City of God

by Cecelia Holland

  Valentino returned to his chair. “I managed that well by myself.”

  “They are all in the same hand. Where did you dome by these, Magnificence?”

  Valentino was looking off into the darkness. “A friend in Gianpaolo’s service sent them.”

  Nicholas gave a little shake of his head. Into his mind popped the memory of Gianpaolo Baglione, in this very room, horror-struck by Nicholas’s plan for Urbino. “It’s slight enough,” he said, “but it can’t be good.”

  “Then you agree with me,” Valentino said. He reached his two hands across the table for the letters and gathered them into a stack. “Take these.” He held them out to Nicholas. “Find out what you can.

  “Yes, Magnificence.”

  “I want to know everything as you learn it. Within an hour.”

  “Yes, Magnificence.”

  “Where do you suppose you are going now?”

  With the letters in his hand Nicholas had backed a step toward the door. “With your leave, Magnificence—”

  “I have not dismissed you.” Valentino smiled at him.

  Nicholas realized that something bad was coming. For an instant his eyes met Valentino’s; instantly he dropped his gaze.

  “The city of Florence is more fixed against me than ever,” Valentino said. “Although as you predicted the state fell. You must have known that it would not fall to me.”

  “Magnificence, no one is always right—”

  “I don’t believe you, my dear mouse.”

  “I assure you, Magnificence—”

  “Bah.”

  Although Valentino never raised his voice Nicholas fell still. He passed the cryptic letters from one hand to the other. That raised his spirits; having work for him, Valentino was only going to scold him. He took a deep breath, half sure, and took the jump.

  “Magnificence, you know everything—I throw myself at your feet for mercy.”

  “Henceforth you serve me alone, mouse.”

  “I ask nothing more than that, Magnificence.”

  The candlelight gleamed strangely on the prince’s eyes. His smile parted his lips. He was feeding on these cringes and scrapes. Nicholas bent his knee a little more.

  “In your service I can make good use of my position with Florence. Only guide me to your purpose. I am your tool.”

  Valentino was silent. Nicholas touched his lower lip with his tongue. He had spoken too broadly, the prince would take it for satire. The chair scraped on the floor; Valentino was rising.

  “What do you mean?”

  Nicholas raised the handful of letters. “If these mean some conspiracy among your captains, as it could be supposed to mean, men your enemies will know of it long before your friends.”

  Valentino said swiftly, “You think it’s that? They conspire against me?”

  Something in his voice brought Nicholas to stare at him, surprised. It seemed as if Valentino were afraid. His gaze met Valentino’s back. The Borgia was standing in the darkness looking down through the window. Abruptly he wheeled smartly to face Nicholas across the candlelit table.

  “Then find out what they conspire to do. Stay with the Florentines. Do they pay you well?”

  “Poor and late.”

  Valentino broke into a sudden sunny smile. “I pay well. You’ll learn to love me. Now go and bring me something to convince my father.”

  “Magnificence, I will do what I can.”

  “Oh, no.” Valentino cocked up his sun-bleached eyebrows and pointed his finger at Nicholas. “You will do what I say. Now go.”

  Nicholas bowed and left the room. In the antechamber he paused a moment, there in the deep brown darkness by the outer door, far from the candle, and sorted through what he had just seen.

  He understood more of Valentino now, enough that he no longer feared him. He saw how Valentino was to be managed. Great as his power was, yet he could not trust it; he feared so for it that the cringing of as low a man as Nicholas was true comfort to him. That was how to lead him. Nicholas saw it as clearly as a problem in mathematics. Whoever made a king of Valentino would hold him.

  He saw himself, not the king but the king’s minion, whispering in his ear.

  A sound beyond the door brought him to himself. Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stair outside the antechamber. Valentino would come out of the inner chamber and Nicholas did not want to see him, not now, with the new knowledge shining in him. Hastily he went out the door.

