Niccolò rides slowly, making his way up the mountainside and through a beech forest. The trees lessen the impact of the north wind but still it blows sharply. He pulls a peasant-style black woolen tabard out of his sack. It used to belong to his father, Bernardo, and to his grandfather before that; it’s not much to look at but very warm, and Niccolò always wears it when he’s on the farm. As he slips it over his head he notices something shiny: a flat medallion of the Virgin Mary that Marietta has stitched to the fabric without telling him. He tries to pick it off but needs his knife to cut the thread and it’s in the sack with the food. He’s too cold now to go looking for it and doesn’t want to stop.
He pulls the tabard tightly around him and imagines his arrival at the court of Borgia.
“Your most excellent Lordship,” he will begin. Or perhaps it would be better to say “Your Excellency, Duke . . . ” Every word is the start of a path. Niccolò knows that what he says will either lead him far or toward a dead end. Everything he’s achieved to date has been thanks to his ability with words, both written and spoken, but this time, if he wants everything to go smoothly, he will have to excel and use language impeccably, without committing a single error. It will be like walking along the edge of a cliff, he thinks to himself, much like the one he is riding along.
He doesn’t look out at the vast, green landscape or distant mountains, which are so beautiful and worthy of admiration. He doesn’t hear the sound of the river flowing down into the valley. He just keeps on mentally drafting the words of his opening speech. “Most Excellent Duke” is the best way to begin. That way he doesn’t have to specify whether he means of Valentinois or Romagna. Indeed, if he mentions the latter, which the man only recently acquired with the help of France and in the name of the Church, and which the Pope immediately signed over to his son, it might make Borgia just want more.
On the other hand, what wouldn’t trigger that man’s voracious appetite? In the past three years, while trying to devour the Florentine Republic and in addition to Urbino, he also seized the Duchy of Camerino and the Principality of Piombino. He even received the insignia of the Golden Rose from his father, an honor that officially recognized him as representative of Christ on earth.
And to think that Borgia is six years Niccolò’s junior . . . Of course, it’s easy to reach those heights when you’re born into a wealthy family, one that, even before your own father is named Pope, has a pontiff in its ranks. Cesare was raised on his mother’s milk and shrewdness. He’s already seen and done so much: archbishop at the age of eighteen, then cardinal, after which he abandoned the priesthood so he could focus on increasing his wealth and power through all means possible, doing whatever crime or misdeed was required—and always succeeding.
A small fort sits along the mountain pass, marking the border between the territories. Niccolò gets off his horse and shares his pecorino with the few soldiers stationed at the garrison. In his head, he continues to refine his speech for Borgia. It seems strong but he knows that a good night’s rest will bring new ideas.
The soldiers, who come from small villages that dot the mountains, offer him some wine that’s worse than the one he has in his goatskin, but he thanks them and accepts. He talks and jokes with them, and asks about their homes and families. Although he’s relatively uninterested in nature, he’s fascinated by mankind. He relishes watching people do routine tasks in new ways, he likes analyzing people’s characters, finding out if they’re taciturn, imaginative, artificial, peevish, hopeful, or resigned.
Although the soldiers appreciate that Niccolò is different from them, they also perceive his sincerity and welcome him into their midst with warmth. After dinner, they clear the table and start playing with an old deck of cards; they laugh and place bets and poke fun at each other; they argue for a farthing and yell so loudly that it feels like their voices might carry all the way to Imola.
At dawn, Niccolò sets out on his path again. They give him a new horse, older and wearier than the first. He doesn’t care. He’s caught up in his thoughts. As he calculated, a night’s rest has brought him new words and a different way of presenting his message, one that he finds far more convincing than his earlier one.
Valentino’s lands begin just beyond the fort. It’s hard to see exactly where the borderline is in the thick beech forest around him, but on the path itself there is a clear marker: a large house built of dark stone. At the sound of the approaching rider, three soldiers come out. They wear black hose and leather jerkins decorated in red, yellow, and blue, Borgia’s colors, making Niccolò feel as though the prince is somewhere nearby; the duke is very exacting when it comes to the uniforms his men wear.
As they are checking his letters of safe conduct, Niccolò observes Valentino’s coat of arms on a marble plaque that’s been affixed to the façade. The white stands out clearly, as if expressing just how tightly Cesare intends to hold onto Romagna.
They grant him passage. The road begins to descend shortly after, continuing to wend through the forest. A boar runs across his path and into the valley. The wind picks up again.
He goes back to thinking about his speech and decides to practice saying it out loud, so he can judge the effect it might have on his audience.
He comes to a halt when he sees something white in the distance between the trees: a military encampment. Niccolò rides off the main path and into the woods, the leaves muffling the sound of his horse’s hooves. There’s no undergrowth, so it’s easy to make his way. He heads down into a gully, then climbs up again, noticing a boundary stone embossed with the sign of the lily. He’s still in an area where it’s easy to confuse one state with the other; the irregular border line that shifts with the continuous power struggles follows the rising and falling land. One wrong step takes him from one territory into another.
