In The Lion's Sign. Stefano Vignaroli
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one from which all the others had entered, the one used by those who came from the mainland, from the town of Sirmione. Andrea appeared tried, he was very pale and had dark circles around his eyes.
«My God, Andrea! It seems that ships are your worst enemy!», and so saying Francesco Maria approached his friend, holding him in an affectionate embrace. «Luckily I have other plans for you, and tomorrow we will talk about it in all tranquillity. Now have a seat and enjoy my hospitality to the full. You will be able to restore body and spirit, and tomorrow you will feel like another man!»
He saw Andrea looking around, admiring the table set, casting his eyes on the oriental dancers who, now almost all with their breasts uncovered, some even completely naked, were indulging in the repressed desires of noble warriors. Then the young Captain of arms approached the table, picked some olives in brine, drank a glass of wine and expressed the desire to leave.
«Tell me about the trip, Andrea! How come you got off the ship and came here from land?», Francesco tried to hold him back.
«My dear friend, you said it yourself a little while ago. We will talk about it calmly tomorrow. Now I am very tired and I only wish to retire to rest.»
«Do you want me to send you company in your room? Those exotic beauties are capable of resurrecting a corpse!»
«But not me. At this moment I would not be able to touch a woman, other than my betrothed, even with one finger. Pretend I’m accepting your offer and take the girl in your room.»
Francesco Maria burst into laughter.
«I cannot! In my rooms there is already Eleonora. I too, these days, am not able to touch any other woman who is not my beloved.»
CHAPTER 4
“Everyone is what he pursues.
I am what I am, I am what I love,
I love what I am.”
(Elio Savelli)
Andrea still could not understand why he had followed the Duke’s men without blinking an eye, just moments before the wedding ceremony with his beloved Lucia. His powerful white steed, still dressed for a party, was biting the road, without struggling at all to keep up with the armigers who were heading beyond the Esino river, towards Mount Returri. The ride was easy, without trappings, without even hiding it on the head. The thick blonde hair of Andrea caressed the air fluttering. The sleeves of the crimson doublet swelled and deflated at the whims of the wind. But Andrea’s mind was in turmoil. Thoughts incapable of being held in check crowded into his head and overwhelmed his temples, hoping to be taken into consideration.
«You have always pursued the hope of being able to unite in marriage with Lucia. And now the time had finally come, what do you do? You leave her there, on the churchyard of the Church!», the first thought began to torture him. «Remember, Andrea! Everyone is what he pursues in life! Not to reach one’s goals means to fail miserably.»
«I am what I am!», Andrea defended himself against himself. «I love to be what I am. And I am a man of arms, and as such I must obey those who command me. So I made the right choice. One cannot shirk one’s duty because of a damsel.»
«You love what you are, but you are also what you love», a second thought replied to him, without giving him a break, in an incredible play on words. «And who you love is Lucia. With her you should be one body and one soul. What difference was there in following these men now, immediately, rather than tomorrow, or tomorrow the other or in a week’s time? And your little girl, Laura, to whom you gave smiles until this morning, making her understand that now she could trust the affection of a father, what will she think of you? That you’re a coward, that you escape love and affection depending on how the wind turns. Was it not licit to at least explain to her why you are leaving?»
«I'm not a pussy, I’m a Captain of Arms!», Andrea’s warrior spirit replied with vigour. «If these men were in a great hurry to take me with them, there must be a reason, and a very serious one, from what I could read in the letter sent to me by the Duke. A warrior does not shirk his duty. Never! Much less for matters of love. Love can wait, the enemy can’t.»
Immersed in these mental disquisitions, Andrea had not even noticed that, having passed the watchtower at the top of Mount Returri, the group of soldiers he was following, having crossed the short village of Santa Maria delle Ripe, was heading, in a fast descent, towards the valley of the Musone River. He silenced all his thoughts and concentrated on the route. If they had to head towards Mantua, the road to follow was certainly not the one, which bent towards the south. Logic would have wanted that one covered the road Fiammenga up to Montemarciano and then went up again along the Adriatic coast, up to Ravenna, to then bend towards Ferrara. And from there reach Mantua in an easy way, without any difficulty. The road they were driving along led straight to the Swabian Castle of the Seaport, south of the mountain of Ancona, between the mouth of the Musone river and the one of the Potenza river. A castle built by Frederick II to defend and bulwark of an important port in which could station the Ghibelline fleet. To the only thought of the sea, Andrea had a gagging.
And soon, in fact, the valley of the Musone widened towards the Adriatic Sea. The imposing basilica of Loreto, dedicated to the cult of the Virgin Mary and protected by mighty ramparts were on their right, high on the hill, while Andrea and his companions followed a wide road for a few leagues, arriving in view of their destination. The outline of the Swabian castle, with its imposing donjon towering towards the sky, approached quickly. The sun was now setting towards the horizon and, putting the horses in step, you could hear the sound of the backwash and smell the salty smell brought by the wind. The sunset set the sky on fire in a bright red, fading into shades of orange where the sun was hiding behind the horizon line, marked by the mountains of the Apennines. Scenes and colours that would have infused the feeling of nostalgia in the heart of any person, let alone in that of Andrea, already in turmoil for the whole story he was living. He would have wanted to turn the horse around and run back to Jesi, to his beloved, to his home, to his affections. But once again, the nitrites of the horses and the cries of the armigers brought him back to reality. They were in front of the main entrance of the castle, in a large quadrangular clearing that, on the opposite side, opened towards the sea. While his escorts were shouting to the guards in the stands, to be recognized and to lower the drawbridge, Andrea looked at the port. The sea was calm, flat, almost a table. Some stars were already shining in the sky, a sky that was taking on the tones of turquoise and that would soon become much darker, wrapping things and people in the black cloak of the night. The silhouette of a huge boat, a three-masted sheep, caught Andrea’s attention. In his life he had never seen such a large vessel. And the fear that the next day he would have to climb on it gripped his heart. On the highest tree, the central one, waved the banner of the Serenissima Republic, a laying lion, the lion of St. Mark, with an open book, the Holy Gospel, between the front legs. When the drawbridge was descended and the huge doors of the portal opened, the captain of the castle guard went out and approached Andrea, handing him a folded banner. He bent to his address in an obsequious bow and handed him the banner.
Andrea got down from his horse, nodded to the Captain to lift himself from the reverent position and took the object from his hands. He unfolded the drape, in which, on a red cloth background, had been made, at the end of the embroidery, the golden design of a rampant lion adorned with the royal crown on his head.
«My Lord, Marquis Franciolino Franciolini, you’ll fight under the sign of the lion!», the lieutenant began to profess. «Tomorrow morning you will deliver this banner to the ship’s crew, who will hoist it on the flagpole, beside the flag of the Serenissima Republic. The Duke Francesco Maria Della Rovere gave precise dispositions. The rampant lion, the symbol of your city, but also of Frederick II of Swabia, who granted in his time to adorn it with the imperial crown, will be the symbol of your strength and your authority.»
The Scroll was interrupted and he had a parchment delivered by another soldier, who had remained behind him, a short distance away.
«Duke Francesco Maria Della Rovere appoints you, as written in this parchment, Grand Lion