  In the morning he had a dispatch from Florence, in two pieces: a letter giving him temporary power to receive diplomatic communications in the name of the Republic, and a short order concerning Astorre Manfredi.

  “It is known to us,” the letter ran, “that the Borgia having seized the city of Faenza took into his power the youthful prince Astorre of that city, and that since the return of the monster to Rome this young man Astorre has been flung into the dungeon of Sant’ Angelo. We require that you do all possible to achieve his release, in the name of the Republic of Florence.”

  That was all, save the signature; yet the signature told Nicholas much, because it was that of Niccolo Machiavelli. Machiavelli was Piero Soderini’s man. Nicholas spent several moments weighing out what it meant that a henchman of Soderini’s should already be signing letters to Florence’s most important legation.

  The Fortress of Sant’ Angelo stood like a tumulus on the bank of the Tiber just upriver from the Vatican. Its battered round walls were high enough to shadow the street around it, and the two new towers that Pope Alexander had added to it gave it an awkward, horned look. Nicholas loathed the place. He remembered his meeting here with Lucrezia Borgia and hoped that he could find some way as effective in the case of Astorre Manfredi. He presented himself at the gate of the fortress and was let in.

  Thick with soldiers, the cramped open spaces of the ancient building were threaded through a bulk of solid stone. Nicholas imagined that an anthill must be as crowded and as cold. A guard took his credentials and letter of introduction and led him to the gallery where he was to meet Astorre.

  The gallery, pierced with windows, was as bleak as the rest of the fortress. Not even a woven hanging covered the raw stone wall. The oval windows were barred with a grille-work of wrought metal, coiled like rose vines, and studded with iron thorns. Astorre appeared at the far end, among the shadows, and stood hesitantly until a guard came forward to direct him to Nicholas.

  Nicholas bowed, knelt, and kissed the young man’s proffered hand. The guard read off his name, mispronounced as only a Romagnol could mispronounce it, and his station. Folding the letter, the man propped himself against the wall to watch.

  “You are gracious to come, Ser—Doo—”

  “Messer Nicholas Dawson, Magnificence.”

  Astorre smiled. He was a handsome boy, his hair soft and pale, hanging in curls over his ears like a carved Cupids, and his innocent eyes wide-set. The smooth lips smiled too easily. The dungeon had not corrupted him yet. He listened to Nicholas’s speech of friendship and concern with his head inclined a little to one side.

  “You of Florence are ever kind to me. There was no need of this visit to assure me that you will not desert me now.”

  Nicholas said something about ransom and asked what amenities the prince might need to soften his prison stay. At the word “prison” Astorre moved, his hands rising from his sides, his eyes shifting away.

  “Prison. I am not in prison here.”

  He turned toward the window, through which he and Nicholas could see the Tiber.

  “I am a guest here. He—my Lord Cesare—he has never used me as a prisoner. Only as a guest. He has said it often.”

  “Magnificence, the Duke Valentino enjoys the power of soft words—”

  “He would not deceive me.”

  The boy put his hand on the grille, his fingers curling through th
e open work, among the iron thorns.

  “I can leave whenever I wish.”

  Without moving his head, Nicholas glanced at the guard, listening to every word. Was the boy saying all this for the guard’s sake? Or for his own?

  “Nevertheless, Magnificence, I beg you, do not attempt to leave before we have arranged the formalities.”

  “Oh, you diplomats.” Astorre, smiling again, looked over his shoulder at Nicholas. “He is right—without your little rules you are lost.”

  “Then, Magnificence, for our comfort, allow us to believe that our little rules are of some value.”

  “As you wish.”

  The guard was coming toward them. The interview was over. Nicholas knelt again. Again he paid the prince the usual compliments and assurances. He touched the pale fingers to his lips. He hoped that Astorre’s trust in Valentino went no deeper than that. He hardly dared look into the boy’s beautiful, trusting face.

  The guard took away the prisoner. Nicholas went as swiftly as he could make his way down the cramped driveway to the courtyard.

