Glorious Ones Read Online Free PDF Page A

August—September—November.”
    It was January by the time we left. We hardly had to spur our horses—that cold wind whipped us across France like a fleet of crippled sailboats. We traveled slowly, losing our way in blinding snowstorms, breaking our necks on the ice.
    I rode last in line, complaining constantly. “Flaminio!” I whined. “This trip will be a catastrophe, mark my words. We’re wasting our talents on those French jackasses! They’ll drive us back across the border with feathers burning in our tails! We should have stayed home, playing the street fairs and carnivals. At least, we were making a decent living!”
    But the Captain’s ears were stuffed with delusions. All he could hear was his own fantasy of fame, immortality, great art! Ambition had sunk its fangs deep in him; its poison was making him a slavedriver. He made us rehearse all night, singing and dancing like madmen, even when we’d been traveling all day. Even when he let us go, we couldn’t sleep; then he’d begin that infernal hammering, as he constructed those outrageous sets to impress the French king.
    All that time I was the only one brave enough to complain, the only one sensible enough to resist Flaminio’s madness. And, when that business with the Huguenots began, I was the only one who came right out and said what was on his mind.
    It was the last week of the trip. We were so close to Blois, so near silken sheets, warm women, good wine—even I felt almost cheerful. Of course, the disaster had to happen then; we were off guard, we’d stopped expecting the worst.
    One morning, as we stumbled along the icy road, a gang of grim-looking soldiers suddenly swooped down on us from beyond a bend. Shouting and waving their swords, they galloped towards us, bearing down hard, until they were so near that I could see the foam from their horses freezing in the cold air.
    “Fight to the death!” I shrieked. “Fight to the death!” For, though I knew that a handful of puny actors had no chance against those shiny sabres, I couldn’t resist the temptation to make the others feel worse.
    Within minutes our enemies had surrounded us. Their leader seized the bridle of Flaminio’s horse, and led us across the meadow. Those cowardly actors were quiet as mice; Columbina and Vittoria sniveled with terror. I grinned devilishly at one of our captors, but the smile soon died on my lips. I’d never seen such hatred on anyone’s face, not even among the poor suckers I’d swindled as a boy.
    At last, we found ourselves in a drafty cave, heated by one pathetic, smoking log. A dozen sentries guarded the entrance, trying hard not to peek inside. Just beyond them, Flaminio Scala was trying in his worthless schoolboy French, to negotiate with their commander.
    By the time he joined us inside, the Captain’s face was the same color as the dirty snow.
    “Who are they?” demanded Vittoria, strutting and ruffling her feathers like a fat turkey. “What do they want?”
    “They’re Protestants,” spat Flaminio, as if he’d suddenly become the great defender of the faith.
    “Do they want us to perform for them ?” asked Vittoria.
    “They want us to do our most gruesome death scenes,” replied Flaminio. “They want our heads to go on tour, at the ends of pikes, as a little morality play about their country’s decadence.”
    It was then that The Glorious Ones went crazy with fear. That cowardly Jew Pantalone sat alone in a far corner of the cave, hugging himself and shivering. The Doctor kept rushing towards the mouth of the cavern, scanning the sky and insisting that it was essential for his research to know the exact position of the sun. And Vittoria paraded back and forth, making a great show of indignation, flashing her breasts at our jailers as if the mere sight of that pimply flesh would turn the Huguenots into panting adolescents.
    If Isabella had been there, we’d have been free in an instant. She’d have bewitched those guards, had them