"Swiss won't serve under an Italian," Diaz added. "But they worship a man who once massacred a whole troop of German landsknechte single-handed."
Toby scowled. "That we shall not discuss, if you please!" He let a smile emerge. "Yes, I do want it. I want it so bad I wake up sweating. I think the politicians will accept Florence. How do I convince the soldiers to accept me?"
"They voted for you last time," Bartolo objected.
"Last time was a panic."
After everyone had observed a moment's polite hesitation, Diaz said, "Call a conclave of the captains-general and collaterali—in the don's name of course. Here in the villa: Alfredo from Venice, Mezzo or Gioberti from Naples, Villari from Rome, and from Milan… Ercole Abonio, although he'll probably send di Gramasci. When the big boys have accepted, you can invite some of the small fry — Genoa and so on. Wait until you have the Italians behind you before you involve the Swiss or the Tyroleans or the Savoyards."
That was certainly the ram-it-down-their-throats-and-damn-the-cannons approach to be expected from him, but even Hamish had devised no better plan in months of thinking about it.
The friar coughed gently: "?"
Toby raised an eyebrow. "Brother, we have eight elbows on the table and yours are the only Italian elbows, so I suppose we may allow you a word or two."
"Condottieri are touchier than prima donnas," Bartolo said sadly. "Every one of them wants to be the loudest rooster in the barnyard, and you are going to summon them here to a conclave? You think you're still capo, young man?"
"Demons!"
"Upstart foreign stripling! Cocksure, arrogant, little… no, perhaps not little, but—"
"I've gotten the gist. You're right!"
"Ha!" said Arnaud. "They may think that, but it won't stop them coming. None of them will stay away in case someone else gets chosen. But you don't hold the council here, my lad. Get Il Volpe to lend you one of his country houses and leave the rest to me."
Brother Bartolo scowled reprovingly. "Arnaud, is this some evil you learned in your nefarious import-export business?"
The former smuggler donned an expression of virginal innocence, although the effect was spoiled by his ogrish beard. "Evil? No, no! Merely generous hospitality, brother! You fill the house with the finest wine and food, plus many voluptuous, but properly reticent, maidens. You drag your guests out on arduous wild-boar hunts every day, postponing the crucial discussion until after dinner on the last night, when their bodies are limp from exhaustion, their wits are dulled by good cheer, and their hopes are inspired by the vulnerable maidens weeping at the prospect of their departure — believe me, they'll agree to anything to end the meeting and—"
"Impossible!" Don Ramon roared, striding into the courtyard and cutting off the laughter. "Pettifogging money-grubbers! Artisans, merchants, word-splitting advocates and bureaucrats! Republicans!" he howled, that being the worst obscenity he knew.
All the men scrambled to their feet. He hurled a bundle of papers onto the table and glared up at Toby with his coppery mustache writhing as it did only when he was close to homicidal. "You told me you had an agreement with Marradi!"
"I certainly thought I had. He made the Ten For War agree."
"Never mind the dieci! What about the podestà? What about the gonfalonier della giustizia, the buonomini, the priori, the consiglio del commune, the consiglio del popolo, and the seven wise monkeys?" Blue eyes blazed.
"The who?"
Eight hands grabbed for the papers, eight eyes scanned them. They were passed around. Demands, restrictions, impossible conditions — matters were much worse than before.
Bewilderment, dismay…
"Demons!" Toby said. "Someone explain!"
"Democrats!" howled the don.
Arnaud clawed at his beard with both hands. "I fear so, signore. Il Volpe is an autocrat in fact, but officially Florence is still ruled by a hierarchy of officials, committees, and infinitely detailed regulations. The dieci will do as he wants, but only when you have met their price." No one knew more about bribery than a smuggler.
Brother Bartolo waggled his chins from side to side in worried disagreement. "Marradi should have foreseen that problem. I wonder if there is worse spite involved? The Fiend must have agents in Florence, spreading poisons. Others certainly do. The cities have been feuding for centuries — that is a hard habit to break." He narrowed his piggy eyes. "And you have enemies of your own, Constable, men jealous of your success."
"The Fiend, yes," Toby protested, "but surely everyone else will set aside petty quarrels…" Then he remembered Lucrezia. Was it possible? Did she have enough power to balk him? So quickly? Wishing he had Hamish around to advise him, he looked to the one man who had not spoken. "Marshal?"
"Back in Barcelona," Diaz said with his customary impassivity, "in the Palau Reial we had a saying, 'The hand to watch is the hand of the king.'"
"Meaning?" the don barked.
"It means, Captain-General, that in Florence you should never turn your back on the Magnificent. Nothing happens here that he does not approve."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lisa's first view of Florence was from the high ground at the Porta San Piero Gattolino, with Hamish pointing out city landmarks as proudly as if he had built them all himself: the duomo, the various towers, gardens, and palaces. They descended the Via Romana to the Arno and crossed by the teeming Ponte Vecchio, which bore many busy stores, most selling meat and poultry. She admitted she had never seen a city bustle like this one and certainly none as clean, for the streets were paved with stone slabs; they had gutters and raised footpaths along each side. He showed her the Piazza della Signoria, with its astonishing statuary and soaring palaces, then the Old Market, where the noisy crowds were haggling over textiles and leatherwork and pottery set out on booths. She could tell from Carlo's amusement that he was sidetracking to let her see the sights, but she was in no especial hurry to be turned over to the ominous condottiere Longdirk.
The afternoon was heading for evening, and yet she was not at all weary — possibly because she had enjoyed a wonderful night's sleep. Hamish had stopped at an inn he knew and spared no expense, providing her with a room all to herself, which was an extraordinary extravagance when most travelers slept three or four to a bed.
They left Florence by the Porta Pinti, heading through fertile country toward the hills. Soon he was pointing out their destination, the camp of the Don Ramon Company, bright tents like jewels scattered over the hillside. All too soon her horse was pacing the muddy grass between them, and coarse men were hailing her companions in several languages, hooting at her, making loud comments about the bookworm having done a little looting and so on, very vulgar.
"They are insolent!" she said.
Hamish seemed not at all angry. "I'm sorry they're insulting you, my lady. To me, it's a form of respect. Two years ago they just ignored me. Ever since San Leo, I've been worthy of insult. You should hear them lipping Toby! They don't think much of book learning. I'm not good at the things they regard as important."
"You fought six men and—"
"With a rapier. To them, that's a toy. Battles are fought with pikes or guns or broadswords."