Chapter 1. Lorenzo
Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir pitied the young man in front of him. His older brothers died far away in the New World, and more likely from plague than in battle. Just two more corpses left mauled and half-eaten in the jungle.
Lorenzo drew his sword slowly, feeling the heft of his old espada. He glanced down at the scarred and pitted blade. It felt heavier than before. Across the room, the young man sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Poor boy. His father’s investments in the wars vanished with the armadas, leaving the family destitute. His mother died of pneumonia last winter. And now he’s all that’s left of a once healthy and prosperous family. Just him. One glimmer of hope for the future.
And he’s rubbish.
The two men saluted, swept their espadas down to their sides, and assumed their stances. Lorenzo immediately marked half a dozen things wrong with his opponent’s feet and hands and eyes. The youth slouched off balance, continuing to shift and turn his body, never coming close to doing anything right.
Lorenzo grimaced. And then he attacked.
The young man stumbled back, barely able to parry, his form sloppy, his blade slow. The smallswords rang and clattered as the master’s fine Toledo steel rained down on his student’s cheap southern weapon.
Lorenzo shuffled forward, speaking in a low and steady voice. “Focus. Focus, please. Eyes up, sword up. You can do this.”
The youth shuffled back, already gasping and sweating. “I’m trying!”
Lorenzo abandoned grace and style and resorted to plain mechanical movements, trying to give his student a chance at squaring his defense and mounting some sort of attack. Slash across the chest. Thrust at the shoulder. Chop at the wrist. The youth stumbled back, his sword swatting clumsily at each attack, barely preventing the simple swipes from drawing blood. His bottom lip trembled, his eyes narrowed in a transparent attempt to hold back the tears.
“Back straight, Diego. Keep your eyes on me, please. You can admire my shoes later.” Lorenzo swung slower and slower, pausing longer between each stroke. “Diego, as your instructor, I can assure you that I am not going to strike you dead. So you might try being just a bit more aggressive than a dead rabbit. Try. Push. Attack. Anything, please!” Lorenzo drove a measured thrust at the youth’s chest.
The student dropped his sword and backed into the wall, his wide eyes fixed on the point of his teacher’s blade. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly, more to himself than to the youth. Four months. Four months and he has made no progress. Sixteen years old and he has no skill, no talent, no desire, and no focus. Lorenzo lowered his blade and massaged his eyes with his left hand. “Why did you come here, Diego?”
The young man shuddered, hugged himself as he bit his lip, and dropped his gaze to the hard wooden floor. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, sir. I just thought…I just wanted to be like…I wanted to be someone who could do what you do.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you think I do?” Lorenzo sauntered around the practice room, letting his gaze glide over the ancient stone walls, the wrought iron braziers, the faded tapestries, the small stained glass windows along the east wall, and the huge clear window panes along the south wall that let the cold white sunlight pour in. Outside, he could see men on horses and teams of oxen hauling sledges down the frozen road. At the bottom of the hill, the city of Madrid huddled under its blanket of fresh white snow, and old gray snow, and dark brown mud. There was no need to look at the youth. He knew how this would end. He’d known for weeks. But that didn’t make it any easier.
“You’re a hero, sir.” Diego straightened up, eyes wide and pale lips twitching in a nervous smile. “I’ve heard all the stories. You single-handedly rescued a princess from a mountain fortress. You led the Espani armies in the Incan wars. You saved the royal family of Marrakesh from assassins. Sir, there is no one in the world, no one in history, who has led a life like yours.”
Lorenzo nodded. “And you want to do those things?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”
Lorenzo closed his eyes and shoved his long black hair back over his head. “Diego, that princess of mine rescued herself. In the New World, I led less than a hundred men in a three-day march, retreating from Cartagena to the ship that carried us home. And in Marrakesh last year, I stabbed two soldiers in the hand and then spent the rest of the morning watching over a handful of children after the attack. And while the Mazigh royal family did survive, the queen did not.”
Diego stared down at his own empty hands, a horrified glare wrinkling his forehead. “It was all lies?”
“I haven’t lied, ever, and I doubt your storytellers were trying to deceive you. They probably just embellished a little to entertain you. Or to sell newspapers.” Lorenzo turned his back to the windows and looked at the youth. “Most of the men who went to the New World died of the plague, and those who survived the Golden Death were killed by giant flesh-eating birds and war-cats like the ones chained up in my stable. Looking back, I have absolutely no idea how I survived any of it. God must like me very much. Or not at all, depending on your point of view.”
The youth shivered.
“Diego, we both know this is not working out. You’re a very bright young man and I’m sure your father will be able to find you a teacher or a master who can train you in some vocation better suited to your talents,” Lorenzo said. “Perhaps accounting or mathematics.”
“Did someone mention mathematics?” a voice called from the hallway.
Lorenzo frowned and crossed to the door. At the end of the hall he saw two men coming toward him. Both strangers. He backed away from the door to let them enter the practice room. “Gentlemen, I am Don Lorenzo Quesada. Can I help you?”
The older man wore a weathered navy coat and an amused smirk. The younger man wore a black wool coat trimmed in ermine and a barely concealed sneer.
“Don Lorenzo, I am Commander Rui Faleiro, cartographer, engineer, and cosmographer to Lord Admiral Ferdinand Magellan,” said the older man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you and your school here. And may I introduce a recent acquaintance of mine.” He gestured to the grim-faced youth. “This is Silvio de Medici.”
Lorenzo shook their hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, and an honor to have you visit my school. Can I offer you something to eat or drink? Will you be staying here with us tonight?”
“We will be staying the night, if it is no trouble, Don Lorenzo.” Faleiro smiled and clasped his hands. “Although I’m afraid we will not be staying long. I must return to the admiral and my duties, and my young friend here will be heading home soon as well. Back to Rome.”
“Don Lorenzo.” The Medici youth nodded curtly. “I’ve come to deliver you a challenge from my master, Ridolfo Capoferro.”
“Oh?” Lorenzo said. Capoferro knows my name? Should I be flattered or afraid? “And what sort of challenge might that be?”
“Me. He’s sent me for an exhibition match. Today, if possible. I’ve come to test your sword-of-mercy style on his behalf.”
“Sword-of-life style,” Lorenzo corrected. “But I’m sorry to say that I am not prepared to have any of my students spar with you. This is still a very new school. I have only a dozen pupils and none are ready for an exhibition match with a student of Senor Capoferro.”
“You misunderstand, sir. I’ve not come to fight your students. I’ve come to fight you.” Silvio let a little more of his sneering smile spread across his face. “Unless you yourself are not ready to face a student of Master Capoferro.”
Lorenzo nodded. “Well, I’ll certainly try my best for a son of the house of Medici. Would you like a few hours to rest and prepare?”
“Not at all. I’ve been sitting in a freezing cold saddle all morning,” said Silvio. “I’m aching for action. We can begin as soon as you are ready.”