“She has fled to Nepi with her son by Alfonso. She is safe. He may not be.” replied Madonna Ginevra.
“We will pray for them both,” promised the priora.
Chapter 22—Pia’s Wedding
A palazzo south of Rome
October, 1500
“Aren’t I beautiful?” said Pia, pirouetting in front of the mirror, her fluted sleeves flapping.
“Yes. Especially your hair. It matches the gold thread in your sleeves.” Pia looked like a flower, Nicola decided, all greens and yellows, crowned by a mass of brassy curls that softened her thin, rouged face.
“Saffron is the secret,” Pia responded happily. “Lucrezia Borgia sent some as an early wedding gift, with directions.”
“How kind of her! Do you forgive the Borgias, then, for what they did to your family?”
Pia’s face darkened. “Of course not. But I was never mad at Lucrezia. She has nothing to do with it.” She smiled again. “Let’s look at you, now.”
Pia steered Nicola toward the mirror, in the corner of the bedroom where they were dressing for Pia’s wedding. Nicola scowled at herself. Without a veil, she felt naked. Her dark hair hung down her back in a single, beribboned braid, revealing ears she had scarcely ever seen, masquerading in a pair of earrings. Her enormous brown eyes seemed even larger than usual atop rouged cheeks and lips. At least, the deep maroon of her camorra was sober against Pia’s incandescent green, a comfort. And her sleeves, though puffed, were plain white cotton, which would not draw attention. But the underdress that had seemed so modest, wasn’t. She tugged at it.
“My cheeks and lips are too red, Pia. And this camicia shows the tops of my breasts. I look like a courtesan.”
“Stop pulling at it. And stop looking down at your boobs, like they don’t belong to you! You couldn’t possibly look like a courtesan. Your face is too innocent. Hold your shoulders back, like this,” Pia directed, yanking at them. “Don’t you want to find a suitor?”
“What good is a suitor, without a dowry?”
“What good is a dowry, without a suitor?”
“Pia! It’s time.” Pia’s mother, looking harassed, bustled into the room, took her daughter by the shoulders, and spun her around. “Magnifica! But where is your headdress? Here.” She shoved the wire circlet, decorated with fresh flowers, onto Pia’s head. Pia adjusted the headdress, and grabbed her comb to work on her hair.
“Enough. They are waiting.” Pia’s mother ushered her out the door, and sent her scurrying down the hallway. She then held Nicola back as she started to follow.
“Let her go down by herself, Nicola,” she whispered. “It is her day. Let her draw the attention.”
“Is there a back stairs?”
Pia’s mother nodded, and pointed. Wordlessly, Nicola followed her finger.
The ring ceremony was nearly complete when Nicola at last emerged from the warren of servants’ passageways at the back of the palazzo. Pia and her new husband were holding hands as the presiding official, a notary public, verified and recorded the dowry and other agreements reached by the two families, who crowded the room.
Tears rolled down Nicola's cheeks. Pia was finally, irrevocably gone. They had been going in different directions for several years. Pia had yearned for adulthood. Now, at fifteen, she had achieved it. Nicola, however, longed to stay a child. Her body embarrassed her; her newly-volatile emotions confused her. Sooner or later, Nicola knew that the priora would demand that she take vows as a nun at San Sisto, or leave. In a way, she wished she had no possibility of another choice, because the convent was not a bad choice. Zia Caterina had said she might be able to marry. But when, and to whom? Caterina's sporadic letters contained no further information on this subject.
Nicola knew the ring ceremony was over when the families began moving towards the door, which opened to sounds of laughter and smells of good food.
“Time for the festa!” Pia exclaimed to Nicola as she passed.
“They have started without us. Come,” said Antonio, Pia’s new husband, grabbing Nicola’s arm to escort her.
Half the nobility in Rome had been invited to the festa. Remembering Lucrezia's wedding, Nicola knew it would last many hours. She also knew what was going to be served, because Pia had talked about it endlessly: a whole roasted sheep in cherry sauce, a great variety of roast birds--turtledoves, partridges, pheasants, peacock and quail--ten kinds of olives; chicken with sugar and rosewater, whole roast suckling pig; various pastries and cakes made with pine nuts, almonds and sugar; and finally, quinces and other fruits, cooked with sugar, cinnamon and pine nuts. Other things as well, which she had probably forgotten. And to drink: wine, wine, wine.
