City of God

by Cecelia Holland

  “This time I shall see every last creature of that name sent down to Hell.”

  Valentino got out of his chair and paced around the room, his hands on his hips. His head was bowed and he looked angry. Nicholas followed him with his eyes. He marked a little sore on the prince’s upper lip and guessed Valentino entertained the pox.

  “Well,” Valentino said, “I shall learn who my friends are, shall I not?”

  Alexander laid his broad fat palms on his knees. “Who besides the Orsini have you tied to this?”

  “My other captains,” Valentino said. “This news Nicholas brought us now is the first sign that it’s spread beyond them.”

  “Do you think it has?” Alexander swung his head toward Nicholas. “Your city—does it support this blasphemy?”

  “I don’t know, Your Holiness, if it please you. Vitelli is a blood enemy of the Republic. I doubt they would deal with him even against my lord Valentino.”

  “We will find out who is involved when the revolt breaks,” Valentino said. He came back to his chair. “San Leo will go to them—I cannot prevent that, they hate me there and I have no army close enough to hold it.”

  “No army at all, if your captains rebel,” the Pope said.

  “Still I can hold the other fortresses in the Romagna, if I act quickly enough. I shall go to Cesena. There I will be close to everything.”

  “You have no men,” the Pope said.

  “Then give me some money, to raise more soldiers. Miguelito will go with me.”

  “Magnificence,” Nicholas said, “if it please you, your allies the French have one hundred lances in Florence. Two hundred in Milan.”

  Valentino gave a throaty growl of amusement. “The French are in Florence to protect her from me. Let’s hope they are flexible.”

  It’s time they learned how we do things in Italy,” Nicholas said, and the Pope lifted his head to laugh.

  Nicholas spent half an hour more in the little room, listening to Valentino and his father haggle over the amounts of money to be spent, and where it was to be raised, and when, and how shipped where. The Pope’s resources were vast. Nicholas had not realized before how easily Alexander could shuffle money back and forth, like dealing out cards, some here and some there from a stock never sounded. Against that, the rebel captains gathering at La Magione could muster only their private armies. Nicholas’s skin tingled with a sudden excitement. For the first time he saw how foolish the conspiracy was. Valentino had said it himself, that soon he would know all his enemies, and they would reveal themselves at a time when he had the power to overwhelm them.

  Nicholas saw something else, too, that in one stroke a whole swarm of Valentino’s advisers would fall, and he himself would stand that much closer to the prince.

  They dismissed him. He went out to the open room again, where the courtiers talked and played. He stopped to watch Stefano play cards. The Spanish Cardinal slept; only Corneto remained opposite Stefano. The dealing of the cards reminded him again of the Pope’s dealing with money. The game was a little symbol of the play of power, the rise and fall of men, and the fickle breath of hick. A man of skill could win at the game without luck, a man of art, like Valentino. He felt sure that Valentino would win the bigger game.

  In the darkness before dawn, he and Stefano walked back through Rome toward his house. Nicholas said, “You are fortunate Valentino did not take the insult from what you said to him. Whatever did you have in mind?”

  Stefano laughed. He was more than a little drunk, and he had won; he swaggered along like a pirate. “God’s bones. He likes a man around him, Valentino, now and then, that’s all. After all you little bootlickers.”

  Nicholas’s temper rose; he was tired, and his nerves were raw. “It was his whim to laugh. Be careful he doesn’t take the whim to do otherwise.”

  Stefano made a rude noise with his tongue against his teeth.

  Old Juan asked, “What is this of a rebellion against the Borgias?”

  Nicholas unwound his woolen neckcloth and gave it to his servant. It was the middle of the day but an early winter chill numbed the October air; his cheeks still burned from the walk back to his house from the legation. He unfastened the front of his coat. “Where have you learned of that?”

  “In the market.” Juan helped him remove his coat. “They were all buzzing—it was easy to catch their drift. The whole of Valentino’s army has gone against him—is that it?” He folded the coat over his arm and laid the neckcloth neatly over the coat.

