Glorious Ones Read Online Free PDF Page B

leader of The Glorious Ones.”
    That coward Andreini bowed his head, and motioned for us to precede him from the cave. But, as I brushed past him, I looked into his eyes, and realized that the drama he’d begun in that cave was not yet over.
    Two days later, we were perfumed so sweetly that we couldn’t have offended a single hair in the French king’s snotty nostril. No one could have told that we’d just spent all that time encrusted with shit and mud. We sparkled like angels dropped in from heaven—and that was exactly what those French aborigines thought we were!
    God, what jackasses they made of themselves, banging their goblets against the table and screaming. I couldn’t find a joke too dirty for them; I couldn’t play a prank too nasty for their refined tastes. They were at us all the time, those filthy lechers—refilling the women’s wineglasses, patting their backsides. Their wives bent over backwards, luring us up to their rooms. Even the king was in on it—trying to peer down Vittoria’s bodice, getting eyestrain; you’d have thought they were the only breasts in all France. And how could I forget those senile old retainers who crowded around us, those doddering half-wits who asked if our stage effects were in fact great feats of magic?
    Feats of magic! Those were the geniuses of the French court! No wonder the country was in such bad shape!
    Still, I must admit: Flaminio outdid himself that week we spent at Blois. All those fancy devices he invented—the dancing moon, the raging flood, the flying lovers. I sweated blood, pulling the ropes on those pasteboard pirate galleons!
    He himself was always strutting like a gander, declaiming like an arrogant fool. He exaggerated all the worst aspects of the Captain’s part. His boastful leadership was so outrageous that, by comparison, the French king seemed as wise and prudent a monarch as the Lord Himself.
    The courtiers loved it. And each day Flaminio grew fatter, more bloated with success and pride, until we took to calling him “The Pope.”
    The Pope! Some joke! We had no idea what we were saying, we should have knocked on wood! Because, on the eighth day of our stay, the real thing showed up!
    He called himself the Cardinal, the Monseigneur—who can keep track of the fancy names those French monks take on? He was a thin, balding, ugly fellow; he minced and pranced like a billy goat on his way across the room. But, as he moved towards the king, each tap of his high heels sounded like the crack of doom.
    Right then, I knew the whole story. It was a feeling I remembered from the old days, when I was always on the run: someone enters the room, and you know that there’s trouble, and the trouble means you.
    “Flaminio Scala!” I hissed. “This play is just about over!”
    Just as I’d predicted, the Cardinal leaned down, and whispered in the king’s ear. The king’s dumb face twitched with confusion. Then, he rose and followed the priest out the door.
    A moment later, the king returned, grinning sheepishly. “Tonight,” he said, pointing towards the door.
    “You mean we should discontinue our performance until tonight?” asked the Captain.
    “I mean you should leave my court tonight,” replied the king, with a silly, helpless shrug. “The Church of France disapproves of the theater in general, of your lewdness in particular. Therefore, you are expected to be on the other side of the border within ten days.”
    “My beloved Sovereign!” cried Flaminio, racing towards the throne. “I cannot believe that the most equitable and enlightened ruler in all Christendom could do us such a grave injustice! We meant no harm, I assure you. We were only trying to please. And I was actually under the impression—correct me, my lord, if I am wrong—that we had managed to amuse you.
    “Why, then, should a leader of your boundless generosity reward us so poorly? Is it possible that our good-natured vulgarity has offended the spotless purity of your