Antonio led her to her seat at the head table, then returned to join his bride. Nicola did her best to make conversation with Pia's pimply-faced cousin Federico, who was seated next to her. However, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was looking down her dress.
“Cesare Borgia has taken Pesaro,” someone declared. “Did you hear?”
“Those cannon of his rip through stone like it was paper,” said another.
“He has spies everywhere.”
“When he took Naples, the virgins jumped from the city walls to avoid being raped!”
“They say he is coming back to Rome to lay siege to the Orsini fortresses at Ceri and Bracciano. The great families of Romagna will all be reduced to nothing,” Federico gloomily predicted.
Nicola kept silence. She had been taught to respect the pope, despite his human failings. At least he was honest about his bastard children, which the fathers of many of her acquaintances were not. God surely would forgive him for using his capable son to recapture the Papal States, she thought. But this was not an opinion it would be wise to share in present company. She smiled, ate her fill, and bided her time.
When the dancing began, Nicola left the table and hid in the garden, in a place she had already located. She did not know how to dance, and she did not want to know how to dance. How had Pia learned how to dance, she wondered, as she watched her lead an elaborate padovana with Antonio. She did not remember them dancing when they met in the garden, only kissing. But then, she reflected, she was not there every time they met.
Later, she dozed on a garden bench, her head leaning against the wall, so that she could to be ready to travel back to the convent long before dawn. At San Sisto, the bride and groom would receive the priest's blessing before traveling to Antonio's home for the traditional bedding ceremony. Nicola would stay at the convent, because the priora would not permit her to witness the bedding. Nicola was actually relieved at this. She had little desire to see Pia naked in bed with Antonio.
Shortly before dawn, Nicola was abruptly awakened by Federico, who swayed in front of her. While Nicola had no experience with intoxication, she could smell the wine on his breath an arm's length away.
“Nicola, I am over-overwhelmed by your beauty,” he slurred. “Let's have some kisses.”
“No, thank you,” responded Nicola, standing. Though not tall, she was almost his height. A lopsided smile appeared on his face, as he swayed toward her.
Rearing back, Nicola hit him at the base of his ribs with the palms of both hands, using all the strength she could muster. He fell abruptly on his back, stiff-legged as a stone statue. Lifting her skirts, Nicola ran for the villa.
“Did you have a good time?” asked a flushed and happy Pia, who was in the entry with her new husband, bidding good-bye to their guests.
“Si, of course!” said Nicola, resigning herself to deliver the expected answer. “I hope you have a happy life together.”
“We will. I will visit, Nicola.”
Would she? Somehow, Nicola doubted it.
Chapter 23—La Sforza Re-emerges
Convent of San Sisto, Rome
A year later, June 1501
“Is it really you, cousin?” said Sister Ignacia to Caterina Sforza, in wonder. “When I heard that Cesare Borgia threw you in the Castel Sant’Ang
elo, I was sure you would soon be dead.”
“I look like I have come back from the dead, don’t I?”
“I did not recognize you at first, but I haven’t seen you since we were girls,” Mortuos responded, to avoid a lie. Her cousin looked indeed like a resurrected corpse: an impossibly pale, skeletal face peered from black garments too big for her shrunken body. Her hands were like claws: fleshless, big-knuckled and wrinkled; nails bitten to the quick. It was hard to believe she was once a famous beauty.
Caterina Sforza shuffled past her. “No one recognizes me. For a long time I refused to eat, for fear of poison. Now, I have trouble eating. Come, let us walk in this orchard. I cannot tell you how good it is to see green, living things again.”
They walked silently in the dappled shade of the convent’s ancient fruit trees, still soft underfoot from grass not yet desiccated by the summer’s heat. A breeze wafted the scent of baking bread from the convent kitchens. La Sforza sniffed appreciatively, and sighed.
