Lorenzo shrugged. “As you wish. I’ll gather my students to observe and have the main hall readied. Half an hour, then?”
“Half an hour.” Silvio inclined his head slightly.
“Good. Diego here will show you to the dining room where we will give you something to warm your bones while we get things ready.” Lorenzo gestured for his pale and sweating student to lead his guests back down the hall. Only when they were gone did he allow himself an unfettered smile.
An hour later, he stood in the corner of the main hall by the window, looking out over snow-covered hills and skeletal trees and frozen ponds. Even in the mid-day glare, the world was quiet and still. No engines, no smoke, no steam, no filth. And down in the city, he knew there were no poor beggars in the alleys, no orphans running barefoot in the streets. Anyone not fortunate enough to have a home of their own was living with someone else, with family or friends, or at the very least, in the old cloister on the far side of the city. No one was cold. No one was hungry. No one was forgotten or ignored. Their money was gone and the nascent industry all stillborn in unfinished factories, but the survivors were still decent people. They’re still Espani. And that’s all that really matters.
“Enzo?”
He turned and couldn’t help but smile at his wife. Qhora wore one of her new dresses that blended the modesty of Espani high society with the color and grandeur of her Incan homeland. Green and gold cloth, white lace at her throat and wrists, a magnificent frill of peacock feathers around her neck and shoulders, and thick gold ribbon tying back her sleek black hair. She was not smiling. “Enzo, what’s going on?”
“Just a little match. This young man’s come all the way from Ridolfo Capoferro in Italia to try to humiliate me in front of my own students,” Lorenzo said mildly.
“Are you sure that’s all this is? I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“That makes two of us.” He glanced down at her belly. “How are you feeling today?”
“The same. I told you, as soon as I know something, then you will know something.” She looked away. “Sometimes, these things take time.”
“I know. I’m in no hurry. We’re still young.”
“Be careful.” Qhora looked back up at him. “I don’t like this Italian.”
“I don’t like any Italians. But that’s just my Espani pride talking, I’m sure.” He kissed her on the forehead. “You don’t have to watch if it troubles you, but you don’t need to worry. I know what I’m doing. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course.” She kissed his lips. “But if you do let him cut you, don’t let him cut anything important.” And behind the screen of her dress, she slipped her hand down between his legs and gave him a light squeeze.
“Yes, dear.” Lorenzo took his place at the end of the room and shook his sword in its supple leather sheathe at his side. “Master de Medici, whenever you’re ready.”
The Italian was ready. He had been ready, been standing at the other end of the room, alone, waiting with his hand on his sword and a scowl on his face. Twelve other young men from all over Espana stood along the walls, youths from Tartessos and Gadir, from Sevilla and Malaga, from Granada and Ejido. They were all young, so young. Young men with pale drawn faces, uncertain eyes and nervous hands, sweaty brows and shuffling feet.
Lorenzo studied his students. Not a single real diestro among them. At least not yet.
Rui Faleiro stood near the center of the room, still grinning merrily with a glass of beer in his hand. “To your health, gentlemen!” He finished his drink.
Lorenzo saluted. Silvio saluted. Lorenzo assumed the classical destreza stance, tall and straight, sword held parallel to the ground. Silvio grinned as he settled back into a more relaxed pose, a casual stance that conveyed nothing about his skill but volumes about his confidence.
The Italian attacked. A slash at the face, a slash at the belly. Lorenzo snapped his wrist from side to side, swatting him away, and then assumed a similarly relaxed pose identical to his opponent.
Silvio stopped grinning. “What is this? You’re copying me? Are you giving up on your own style already?”
Lorenzo shook his head. “You’re a bit confused, young man. You see, I don’t have a style. Not really. Not as you understand it.”
The Italian glared. “Then what is all this, this school of yours? What is the Quesada style? The Madrid style? Is it really just a religious cult like they told me in Valencia?”
Lorenzo smiled and shrugged. “Actually, you’re not too far off.”
Silvio dashed forward to cut the leg, to cut the arm, to cut the chest. But each time Lorenzo slipped sideways and parried, always parried, never blocked, never stopped the Italian cold. Every slash and cut of Silvio’s blade was deftly pushed aside an inch here or an inch there. But each time Lorenzo fell back a step or two.
“Alonso,” Lorenzo called to the tall young man by the window. He was more skilled with a guitar than an espada, but he was still better than the others. “Why do we fight? For money? For glory? For ourselves?”
“No, sir. We fight for the ones who stand behind us,” the youth said, his fist over his heart. “We fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. We fight for those who should not have to fight. We are the line in the sand that cannot be crossed. We are the shield that will not break. We are-”
“Alonso, Alonso.” Lorenzo grinned and waved his hand. “Where are you getting all this?”
“Sorry, sir. Just something I was working on in my head. I thought it might do for a song.”
“No, no. It’s good. I should put it in the manual. Is there more?”
Alonso nodded earnestly. “We are the shield that will not break, the blade that does falter, and the knee that does not bend. May all the swords in the world shatter before us until war is only a memory and God’s peace fills all men’s hearts.”
Lorenzo laughed. “I like that. Very good, Alonso.”
“Thank you, sir. The first version was utter crap.”
“Language, Alonso.”
The youth covered his mouth. “Sorry, did I say shit again?”
“Language!”
Lorenzo grinned as the attacks came faster, the young Italian grimacing and grunting with each stroke. Now Lorenzo stood his ground and let the blows fall hard on his squared-off blocks. A crash on the right, a crash above his head. The youth was slight but strong and Lorenzo felt the ache building in his own shoulder. He stared into the Italian’s eyes, wondering what might be burning and turning in the youth’s brain.
Lorenzo shoved him back a step. “Are you hoping to make a name for yourself here? Am I so famous in Italia that defeating me would buy you a song?”
Silvio rolled his shoulder back and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It will buy me my own fencing school, a position with the guild, a place on the council, and then one day I will be Duke of Firenze. My entire career begins today, here with you.”
“Ah.” Lorenzo nodded. “I see. Well, good luck to you.” And he dashed backward two steps.
Silvio’s eyes went wide and he lunged. For the first time in three minutes of continuous swordplay, he lunged. The slender Italian blade leapt like lightning, a narrow flash in the white sunlight, the youth’s entire body taut and straight and driving toward the heart.
Lorenzo noted every line, every angle, every curve of the man’s body and blade. And he slipped beside it and let the point stab at the empty air, and then drove his own Toledo steel through the swept hilt of the Italian sword to pin the man in place. He leaned down and whispered in Silvio’s ear, “Thank you. I’ve been dying to learn Ridolfo’s so-called perfect lunge. I can’t thank you enough for saving me the journey all the way to Italia to see it.”
Then he jerked Silvio off balance, planted his boot on the Italian blade, and wrenched the youth forward. The Roman steel sheared off in one sharp snap.
Lorenzo backed away and sheathed his own sword. “Master de Medici, you can take your hilt and go in peace. But leave the blade. That’s forfeit. That’s the price of your lesson.”