At the end of the long, narrow street that runs through the center of Imola, Niccolò catches sight of the thick walls of the Rocca stronghold, amber yellow in the late afternoon light. A few steps further and he sees one of its rounded corner towers, cannons poking out the embrasures.
The road opens onto a wide empty space in front of the stronghold, designed so that attackers would be vulnerable to artillery fire.
The Rocca is square in shape and safely built into the corners of the city walls. The defensive moat that runs around Imola also cuts through the open space, providing the fortress with a second level of protection.
On the far right is a grassy field, about a hundred arms long and wide, where a crew of men are busily working on what may once have been a stable, repairing and reinforcing demolished walls. Niccolò notices that they have dug a deep hole in the center, and squared it off with strong chestnut posts that are as tall as a four-story house and eight lances long. Are they building a second fortress?
With the duke’s two men leading the way, they cross the drawbridge, enter the heavily guarded Rocca, and climb a staircase. Suddenly, the stark military architecture softens into a sumptuous wing with frescoed walls. This is the Palazzetto del Paradiso, one of the two guards says.
Waiting for him in an antechamber, together with two soldiers carrying swords, is don Miguel Corella, the duke’s lieutenant and private executioner. A Spaniard, around thirty, he’s dressed in black and has a cruel face, olive skin, and a disturbing gaze. He peers closely at Niccolò. Although it is not customary to search an envoy, Corella pats him down while greeting him, verifying that the only thing that Niccolò is carrying under his red robe is a near-empty money pouch. He even looks carefully at Niccolò’s black velvet flat cap before leading him into a grand tapestry-lined hall.
Cesare Borgia is sitting on a chair that resembles a throne. Leaning on one elbow, he is deeply engaged in conversation, speaking drily to a dark-haired military man. Just like when Niccolò saw him in Urbino, Borgia appears to be exploding with energy. He’s wearing an ochre robe—embroidered with figures that Niccolò has a difficult time deciphering—over a white shirt and black gloves. Sitting by his side is a giant grey mastiff in a metal-studded leather collar.
A young damsel with very fair skin sits reading on a stone bench off to one side, facing a roaring fireplace. She has blond hair that has been elaborately braided at the nape of her neck and wears a lavender dress decorated with elegant arabesques.
Trying to appear casual, Niccolò looks her up and down and then glances around the room while Valentino concludes his conversation. He notices two windows and a large balcony that looks out onto the surrounding countryside. On the far side of the room, a heavy oak door leads to a short corridor, which clearly leads farther into the Palazzetto. He feels the eyes of the duke upon him. He bows and hands him his papers. Borgia takes them but doesn’t bother looking at them.
“Machiavelli, I remember you well. It was the end of June. You had an impertinence about you, not like those other diplomatic eunuchs . . . ”
Initially Niccolò is caught off guard but then he begins the speech he artfully composed along the way. It flows easily. Soon he reaches the offer that he has been sent to communicate. “The Republic of Florence, through me, offers its respects . . . ”
When he mentions Florence, the young lady turns around, tips her head delicately to one side, and glances up at him with clear blue eyes.
Niccolò is surprised by the intensity of her gaze but pretends not to notice. She can’t be more than twenty years old. He’s startled by her beauty, but there’s something else, too, something dignified and mournful. He desired her as soon as he set eyes on her.
She goes back to looking at her book. Borgia realizes that they’ve exchanged looks but doesn’t bother introducing her. It’s as if she doesn’t exist. It all happened so quickly.
“ . . . and proposes forming an alliance with you against your enemies,” Niccolò says. He is about to continue, but the duke raises his hand to interrupt him.
“Back in June, I mentioned how difficult it is for me to trust your Republic. Too many people are in charge of making decisions, and these people change their minds far too often. I still feel this way. As for my enemies, I can take care of them on my own.” He appears to be in a bad mood, annoyed, tense. “And yet . . . ”
“And yet?”
“You know how keen I am on forging a strong relationship with Florence. I will examine your proposal carefully.” The duke’s mood has changed. He now seems almost friendly and welcoming.
Niccolò nods. The Prince got to the crux of the matter immediately. None of the phrases Niccolò prepared are of any use to him anymore; he hurriedly tries to invent others, but Valentino precedes him.