“I have given up my lands, Ignacia,” she said abruptly. “Cesare Borgia has them now. ‘Twas all the pope demanded of me, and I finally signed them over. I held out for a very long time, hoping that Cesare would die in battle. But no one has been able to stop him.”
“You held out for a year and a half, Caterina! It is a miracle you are still alive. Is it true you tried to poison the pope?”
“By sending him the blankets of plague victims? It is true, yes. I would have killed Cesare, too, if I had the chance. Before he came to me, though, he always had me stripped and bathed; my nails cut. They even washed my mouth out, for fear I would hold poison in it.”
“Stripped! Caterina, he didn’t—“
“Well of course he did, my naïve cousin! That was hardly the worst of it. At least when Cesare visited me, I got a decent bath. In fact--”
“I am not sure I want to hear this, cousin,” Mortuos said abruptly. “And if that was not the worst of it, I am not sure I want to hear what was.”
“You always were overly proper, Ignacia.”
“Try to forget it now. It is all behind you,” Mortuos counseled. They talked for a time of their families, their cousin Leonora, and, more bitterly, of the Borgias.
“What will you do now?” Mortuos asked. “Do you intend to ask the priora for refuge here?”
Caterina chuckled hoarsely, as if it hurt. “No, Ignacia. I may not be what I once was, but I will never be a nun. The pope has promised me safe conduct to Florence. That is where my children are. I will go there.”
“When?”
“Within the hour, as soon as my attendants return for me. Come, this must be the school where you teach. I would like to see it.”
“The girls are in lessons, now, cousin. It would be best if we did not interrupt.”
“I would like to see it, though, and one girl in particular: Nicola Machiavelli.”
Mortuos stared at her cousin. “I don’t know who you are talking about. We have no such pupil.”
“Certainly you do. I heard from Leonora.” Caterina Sforza was walking more rapidly now, towards the door of Girls’ House.
“You must not believe everything Leonora tells you, Caterina. Please, leave the students alone,” Mortuos placed a hand on her cousin’s arm to restrain her.
Caterina thrust the hand aside. “I am not going to do anything to her, Ignacia. I just want to look at her, so I can tell her father that I have seen her.”
“We have no one by that name, I swear to you.” Mortuos hurried to catch up to her cousin.
Caterina Sforza entered Girls’ House and looked around the room. The girls, seated at long trestle tables in front of her, turned to stare at her.
“Which of you is Nicola Machiavelli?” she demanded.
“We have no such pupil, Madonna,” said Vivos, looking at her perplexedly. “I am not sure what you are doing here, but you are interrupting our lessons. Could you come back later?”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe you. Come, you,” she said, pointing a yellowed nail at one of the youngest girls. “Which of these girls is Nicola Machiavelli?”
The child looked frightened. “I don’t know who you are talking about,” she squeaked. “Suora, who is this old woman?”
“There is no one here named Nicola,” another girl chimed in. “You must be mistaken.” Her classmates nodded.
Mortuos now touched La Sforza’s arm. “Come, cousin. Let us get you something to eat and drink, before your servants return.”
Caterina Sforza searched the room with her eyes, then shrugged her shoulders, and stalked out of the building. Behind her back, Vivos motioned to the girls to stay quiet.
Mortuos watched Caterina Sforza depart, then followed. Over her shoulder, she smiled at Vivos, who crossed herself and folded her hands for prayer. “You did well, girls,” she said quietly, after Mortuos left. “Now we must pray for God’s forgiveness for telling lies, even though we did it for a good cause.”
* * *
Later that evening, Priora Picchi wrote a letter to Nicola’s father:
Esteemed Segretaria Machiavelli:
I promised I would write to you if we heard from Contessa Caterina Sforza concerning your daughter. She appeared here suddenly today, demanding to see Nicola Machiavelli. We denied we had such a pupil. Contessa Sforza said she was on the way to Florence, to be with her children. If she claims to have seen Nicola, I assure you she is lying.
Your daughter has settled down as she has matured. She continues to be an excellent student, and is now conversant in both Latin and Greek. She has apprenticed herself to our infermiera, and is increasingly skilled in medicinals and the care of the sick. Perhaps you could send your congratulations, when she becomes a nun? I will let you know when the ceremony is planned.