  There Miguel da Corella was dismounting from his horse. Nicholas paused, uncertain whether to greet him, Miguelito’s moods being utterly beyond prediction. To his surprise the soldier saw him, burst into wreaths of smiles, and hailed him over to his side.

  “Messer Nicholas. What do you here?”

  “In fact, I am going out,” Nicholas said. “This place haunts me.”

  Miguelito pulled off his heavy riding gloves. “You are a fantast.”

  “No, never, for God’s love. I have no such imaginative fever, I assure you.”

  A smirk crossed Miguelito’s face. He stuffed his gloves into his belt. The buckle of the belt was in the figure of a Gorgon’s head. “Maybe so. Whom did you come here to see?”

  “Don’t you know?” Nicholas said, certain of it; as if Miguelito had told him outright, that question warned him that the soldier was here to plumb what he knew of Astorre.

  The other man worked one shoulder up and down. His olive complexion was darker by a film of dirt. Nicholas put on a polite face of waiting for an answer.

  At last Miguelito said, “What do you think of him?”

  “Of whom?”

  “Ah—you wiggler—Astorre! The pretty boy.”

  Nicholas glanced at the gate, longing to go. “He is certainly that.”

  “You find him attractive.”

  “That I never said. He is—soft. What do you intend for him?”

  Again Miguelito’s lips parted in a leer. “Yes, that, very soft. You are right.” He began to walk, going to the gate, walking Nicholas to the gate. “He yields too readily. I love strength in a man—something I can test my own power against. Otherwise one might as well love women. Isn’t that so?”

  Nicholas lowered his eyes to look at the rough paving stones. “What do you intend for him?”

  “I don’t decide such things. Ask someone else. Have you learned any more about those coded messages?”

  “I know whom they were to be sent to,” Nicholas said.

  Miguelito’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  “I should tell Valentino.”

  The soldier flung a sharp look to either side of him to see if anyone watched, and stepped closer, his head thrust forward. “Tell me. You know I am my master’s right hand and right eye and right ear.”

  He stank. Nicholas moved backward, away from him, smiling. “Not close enough to him, though, to know what fate he intends for Astorre.”

  Miguelito grunted, and his lips curled down; that angered him. “Well,” he said, “come tonight to the palace. Attend on him at supper.”

  On the last word he wheeled and strode away. Nicholas began to call after him but there were too many strangers in the courtyard. Half of Rome would know with their breakfast if he waited on Valentino at his private supper. He wondered how the Signory would construe that. Miguelito had gone. Nicholas went back to his legation.

  On his way to the Vatican that evening he fell in with another servant of Valentino’s, a Spaniard named des Troches, who was buoyant with speculations. “The Pope is to dine tonight with Valentino. We shall all have to look smart.”

  “Why?” Nicholas asked.

  “Well, I for one have hopes of a certain office in the Pope’s household that I happen to know will soon come vacant. A very nice pension.”

  Nicholas glanced sharply across at the other man. Paste jewels sparkled in the Spaniard’s sleeves. His beard was oiled to a point. They came to the doorway and Nicholas stood aside to let des Troches go ahead of him. There at the threshold to the dining chamber, where already a dozen courtiers hummed and buzzed, des Troches paused a moment, his face intense. His hands darted over his costume, touching his clothes into place, as if he were putting himself together. He walked forward with a new strut in his gait. Nicholas followed, half-amused, feeling drab.

  They entered a room full of noise. No one sat at the table near the window, and Nicholas could not make out how many places had been made ready. It was commonly known that Valentino preferred to dine by himself. A number of other men were already talking and moving around the room when Nicholas and des Troches came in, and des Troches was greeting them, some casually, some with the intensity of a lover. Nicholas went off along the edge of the room.

  There were four sets of gold dinner plate waiting on the table. He wandered away, reluctant to be so much in the eye of the room.