“Friendship with your Republic means a great deal to me. I have not been able to build a relationship with you until now because of the cruelty of the Orsini and Vitelli families. They have repeatedly, and in all ways imaginable, tried to convince me to engage in battle with you. But I have always defended you Florentines, and this is one of the reasons they’ve turned against me. I am fully aware that, at this very minute, they are putting together an army with the goal of taking Urbino away from me and reinstating the old duke. This doesn’t worry me though; their efforts are pointless.”
“They have their sights set on Urbino?”
“Of course they do. Conquering it was easy, and if I lose it, it won’t be hard to get it back.”
Was Borgia telling Niccolò this so that he would think that all the duke’s concerns and worries had to do with Urbino?
“I have shown too much clemency with those lands already, and it has not served me well. Do you know that two days ago they recaptured the fortress of San Leo?”
Niccolò hadn’t heard this and he looks at Borgia in surprise. The duke looks more annoyed than displeased.
“The castellan was fortifying a wall when some local peasants took advantage of the situation. Apparently they hid and waited until some long beams were being carried over the drawbridge and, precisely when it couldn’t be raised, they stormed across and massacred the garrison stationed there. Some say they relied on the Vitelli and Orsini families for help, but this is not yet clear.”
Why is he talking about a loss? He’s just stirring up dust, trying to distract him.
Niccolò focuses on the figures embroidered on the duke’s robe and realizes that they represent the signs of the zodiac.
Borgia waves away his thoughts, his mood changes, and he becomes almost likeable. “I know that you’re a gifted writer. They say that your reports for the Dieci are well-written, eagerly anticipated, read and commented on by all. You’ve won over quite a circle of admirers.”
Clearly, he’s heard this from his spies. The gonfalonier is wise not to trust anyone in the Palazzo della Signoria, Niccolò thinks to himself with some alarm, while also feeling somewhat flattered by the compliment.
“I was curious and so I enquired about you. You nurture ambitions of becoming a historian. You excel in prose, and only prose, because your poems, well . . . ” Valentino rubs the fingertips of one hand together as if to indicate something flimsy, while also appearing to take pleasure in Niccolò’s disappointed expression.
“With all modesty, I consider my poems to be quite strong,” Machiavelli says.
The damsel glances at him again, this time with curiosity. Flattered, he stares back and tries to make eye contact with her, but she quickly looks away.
“Why do you persist with what you lack, Envoy? Leave poetry to the poets and focus on your strengths. Rely on your talents with prose,” the duke says.
Niccolò is speechless. No one ever has ever said as much to him, criticizing and praising him simultaneously. Naturally, the words of praise feel better than the criticism, and so he holds onto them tightly; if he allowed himself to be wounded by all the criticism he has received over the years, he never would have persisted.
“Why are you smiling, Machiavelli? I remember that smirk, I wondered about it even back in June. Are you laughing at your interlocutor?”
“Absolutely not, your Excellency. It just happens. It may be . . . ” He hesitates, but Valentino nods, encouraging him to go on. “It may derive from my way of looking at the world, the way writers do.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Borgia says, stepping down from his throne and turning politely to the young lady. “I know how much you enjoy sitting by the fire and reading poetry, but I must ask you to leave now.”
The damsel obeys coldly and silently, disappearing down the corridor that leads into the Palazzetto. Maybe she will go to the duke’s chambers, Niccolò thinks.
Valentino walks up to Niccolò and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m glad they sent you to spy on me. Go ahead and try—if you can. At the same time, I think it’s too bad that you can’t put your talent as a writer to work. I could actually use someone like you,” he says, walking over to a table made from a stone splay, with two seats carved into the wall on either side. The dog trails after his master. Borgia beckons to Niccolò to follow him and points to a stack of books on the table. “You see those? Slanderous volumes, each and every one of them, all published to hurt me. I keep them here so I see them every day; it keeps my rage alive. There are so many of them, and you have surely read them. Lies, every single one. And they will last in perpetuity.”
