THE MAN was a young brute, one of those handsome men who knock mountains to one side in order to clear the view. Primavera was both smitten and on her guard. She saw how his feet gripped the ground as he dismounted, as if his boots were filled with bronze feet, as if he were in the act of being cast already as his own statue. His dark eyes were tigers, prowling to strike at threats.
“Vicente,” he said, “a basin of water for the face, a basin of wine. There are plans to arrange tonight, and little enough time.”
“That man has a storm of beauty in his face,” said Primavera, backstairs. “He looks as if he could easily wrestle any squid out of the water.”
“He is a monster sinner,” said Fra Ludovico, fussing at his vestments. “Don’t you know who it is? It’s Cesare Borgia, the son of the Spanish Pope. To plot a vendetta, no doubt, to lay waste to more of our homeland. Is he requisitioning troops again?”
“His campaigns cost me the lives of both my sons,” said Prima-vera. “They were fools to allow themselves to be conscripted, but they were my fools. I hope Don Vicente is cannier than they were, rest their souls.”
“He’s a guest of our master,” said Fra Ludovico. “Don’t get any ideas about dishing up vengeance or anything foolish like that, or we’ll all be slaughtered in our beds before morning.”
“I like a man who wears his implement so prominently,” said one of the maids. “It makes my work easier.” She rubbed her bosom as if polishing a knob of furniture.
“I like a man who needs forgiveness so obviously,” said Fra Ludovico primly. “It makes my work clearer.”
“He’s a young one, to have taken so many lives in war,” said Primavera. “Lives of his soldiers, lives of his enemies. Now, what cruel nonsense does his handsome head plot with our good master? Bianca, take this salver of cheese and fruit upstairs. Bianca! Where is the child?”