  “Yes,” Nicholas said. “All Valentino’s condottieri have broken faith.”

  “Come sit down, I will bring you wine.”

  Nicholas went into the center of the room. The fire had been laid but not lit, and without its heat to draw the damp from the air, the house was wretched as a cave. The wind leaked in through every window and the marble floor gave off a chill like an emanation. Nicholas sat in his chair, the wood creaking with the change of weather, and Juan served him.

  “Perhaps it is the end of Valentino, then,” Juan said, while Nicholas sipped the steaming red wine and warmed his hands on the cup.

  “Valentino’s army is nothing without him. Why have you left the hearth cold?”

  “There is only enough wood left for the evening fire.”

  “When is the woodcutter coming?”

  Juan shook his head; he put a dish of sausage and lentils down on the table. “When he gets here.”

  “There is wood at the legation. We shall purloin a little.” An aroma of garlic and onions rose from the stew to make his mouth water, and he picked up the spoon. “Superb.”

  “What is Valentino without his army?” Juan said.

  “The Pope’s son.”

  “The Pope is old.”

  “Exactly why Valentino’s enemies should have waited. Now they have betrayed themselves to him and yet they have small chance of overthrowing him. Please allow me the pleasure of eating my meal.”

  Juan withdrew a few steps and stood, his hands clasped before him, to watch his master eat. Nicholas ate slowly, enjoying the rich flavor of the stew, and keeping Juan in the corner of his eye. The old man wanted to talk; the expression on his face strained with the effort to obey his master and keep silent, until at last words burst from him.

  “Will Messer Stebano come tonight?”

  “This is Wednesday—tonight is the all-preceding tarocco game at that damnable taverna.”

  “I forgot.”

  “You always forget,” Nicholas said. “This is an excellent sausage. I pray you give me the opportunity to eat it in peace.”

  Juan closed himself into an unwilling silence. He watched Nicholas’s every move, his eyes following the motion of the spoon. Although he had spent the morning out to market he could not have spoken above two or three words. As soon as Nicholas let him, he would rattle off again. Nicholas reached for his wine.

  The gate bell jangled.

  “Go see who that is,” Nicholas said.

  “Stebano.” Juan made for the door at his best speed.

  Nicholas pushed his plate away. The stew had warmed him, or he had gotten used to the graveyard air of the house; he stretched out a little, content. His eyes shifted to the blank walls of the room and he debated how to cover them, when he had the money. That led him to the problem of his finances. The ugly suspicion was growing in his mind that the new state in Florence meant to repudiate the debts of the old one, which included his past-due salary. With his tongue he worried a bit of food trapped between his teeth. He should have kept aside some of the money Valentino had paid him.

  In the front door Ercole Bruni strode, his traveling cape sweeping after him, a broad smile on his face, and his arms out to Nicholas like a father’s. Nicholas stood up, surprised, and suffered Bruni’s ebullient embrace. The ambassador’s black furred cloak still carried the chill of the
outdoors.

  “Excellency,” Nicholas said. “What a surprise. I had no idea you were coming back to Rome so soon. Juan, light the fire. Sir, permit me to help you with your cloak.”

  Bruni began to shed his clothes. “We thought the current problem required my presence here, near the Pope.” He lowered his voice, rolling his eyes toward old Juan, who was crouched over the hearth. “This fellow here—trustworthy?”

  “He speaks no Italian,” Nicholas said, gathering up the armful of Bruni’s outer clothing. “Sit, please. He will bring you a cup of hot wine. Excuse me a moment.”

  He took Bruni’s cloak and hat and gloves off to the cupboard in his bedroom. When he came back, Juan was handing the ambassador a steaming cup of wine and Bruni was thanking him profusely in words and wide gestures to illustrate. Nicholas went to stand beside his chair.

  “You may go, Juan.”