  “Messer Dawson.” A man in a red coat put himself forward into Nicholas’s path. “We met at the Cardinal of Siena’s Christmas, some years ago, you must remember.” He put out his hand and said his name, which Nicholas recognized vaguely. He shook the hand fluttering at him.

  “I have never spent Christmas with Piccolomini.”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, actually—everyone knows who you are.” The man in the red coat smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth. He leaned forward a little to smile into Nicholas’s face. “You will know me better soon enough.”

  Nicholas’s face went hot; he hoped he was not blushing. He said, “I am sure of that. Your leave, sir.”

  He started around the man, but before he could get away Valentino’s pages came in announcing him.

  All around the room the court bowed, and a few moments later they were all kneeling while the Pope came in. With Alexander were his son Joffre and Joffre’s wife Sancia, a princess of Naples, who was wearing shoes so steeply heeled that she teetered along on her boyish husband’s arm.

  Miguelito strolled across the room toward Nicholas. “Good evening, Nicholas,”

  “And to you,” Nicholas said.

  The soldier lowered his voice. “Now tell me what you would not tell me at Sant’ Angelo.”

  They were standing almost within one another’s arm. Nicholas saw des Troches watching them from a short distance away and stared at him until des Troches turned his head and walked off.

  “Gianpaolo had the notes written to send to Oliverotto and two of the Orsini, but he met them in person before they could be sent. I understand they agreed to a secret meeting at La Magione. That is all I know.”

  Miguelito said, “You are sure?” He spoke a broad Navarrese oath. “Those devils.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat. Miguelito’s passion was interesting to him; there was something religious in this outrage. Miguelito nudged him with his elbow.

  “How did you find this out?”

  Nicholas shrugged, not answering. Miguelito glared at him. “Wait here.”

  Nicholas looked toward the table where the Pope sat with his family. The most favored of Valentino’s court were serving their supper to them. “Let me go with you,” he said.

  “Isn’t that careless?” Miguelito said. “What if the Florentines hear you are so friendly with us?”

  Two hours ago Nicholas had worrie
d over the same matter, but now he longed to put himself within hearing of whatever was said at that table. “I am accredited to the Pope’s Court,” he said to Miguelito. “It’s my work to be friendly with you.” So he could argue it to the Florentines. Miguelito grunted.

  “Come, then.”

  Nicholas could not withhold his smile. His hands clasped casually behind his back, he went after Miguelito across the room. He knew all the court watched, envious. It was important to look as if he did this at his will.

  Miguelito went to stand behind Valentino’s chair, and for a moment Nicholas stood there alone, out in front of everyone, but unnoticed by the Borgias. He circled around hastily to the wall. The Pope was telling his daughter-in-law Sancia a ribald story about the Cardinal d’Este. Valentino was eating fish.

  The Pope exploded with thunderous laughter. Sancia gave a mocking shriek. Clutching his arm she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Valentino picked a small bone like a needle from the tip of his tongue.

  “Telling someone else’s secrets, pretty sister?”

  Sancia whipped her head around. “Only yours.”

  “Peace, my children,” said the Pope. A servant offered him sauce for his fish and he turned to regard it.

  Sancia was still staring at Valentino, her head thrown back. “What do you think I told him, Cesare?”

  “My children,” the Pope said, smiling, “peace.”

  Valentino cut his fish with a leaf-bladed knife. Sancia lowered her head.

  Nicholas stood by the wall, his hands behind him, and his gaze pinned to the family around the table. He wondered how many others of their court understood them, since the Borgias were speaking Spanish. Probably many others. Valentino would recognize him, sooner or later—he told himself that several times, as the servants took dishes away and brought new ones, and the Borgias ate of the rich food. Miguelito stepped forward once, to sip from Valentino’s glass. They feared poison. Or were only being careful.

  The Pope spoke of Lucrezia, from whom he had received a letter announcing that she would bear him a grandchild in the spring. He delighted in this news, rubbing his hands together, and again and again saying his daughter’s name.