Your obedient servant,
Priora Gerolama Picchi
Chapter 24—Executions
Outside Sartiano, Italy
A year and a half later, January 1503
Riding beside Niccolò Machiavelli and behind the papal cavalry, Leonardo da Vinci was silently berating himself. He should have listened to the simple people who warned him. Such folk always knew good from evil; knew it even better than their “betters.” Instead he had made a rational decision, attaching himself to a great leader who was also a great soldier, an educated man, a former churchman and the son of a pope—all attributes of virtù; of the ideal man. But--as he had been warned--Il Valentino was not a good man. He was a veritable Lucifer, who had perverted all his seeming virtues into evil. Putting down the rebellion among his captains was necessary, of course, but the brutality…. And he, Leonardo, was caught like a spider in a web. If he tried to leave abruptly, Il Valentino would surely execute him as a spy. He could only bide his time and try to live by his principles, as invisibly as possible.
They were riding through a dank, leafless forest, on a hilly road churned to mud by the cavalry preceding them. Black branches and drizzle obscured the setting sun. A loud cry of pain came from one of the men dragging behind the last of the cavalry by manacled wrists, suggesting the poor fellow had been dragged over a rock.
When the cavalcade suddenly stopped, both prisoners fell forward. Were they not tethered to a tall horse, they would surely suffocate in the muck. They might still. Leonardo made a decision.
“I am going to give them some water, Niccolò.”
“You had better not, Leonardo. You will anger Il Valentino.”
“He wants them alive, at least for the present.”
“He wants them alive, but he also wants them miserable. It is dangerous to offer them aid and comfort.”
“They can’t be miserable when they are unconscious.”
“Do not criticize him, Leonardo! He sometimes kills his critics, you know—cuts off their tongues or hands—“
“I am not going to criticize him, Niccolò. Giving water to dying men is not criticism.”
“They will soon be out of their misery. As soon as Il Valentino hears that Ca
rdinal Orsini is dead, he will kill them. Don’t risk yourself for the sake of men who are doomed.”
“I risk myself if I don’t help them, Niccolò.”
Da Vinci dismounted, handed his reins to Machiavelli, and walked forward to the last row of cavalry. Behind the horses, hanging by bloody wrists and covered with mud, were Francesco and Paolo Orsini. They had trotted and limped behind the horse for the entire day, before stumbling finally from exhaustion and dehydration.
Da Vinci helped Francesco to his feet, then squeezed watered wine into his mouth. “Gràzie,” sputtered Francesco, after a few swallows. “My brother now.”
Paulo hung lifelessly from his shackles. Handing the wineskin to Francesco, da Vinci dragged him upright. “Drink, friend,” he counseled. “You should try to walk. Your clothing is almost worn through. The road stones will cut you to pieces.”
Behind him, someone was hissing a warning. Belatedly, da Vinci heard the hoofbeats, and looked up. “Oh, Dio,” he muttered. The pope’s son and his henchman had already seen them. There was no escape now. He stood tall, and put on a brave smile.
“I knew you wanted them alive, Lord. They were about to drown in the mud.”
“Alive, and conscious. Gràzie, Leonardo,” Cesare Borgia, his voice edged with sarcasm, loomed over them from a huge black stallion. “Listen well, all of you,” he shouted suddenly to the soldiers who marched behind the cavalry. The silence was profound. Even the horses were quiet.
“My former friends, Cardinale Orsini sends you his greetings from the Castel Sant’Angelo,” he announced loudly, looking down at Francesco and Paulo. “He can no longer help you. Finally, it is your turn to die.”
“At least find us a priest to confess our sins, Lord,” begged Francesco.
“It does not suit me to send you to Heaven,” he responded loudly. “Consider yourself lucky that I am dispatching you quickly.” He looked around him, to be sure he had everyone’s attention.
“Look well, all of you,” he shouted. “Leonardo, you had best step back,” he added more quietly. He backed his horse, then nodded at his henchman Michelotto, who pulled a heavy broadsword from a scabbard attached to his saddle.
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