In fact, once he is beyond the gully, he is back in Romagna. He has gotten very close to the camp. A standard waves from the largest tent with colors that he recognizes, that of the Marquis of Torrenotte, a condottiere recently hired by Valentino, along with others, to fill the gap left by those who have broken their contracts with him. Niccolò has heard that the Marquis and his mercenaries are well paid, that Borgia doesn’t scrimp when it comes to getting ready for war. With all the soldiers he has hired across Italy, he has effectively made it much more expensive for everyone.
Better not get too close, there are surely watchmen on patrol. Niccolò hears reveille and sees the dark shapes of soldiers coming out of their tents. He heads back the way he came and returns to the path. He already has something to refer back to the Republic: troops have set up camp in that particular place so they can attack the fort where he played cards the night before.
The road descends for a long stretch until it is flanked by the river Santerno, which comes crashing downhill between huge boulders. Amidst the thinning trees he catches glimpses of the plain below and notices how it has been carefully divided into cultivated plots of land.
He has stopped drafting his introductory speech. The substance is there; now he just needs to polish it.
At a switchback in the path, he encounters a variegated troop of about a hundred mercenaries marching toward him. They carry long halberds and swords, and walk in no precise formation towards the border.
No one else is around. It’s just them and him.
He freezes, instinctively bringing his hand to his pouch of money. He realizes it would be far more dangerous to turn back than press on. They’re already sizing him up. He takes in their sunburnt, lined faces and mean eyes. These men wouldn’t think twice about robbing him and dumping his body in the river.
He sits up confidently in his saddle, salutes the first soldiers elegantly, and announces his mission. “Greetings, I am the Florentine ambassador on my way to meet with Duke Valentino, who awaits me in his court.”
They do not reply, but their leader, the tallest and most stalwart of them, issues an order to his men with a strong northern accent. “Let him pass.”
They step aside so he can ride between them. Their stench reaches him on a gust of wind; clearly they haven’t been able to wash or change their clothes in a very long time. He salutes the leader but the man does not reply.
As Niccolò passes in their midst, he notices how carefully they look at him. Trying to appear casual, he observes them, too. He realizes that they are part of Naldi’s army, founded by a family that hails from the Ravenna area. They have been in the service of the Borgia family for quite some time and they, too, are paid handsomely. They were in the front lines when Borgia attacked and conquered Arezzo.
Another switchback and he disappears from their sight. He continues to hear the sound of their armor clanging as they march while he continues in his descent.
The sun begins to set. The dark rooftops of Imola are visible in the distance. Outside the city walls is a military encampment, a sign that there isn’t enough room in the city to hold all the soldiers that Borgia has assembled. Niccolò sees men pitching even more tents. They must be expecting more troops soon.
A canal lined with windmills, olive mills, and spinning mills leads from the Santerno to the deep moat that runs around the city walls.
The main road that leads into the city runs parallel to the canal. Niccolò studies his wavering reflection in the current, then observes the men and women laboring nearby. He examines their clothes and is fascinated by their different manner of dress and their unusual way of speaking.
Four massive iron cannons, the likes of which he has never seen before, are being hauled by oxen toward the fortified city gate. The men who drive the animals speak to each other in French; it would appear they’re complaining about the local food. He passes the cannons, observes their breeches and barrels, and notices that they’re decorated with the crest of the King of France. The gun carriages have also recently been emblazoned with the Borgia motto, Aut Caesar aut nihil. Niccolò can still see the burn marks.
Two guards step in front of him, blocking his way. He shows his papers and they let him through the gate. As he is riding down a long street between the buildings, he sees Baccino, his steward, walking toward him. Around thirty, short and wiry, the man is all muscle and nerves.
“Welcome. I was on my way to the gate to wait for you. I have found us lodgings.”
Niccolò thanks him, glad to get off his horse and walk for a bit. There is less wind between the houses, so he takes off his black tabard and tosses it onto his saddle, folding one end of the fabric over the medallion of the Virgin Mary.
Swiss foot soldiers, dressed in their black and red coats, are everywhere. Two prostitutes try and entice him with their favors.
Niccolò smiles at them. “I’m sorry, dear ladies, but I have no money to spend.” For once it’s the truth and he doesn’t enjoy saying it.
Baccino leads him to the inn, a derelict-looking place with a dingy entrance.
“I imagine it’s even worse inside,” Niccolò says.
“There was nothing else available. The city is full of soldiers and they have requisitioned all the more comfortable places. And with what we can pay . . . But this place has its advantages, you’ll see.”
They turn down a nearby alley, leave his exhausted horse in a stall next to the stronger steeds belonging to Baccino and Ardingo, the messenger, and enter the lodging house through a side door. A heavy woman of about forty with a terse, matter-of-fact manner hands them a key.
Baccino helps Niccolò carry his bags up to a small room, furnished more or less as he expected: with a tiny window and small desk. Although he says nothing, his displeasure is evident. He throws his sack down on the straw mattress and a cloud of dust rises into the air.
To soothe his tired feet, he takes off his boots but hangs them up high, over the staves, knowing from experience that these kinds of places are full of mice.
“I need to wash up,” he says, suddenly realizing just how tired he is.
There’s the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs: two messengers sent by the duke’s secretary. Borgia heard that Machiavelli had arrived and wants to see him.
“Now? I thought I would ask for an audience tomorrow morning.”
“His Excellency said now.”
“Let me change. I can’t come like this, in my traveling clothes.”