He then walks toward the balcony, again gesturing to Niccolò to follow him. They step outside, the dog behind them. Two men with crossbows keep watch, one on either side, ready for surprise attacks. Niccolò stares at them apprehensively but Valentino ignores them. The vast plain, luminous in the setting sun, stretches out before them.
“What do you see out there? Farmhouses, the countryside . . . Reality as it truly is.” He then taps his index and middle finger of his gloved hand on his chest, between Taurus and Gemini. “And when you look at me, what do you see? Everything those books say: a man who arranged to have his brother killed so that he could take his place as Captain General of the Church, a man who sleeps with his sister, a man who will do anything to extend his dominion.”
Niccolò is embarrassed.
“And yet none of it is true,” Cesare says firmly. “Allow me to make you an offer: help me write my reality. My story. I will tell you all my secrets, and you will give them shape with words.”
“But I work for the Republic.”
“You will continue to do so! This assignment will not interfere with what they have asked you to do. You will, in fact, write anonymously. And you will earn so much money from it that you’ll be able to pay off all your debts and live without worries.”
Again Niccolò is shocked—how many spies does Valentino have in Florence to know about his debts?
Borgia smiles with artificial modesty. “I have eyes and ears everywhere in your beautiful city. Think it over. You have until tomorrow evening. I will wait for you at the vigilia secunda to know your reply. I trust you will accept.”
“Thank you for your high regard, Your Excellency, but how can you make me this offer if you’ve never read anything I have written?”
Borgia’s eyes shine with delight. He returns inside and Niccolò follows him. The mastiff stretches out on the balcony. Valentino removes a piece of paper from one of the pockets of his robe, unfolds it, and begins to read aloud.
“In one of your reports from last June for the Dieci you called me ‘splendid and magnificent . . . So fierce in battle that there’s no great enterprise that he won’t take lightly.’”
Niccolò tries to hide his shock. Even if he could speak, he doesn’t know what he could possibly say. Those were his exact words. Who in the Dieci or the Chancery made a copy of his report?
The duke goes on. “‘ . . . In the pursuit of glory and reputation he never rests, and recognizes neither weariness nor danger; he has arrived at a new position before anyone understands that he has left the old one. He is well liked by his soldiers, and he has enrolled the best men in Italy. These qualities make him both victorious and dangerous for the future; added to which he is always lucky.’”
Cesare smugly folds up the piece of paper. “Your words show that you understand me, but, at the same time, they are somewhat excessive. If you accept the task, I will ask you to praise me in more measured terms. I also do not want you to hide my flaws. Everything must be done with great care. In this way, the result will be balanced.”
As Niccolò leaves the Rocca, he reflects on the offer. Is it a trap? Why would it be? No, Valentino seemed sincere. Accepting the task would mean spending more time with the duke and could be a good way of gleaning something of his plans. It aligns with his role of spy. Soderini himself suggested he take advantage of all opportunities.
Of course, he would also have to be extremely careful: Borgia will only reveal things that suit him and he will try and manipulate Niccolò to act against the Republic. He’s certainly very capable of doing that. His manner of alternating threats with flattery was surprising. In fact, Niccolò is reminded of a talented actor he knew back when he used to frequent a traveling theater troupe—Niccolò feels a deep pang of desire for Tullia, one of the troupe’s singers and his lover for a few weeks—who was capable of capturing the audience’s attention even when silent, stealing the scene merely with his presence, as if he were some kind of otherworldly messenger.
In any case, the meeting with the duke confirmed Niccolò’s memory of him from June: Borgia emanates great vitality. He seems unconquerable, far stronger than Louis XII, whom Niccolò met while on mission in France for the Republic two years earlier, chasing after the king as he traveled through town after town, fearful of coming into contact with the plague. His Majesty the Very Christian King had lively, uneasy eyes but a simple face, he resembled an ironmonger or farmer, and he looked exhausted from being in power.
And what about that young lady? She must be a lover but there was nothing submissive about her. He thinks back to the look in her eyes and finds himself longing for her again. The more time he spends with Valentino, the more he will be able to see her, and who knows, one thing always leads to another . . . Then he remembers his fling with Bianca and the hired assassin. Maybe he ought to steer clear of women connected to powerful men.
