulvio and Geraldo had got up from their chairs and were heading towards the other, energetic man, in order to prevent him from grasping the sword too. They were quick to grab him under his arm, one on each side, forcing him to abandon his grip on the innkeeper. Then Fulvio pulled out a stylet and put it against his neck, in order to make it harmless. Andrea, for his part, saw his opponent lift the Katzbalger. He put himself with his dagger in a defensive position, waiting for the slash to be parried. He waited for the falling blow but, making a feint at the last moment, allowed the sword of the Lansquenet to continue its trajectory and, by inertia, to drag behind the arm that held it. The Katzbalger’s sharp edge went to stick it on the table, splitting it in two. The Teuton, unbalanced, fell to the ground together with his sword. Lambrusco’s jug, flown in the air, drew an arched trajectory, falling and crashing right on his head. Around the Lansquenet, a red patch of wine and blood was formed. Andrea took advantage of the momentary dizziness of the adversary to come over him and lean the tip of the sword against the nape of the neck.

«What’s your name, friend?», he asked him, lifting him by the arm and returning him to an upright position, but without lowering his guard, continuing to threaten him with the tip of the sword.

«Franz», the other answered.

«Well, Franz. You are lucky for today. I keep your sword and spare your life. But don’t get in my way anymore, because I won’t be as lenient with you a second time», and so he pushed him towards the exit, turned him around and kicked him out with a kick in the ass, sending him eating the dust of the square in front. It did not go as well for his companion, who lay lifeless on the ground in the pool of his own blood. Fulvio had not hesitated to sink the blade of the stylet at the slightest attempt of his opponent to escape from the grasp.

The man with the stolen face was watching the scene stunned. In the meantime another innkeeper had left the kitchen, very similar to the first one, although with less hair on his head, most likely his brother.

«What have you done?», the latter intervened. «You are insane! We’re accustomed to the harassment of these handsome people. We let them vent, they get drunk, they do some damage, they mess something up, but then they leave, and for days and days we live in peace. Now instead...»

«Two days will not pass that nothing will remain of this place but smoking ashes», his brother replied, massaging his painful neck. «And the guardians of the embankments will be found at the bottom of the floodplain, finished who knows how!»

«I imagine that the guardians of the embankments are you two», Andrea said, addressed to the two innkeepers. «Meanwhile, at the bottom of the floodplain let’s throw this cheek!»

«In fact, my Lord, it was not a good idea to let that Franz free. He will surely come back here in force and demand his revenge. And we will no longer be here. It will be the two of them who will pay the price» Fulvio intervened, addressing a nod to Geraldo, who helped him to pull up the corpse, drag it to the window and throw it into the canal that ran behind the inn.

Andrea, Fulvio and Geraldo emerged from the windowsill, observing with satisfied air how the strong current was carrying away the inert body of the Lansquenet.

«I’ll find a way to offer adequate protection to our guests», Andrea said. «I’ll talk about it with the Duke of Ferrara. I am sure he’ll send some of his guards here to protect them. Fulvio, Geraldo! Let’s go. Let’s try to reach the city before nightfall.»

The Guardians of the embankments paused at the entrance of the inn, watching the three knights move away until they disappeared into the afternoon fog. In their hearts they knew that no guard of the Duke of Este would ever arrive in that remote place to offer protection to two innkeepers. All that remained was to bolt the place and move away from Pallantone. Their lives were at stake.

CHAPTER 8

Bernardino went out in front of his store with a copy of his last work in his hand. He wanted to see it in daylight, to see how the colour illustrations had come. With that illustrated edition of the Divine Comedy he had surpassed not only his predecessor Federico Conti, but also himself. Bernardino had taken up the Florentine edition of the poem of the great poet Dante Alighieri. He knew that in the year of the Lord 1481, Lorenzo Pierfrancesco De’ Medici had commissioned Sandro Botticelli to create one hundred plates illustrating scenes from the poem. Of these one hundred, Botticelli had made only nineteen, which had been engraved on plates, in order to be printed, by the engraver Baccio Baldini. Since the work was not completed by Sandro Botticelli, the Florentine edition, which had a white space at the beginning of each song, was eventually marketed without images. The dream of being able to realize a princely edition of the Divine Comedy, with all the illustrations printed in colour, had been cultivated by Bernardino for years and years. He had managed to have the missing plates drawn, in the same style as Botticelli, by some Benedictine monks of the Abbey of St. Urbano, in the country of Apiro. But the real master’s touch, which had allowed him to see his dream come true, was that of having had some of his trusted collaborators trace the engravings by the Florentine Baccio Baldini. The latter had been given for dead in Florence in 1487, at the age of fifty-one. Another thirty-five years had passed and, therefore, if he had been alive, he would have been over eighty years old. A rare, but not impossible thing, Bernardino had always said. And in fact, it was known that his workshop continued to produce very fine engraving work on gold and copper, which could not have been the work of his young students. Behind it was his hand, which continued to work in the shadows. Why he wanted to be believed dead, even if the hypotheses were very much, no one knew for sure. Someone said that he wanted to escape the creditors to whom he owed exorbitant sums. Others said that he feared Botticelli’s wrath, because he had not met his expectations in making the engravings of the plates with which some of his works were to be printed to decorate the poem by Dante Alighieri. The fact is that the nineteen plates produced at the time had remained in the engraver’s workshop and had not been printed. Not only that, but they were no longer claimed by the Medici who had commissioned them, nor by Botticelli, who had conceived the drawings.