  The old man left. Bruni was drinking the wine; he lifted his beaming face above the cup,

  “So. What do you think of this newest twist of events?” Bruni held up one finger, to keep Nicholas still. “The La Magione rebels have asked the support of Florence in their revolt against Valentino. Hah! What do you think of that?”

  “To be expected,” Nicholas said. “May I sit?”

  Bruni’s joyous face lost a little of its glow. “You expected it? Yes, sit.”

  “I suppose they have asked Venice to support them as well,” Nicholas said. “Little doubt what the Serenissima will respond to that.”

  “Little doubt at all, of course,” Bruni said hastily.

  Nicholas’s glass stood empty on the little table, along with the disorderly relics of his dinner. “By your leave, Excellency,” he said, and getting up again put the spoon and the dish and its cover and the glass all in a heap and carried them away to the kitchen.

  Juan was sitting in the pantry with a candle to warm him, mending clothes. Nicholas filled his glass with wine from the jug and took glass and jug out again to the sitting room.

  “What has the new Gonfalonier to say to the rebels?” Nicholas asked.

  “He has not answered yet,” Bruni said. “I am here to gather news and gossip for him, to assure the proper answer. Uhh—what do you suppose Venice will say?”

  Nicholas cocked his eyebrows, assuming a look of mild surprise. “Surely no established state will support such a witless enterprise against the Pope himself.”

  “Ah.” Bruni’s smile popped back into place, broad as a baby’s. “As usual you agree with me. I am happy to be so intelligently seconded.”

  Nicholas leaned forward across the little table to pour more wine into the ambassador’s glass. The fire was going out and he went to poke it alive again. “Has Soderini any private opinion of the rebellion?”

  “He has sent Machiavelli to Cesena,” Bruni said, “to observe Valentino. I thought that was rather shrewd.” He sipped noisily at the wine. “To see how Valentino behaves himself.”

  “Indeed.”

  “The stars are ambiguous,” Bruni said, “but Mars is retrograde. I foresee disaster for one side, either the rebels or the Borgia. Someone is going to come out of this very sore. What do you think?”

  “Are the French troops still in Florence?”

  “Yes, and eating out of the Republic’s pocket, I may add. Making pigs of themselves.”

  Nicholas nodded his head. “You must be hungry. Forgive me, I am most remiss.” He raised his voice for Juan.

  Bruni began to rise from his chair, his hands on the arms. “I can go to an inn.”

  “Not at all. Let my man serve you. Our fare is modest but of an excellent flavor, I assure you. Juan—” he rattled off instructions to the servant in Spanish, and the old man went out again to the kitchen. Nicholas sat down, reaching for the jug of wine. “Excellency?” He poured the ambassador’s glass full again.

  Gorged on lentils and sausage and wine, and tired from traveling, Bruni fell asleep in his chair. Nicholas bundled himself up again in his coat and neckcloth and hurried to the door.

  Juan walked out to the gate with him. Nicholas said, “If he wakes again before I am back, give him the note I left on the table.”

  “We shall need wood, now that you’ve burnt it all up for his sake.”

  “I will hire a carter to bring some here from the legation supply.” Nicholas opened the gate.

  Juan put out his hand to hold the gate open for him. He turned up his long face, graven with lines. “If Valentino falls, what will become of us?”

  Nicholas’s jaw fell open. He had never guessed that Juan might know. He must have inferred it all long since, as he did everything, watching and dreaming.

  “Valentino will not fall,” Nicholas said. “Don’t—”

  He shut his mouth again, looking out to the street; he had intended to warn the old man to keep the secret, but that was fatuous. Juan pushed the gate open a few feet.

  “Don’t worry about the wood,” Nicholas said, and went out. In the street, the first gusty rain of October was beginning to fall. Hunching his shoulders, he put his face into the wind and walked across Rome to the Vatican, to report what Bruni had told him to the Pope.

  Nicholas woke with a start. His mouth tasted stale and foul. He was still in his chair in the sitting room; he had fallen asleep there, by the fire. The first thought into his wakened mind was that Stefano had not come.

