short, life for our young diplomat was not at all easy: the ally reassuring and full of praise of the previous dinner could well become, overnight, the bitter and deplorable enemy of the next morning, the pawn to be removed from the chessboard to avoid stall or to give room to castling, the piece to be exchanged to launch the final attack…
Already, after the summer of that 1482, the tone of papal politics had become clear. The Holy See had decided to end the war and Tristano had, therefore, been sent to the Gonzaga court precisely to demonstrate Rome's changed will towards Ferrara and Mantua. At the same time, enjoying the utmost welcome from the proprietors and having free access to the refined rooms the palace, the handsome twenty-two year old certainly could not remain insensitive to the calls of the young courtesans who paraded before him on those cold winter evenings.
III
Alessandra Lippi
At the first glimmer of the Mantuan sun, Tristano, abandoning his very young lover in the arms of Morpheus, had just returned to his room; where he attempted to indulge in well-deserved sleep, when an insistent voice under his window brought him back to reality:
“Excellence… Excellence… My Lord…”
A soldier with a small parchment in his hand urgently requested his attention.
The letter clearly had a papal seal and ordered Tristano to return to Rome as quickly as possible.
Thus, without even waiting for news from the battlefield, the pontifical officer had to leave the Virgilian city with his escort, but not before quickly penning two necessary messages: one for the Marquis Federico, apologizing for his sudden departure and the confirmations of reassurance for the newfound support of the Holy Father towards him and the Duke of Ferrara; the other for his Beatrice, thanking her for having generously shared that night and wishing her to meet that needy love that her promised one could never give her.
He rode without stopping throughout the day, pausing only in Bologna to refresh the horses, before crossing the Emilian Apennines towards Florence.
The following day, crossing a compact and silent beech forest, a shot from a crossbow swiftly crossed the path of the young pontifical trustee, raising a mixed flock of thrushes and frozen blackcaps. While instinctively Tristano and his men slowed and put their hands to their weapons, on the same trajectory, a worn out bay bleeding from the withers, madly cut across their path. It was ridden badly by a man and a young woman who held on to him around his hips. Immediately after, another four riders and then two more, evidently in pursuit of the former.
Impulsively the bold ambassador decided to join the hunt in the dense thicket of deciduous trees, forcing two of the escort to do the same.
However, as soon as the woods opened up on a slightly inclined clearing, the three slowed and, hiding in the underbrush, tried to understand what was happening while keeping at a safe distance.
The brown nag had slumped to the ground; the two youngsters, had been thrown, they tried in vain to barricade themselves into a small semi-abandoned hut, now joined and hunted by the pursuers; two of these had dismounted from their horses swords drawn, while the other four surrounded the hovel.
While the one he protected was trying to open that battered door with all his strength, the young man, unus sed leo, was preparing to face the two smirking thugs with a bident. Despite the evident numerical inferiority, the man managed to parry the lunge on the right and hitting the first assailant with a kick to the lower abdomen, he turned towards the second to his left, dodging the blow and skewering his side. Thus obtaining a sword, he glanced quickly at the woman, meanwhile surrounded by the rest of the brutes, and resumed scuffling with the first thug; with a few blows he managed to disarm him and hold him, despite his size, by pinning his shoulders to the ground. At the same time, however, his companion's desperate cry for help drew his attention; turning to the woman, he threw his sword javelin-like into the chest of the brute who had pounced on him, in turn he received a crossbow bolt on the shoulder from the last rider who had remained in the saddle; he could do nothing when two others came up behind him and ensnared him with a metal mesh similar to that used in hunting, he was knocked to the ground and his limbs were immediately tied with a belt.
“No, Pietro…” shouted the desperate young woman bursting into tears, “Leave him! It's me you want”.
“Stop,” shouted what seemed to be the boss. “Don't finish it right away,” and pointing at the poor young woman, he continued: “First let's have some fun.”
“Bastards,” cried the one on the ground, trying in vain to wriggle free, “Thugs, cowards, sons of a bitch!”
The beast grasped the terrified girl by the hair and tearing her clothes off forced her against the shed wall, he held her arms, and while two others tied her legs with a rope, he began to take off his breeches while putting a rag in her mouth to block her screams.
At that point, Tristano, not being able to remain impassive in the face of such repulsive violence, finally decided to intervene: he came out into the open with his men and burst onto the scene as he heroically pounced on that heinous pack of lusting hyenas. The rapists, although reduced in number, still held the upper hand and were not to be subdued: the tension increased again. While, however, when one of the thugs pulled up his breeches, Tristano recognized the Medici lily on the frieze of the hood and even before the crossbowman began to stretch the bow against one of his own, he raised his fist to the sky, ordered them:
“Stop, I order you in the name of Sire Lorenzo de' Medici “; and he stretched his arm forward and then on the right and left again, against each of the four henchmen. “I have twenty-five men behind me ready to arrest you and hand you over to the jail of my friend Lorenzo,” he added.
The largest, then, recognizing the insignia of his lord on the ring and therefore fearing serious repercussions to his detriment, immediately ordered his men to drop their weapons; he also tried to justify what had happened but Tristano stopped him immediately:
“Go, go, felons.”
The four, undoubtedly ranting, mounted their horses and disappeared into the beech forest.
The papal soldiers, still incredulous as to the way the young official had solved the matter, quickly freed the two young people and, dressing their wounds as best they could, loaded them onto the back of a horse.
So he resumed his journey as the sun began to set on their right.
In the evening he arrived in Prato, where Tristano knew someone who perhaps could take care of the two wretches, allowing him to continue the ride to Rome quickly.
Near the Cathedral square, two girls had just given a piece of bread to a poor, cold beggar and were preparing to return home. Tristano suddenly jumped from his horse and pointing at the two young people exclaimed:
“Alessandra!”
The slimmer of the two turned abruptly, looked for a moment at the one who had dared to call out her name at that late hour and, receiving confirmation by seeing how much that sound had just aroused in her casket of memories, replied:
“Tristano”
In an instant she was running towards him and without convention or inhibition, as between young people who had already shared more than a little, she threw her arms around his neck, gently closing her eyes and resting her head on the chest of the unexpected stranger.
Alessandra