Niccolò walks back to the lodging house in the final light of day. He’s certain he’s being followed, but that doesn’t trouble him. When he reaches the inn, he climbs the stairs to his room. As previously agreed, Baccino is waiting for him. They look at each other complicitly. Niccolò takes off his long red robe and hands it to the steward, who puts it on, together with his master’s black cap. Niccolò, meanwhile, dons his old black tabard. The two men go downstairs in silence.
The entrance is empty. The steward walks swiftly out the front door, his head down, while Niccolò leaves via the side door, through the stables, past the horses, and out into the alley without anyone noticing him, thanks to the long evening shadows.
The duke’s men, who followed Niccolò there from the Rocca, will now tail Baccino, who will take them on a long, roundabout stroll.
A dusky light hangs in the sky. In the piazza in front of the Duomo, people rush homeward. Niccolò periodically glances over his shoulder to make sure he is not being followed.
On the corner of one of the streets, he sees the tailor’s fabric shop that the gonfalonier mentioned. It’s large and has only one entrance. A heavy bald man is folding and putting away large, colorful samples of cloth in the candlelight.
Niccolò glances around. When the street is empty, he walks in.
The shopkeeper peers at him suspiciously while continuing to fold the fabric.
“Greetings,” the man says in a heavy Romagnolo accent, his warm smile contrasting sharply with his keen eyes.
“Greetings to you. Do you just sell fabric or are you also a tailor?”
“I’m also a tailor, if you can afford me,” the man replies rudely, glancing at Niccolò’s tabard. “But I’m closing up shop now. Come back tomorrow.”
“It’s an expense I can’t forego,” Niccolò says. “They say it’s going to be very cold this winter.”
“No worse than the winter of two years ago,” the shopkeeper replies and then hesitates.
“Or that of the year before. But even if it’s cold, it will pass. Sooner or later summer always returns.”
“Indeed, summer always returns,” Attilio Farneti says, staring at him meaningfully. “You can speak freely. We are alone.”
“I am the envoy sent by the Republic.”
“I noticed your Florentine accent. Welcome.”
“Thank you. I saw some large new cannons by the front gate.”
“Military equipment has been arriving from France for days now. The duke has accumulated as much artillery as the rest of Italy has all together. I heard they’re expecting more French soldiers, four hundred spearmen, and their helpers.”
“That many? Did you hear it from the troops themselves?”
Farneti doesn’t reply. He probably has a paid informer in Borgia’s army but prefers not to reveal any more than that.
“What can you tell me about the soldiers marching toward the border with the Republic?”
“It’s not easy to get news from up in the mountains. People are being extremely cautious,” Farneti says.
“When will the duke’s troops move?”
“It’s impossible to know. Valentino is terribly secretive. Only he knows his next moves.”
“And what about Vitelli and the others? Are they making progress?” Niccolò tries to get Farneti to speak.
“It would seem so. The news that the mercenaries want to go to battle against Borgia fills the people who hate the duke with hope, such as the people of Urbino. They can’t stand him because his soldiers sack, steal, and rape. Apparently, the people of San Leo managed to fight back.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s true. And what about here? Are the people ready to rise up against him?”
“It’s different here. The cities of Romagna are well governed. Many people like him. And those who do not like him keep silent about it,” the shopkeeper says.
“So you do not think he will lose Romagna?”
“It’s highly unlikely.”
“Who’s the blonde lady with him?”
“Dianora Mambelli, from Forlì. Spoils of war.”
Ah, spoils of war, so I was wrong, Niccolò says to himself. She is under his control. And yet her gaze was not that of a prisoner. “Did he take her when he captured Forlì?”
Outside someone walks by holding a lantern. Farneti holds a sample of fabric up to the candle and pretends to show it to Niccolò while replying, “Yes. As you may recall, most of Forlì surrendered immediately, but some noble families hid inside the fortress and tried to resist. The girl’s father was an advisor to the Countess. He wanted to fight back at all costs.”
“Mambelli, of course! Valerio Mambelli. I believe I met him when I was sent on legation to the court of Caterina Sforza, a few months before the siege . . . A tall man? With a reddish beard?”
“I can’t say.”