  He stirred himself, his stiffened limbs protesting. The hour was late. Juan had gone to bed; the kitchen was dark. It was very late. Perhaps Stefano had fallen into a game, although on Thursdays he always came to Nicholas’s house. Nicholas padded around the room in his stocking feet—his shoes lay under the chair where he had slept—to pour himself a glass of wine and wake himself up. When the game was done Stefano would come, however late the hour; he always came on Thursdays.

  The fire had gone out. Nicholas fed it bits of wood and blew on it and nursed the first little flames into robust life. He crouched in the warmth and light of the fire, enjoying the baking heat on his face.

  When Stefano came he would be hungry. They could warm his dinner over the fire.

  He made another circuit of the room, putting on his shoes. Stefano was often late. He had no sense of time or the propriety of being on time. But he always came on Thursdays.

  He remembered the first Thursday, when Stefano had come very late. That time he had been waylaid leaving the game. Nicholas stood by the fire again and poked furiously into its heart. Stefano was a big man, and hard. He was always in fights. If Nicholas began worrying about such things he would never stop. He forbade himself to worry what had befallen Stefano this time. He would learn it when Stefano came.

  He drank another glass of wine. He forced himself to read a few pages of a book. The fire died down, and he fussed over it again, reviving it.

  The hour could not be all that late, after all—he had not heard the midnight bells, or the watch pass. At that moment he heard or thought he heard a cock crow, off in the distance, the cock at the end of the street. It was a myth they only gave voice at dawn; they crowed all night. The Sforza of Milan even took a family name from that, Galeazzo, because when the first Galeazzo was born the cocks crowed all night. Nicholas went back to his chair and his book.

  He drank the last wine in the jug, thinking to fill it again from the keg in the kitchen, when Stefano came.

  He could not read; he was too sleepy. He thought of putting his head down and napping, but instead rose and walked around the room again and prodded the fire, and he took the jug out to the kitchen to fill it.

  He had to light the candle, to fill the jug, and while he was standing there scratching his knife over the flint in his tinderbox, the pantry door opened and old Juan padded into the kitchen, yawning, a candle on a dish in his hand.

  His eyebrows rose like arches over his eyes. “You are early to rise.”

>   Nicholas said, “No—it is still the middle of the night.”

  “But it is dawn,” Juan said. “Look—see the window?” He pointed into the pantry, at the pale shape of the window in the far wall. The flame of the candle danced in his eyes. He said, in a different voice, “He did not come?”

  Nicholas closed the lid of his tinderbox with his thumb. He went out again to the sitting room.

  He almost went into the Trastevere, instead of to his work, to find out what had happened to Stefano. He saw the folly of that. Youths let their longings trick them, not men like Nicholas. Above all he would not make a fool of himself over any man, even Stefano.

  When he reached his office there was a slip of paper on his desk.

  He pounced on it. It read: “Come at the second hour after nones to the lane behind the candlemakers’ market, near the Piazza Navona, and wait by the olive tree for a man in a red hat.”

  He read it over half a dozen times, trying to make sense of it, and finally sat down at his desk and spread it out between his hands on the surface and read it over again. It was absurd. Was it from Stefano? It had to be from Stefano, or concern him. A ransom, a tryst? He folded the note and put it in his wallet.

  When the legation shut down for the afternoon, instead of going to his house for his dinner, he set off across the heart of the city toward the Piazza Navona. The streets were crowded with folk going home, loaves of bread tucked under their arms. The shops were closed or closing. He passed a hatmaker belatedly locking his door. In the lane behind the candlemakers’ market, stinking of tallow, there was no sign of a man in a red hat.

  Nicholas loitered by the only olive tree, his head turning to direct his gaze to either end of the lane. He was sure now this was a game of Stefano’s.

  A spot of red appeared, bobbing toward him from the direction of the piazza, and on coming closer resolved itself into a red hat perched on the head of a very tall man. It was no one Nicholas knew. He met the fellow with a smile and a joking remark, which the stranger’s sour look quickly cut off.