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.”
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.