“He was one of the secretaries. A man of great valor. I imagine he met with an unpleasant end.”
Farneti nods and puts down the piece of fabric. The street is empty again. “Valentino executed him and his family, and he raped the girl.”
Niccolò feels great sorrow for her and shudders at the thought. The longing he felt for her now seems very wrong. Of course, there was no way that he could know it, but even so, he feels ashamed.
“Some people say that he’s been charmed by her,” the tailor adds.
“Charmed?”
“Initially he wanted to show her off, to remind people that those who resist get killed and the women end up belonging to him. But he’s kept her around for too long now. He hasn’t made her disappear as he has done in the past with others.”
Niccolò ponders this. “Even Achilles was infatuated with his slave, Briseis.”
“Who?”
“No one, never mind. And how is she taking it?”
“What can she do? She has to submit to him.”
Clearly, the young lady detests the situation she finds herself in. She didn’t seem at all resigned and must despise Valentino. Maybe, Niccolò thinks as he slowly walks back toward the inn, she knows some of his secrets, seeing how she is forced to spend time with him. He needs to speak to her alone. But would it be fair to complicate things any further for—what was her name?—Dianora? After all she’s been through? He certainly doesn’t want to add to her troubles.
Back in his room, he sits down at the small desk and, under the weak light of a candle of poor quality, he writes up a report for Pier Soderini until he’s numb with cold.
Magnificent and Distinguished Vexillifer of the People of the Republic of Florence: today I arrived in Imola and was received with great courtesy by His Lordship. He said that he has always desired friendly relations with us and that any interruption in them is due to the malice of others, and not his own.
Niccolò goes on to summarize his conversation with Valentino, while reflecting on the fact that he should also relay this same information to the Dieci. He will paraphrase the very lines he is writing. He describes Cesare Borgia’s attitude and his tone of voice. He conceals everything that has to do with him personally.
This is, in effect, all that I can write to Your Lordships at this time; and though it’s part of my assignment to write you how many visitors are at this nobleman’s court, where they are staying, and other local particulars, since I just arrived today, I can’t be sure of the truth of what I have learned, and thus I will save it for another occasion.
With the modest coffers given to me before leaving, I have procured lodgings that are far below the standards of an Envoy of Florence, and therefore I respectfully ask for further . . .
The goose quill pen scrapes the paper. Niccolò dips it in the ink. He adds the word “money,” his salutations, the date, and then blows gently on the paper so the ink dries. He then takes out the bottle of secret ink, opens it, picks up a brand new quill pen and cuts off the tip.
Before beginning to write, he thinks back to the codes given to him by the gonfalonier.
Numbers 1 to 10 stand for the border towns between the Republic and the Duchy of Romagna where the enemy army might pass, from north to south;
12 is the Lily, which is to say Florence, which needs to be referred to as if it were a male noun, and not like a city, a female noun, to avoid being deciphered;
58 and 59 both indicate Valentino, and should be used randomly to give the idea that he is referring to two different people;
Numbers 21 to 28 are code for Borgia’s enemies who have joined forces and who have sworn to defend each other and fight as one unit.
He dips the pen into the ink and begins to write his secret message, the words disappearing immediately. He needs to know exactly what he wants to express before setting the words down on the page. He writes about what he saw when he crossed the border at 3. He writes about the duke’s powerful new cannons, and the large number of French spearmen who will soon be arriving.
He holds the paper up to the light: he sees no trace whatsoever of the mysterious ink. He thinks about how meaning always gets buried between the lines anyway, even in a letter not written in code.
He concludes the letter and seals it with wax. Then he focuses on the letter for the Dieci di Libertà e di Balìa, filling it with vague and scintillating words about Borgia and Imola. It comes easily because he already knows what he wants to say, but even so, he chooses his words carefully. He’s practically certain they will get back to the duke.
Shortly after dawn, slender and agile Ardingo takes the two letters and swiftly mounts his horse.
“Zerino will be here soon,” the messenger says. “He’s already on his way. He can sleep in my room. After him will come Mancino, then Campriano, and then I will be back. To mobilize this many riders, the Republic is clearly hungry for news.”
“I hope I can gather information quickly enough for them. Good luck,” Niccolò says.