At the sound of the vigilia secunda, Niccolò hurries back to the Rocca. He brings with him the pages he’s written about the killing of the Duke of Gandía. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to set foot inside Valentino’s secret world. He also hopes to see Dianora again. He recalls the way she looked at him, the desperation and anger in her eyes. What is really going on in her mind?
There are twice as many workers on the construction site as the night before. The roof is almost complete. On one side it is supported by the city’s external walls and elsewhere by a number of the wooden arches that Niccolò saw in da Vinci’s bottega on Via di Santo Spirito. United together, they form a dome or cupola. Niccolò sees the Maestro up high, Salaì is there, too, holding a burning torch while da Vinci hammers the wood, inspecting it probably, testing its quality.
The duke waits impatiently.
Dianora sits next to the fireplace, a small book in her hands. As soon as Niccolò walks in, she gets to her feet to leave, as if the duke had forewarned her. Her blue eyes glimmer in the flickering light. She’s wearing a mauve dress and her hair has been braided into a crown.
Cesare doesn’t even bother introducing her. He grabs the pages out of Niccolò’s hands and starts reading them attentively. The young woman approaches Niccolò, looks at him meaningfully, and bows her head ever so slightly, as on the prior occasion.
“Milady . . . ”
“Milord . . . ” Her voice is sweet and the Romagnolo cadence gives it a pleasant musicality.
Borgia continues to read. He begins to frown, his face growing darker by the minute. Niccolò musters up the courage and speaks to Dianora with great courtesy, whispering so as not to disturb the duke, while she passes by.
“Are you reading a collection of strambotti?”
She slows down and delicately whispers her reply. “How did you know?” Her hand automatically goes to the back of her neck.
“I recognize the publisher’s imprint, from Venice . . . ” he replies softly. He would have continued but Dianora glances quickly at Valentino and gestures for him to be quiet.
The duke, bothered by their voices, looks up at them and then goes back to concentrating on the text before him.
Dianora walks away, down the corridor, casting a backwards glance at Niccolò that expresses so much: pain, dignity, strength. He stares at her, wishing he could talk to her further, help her. He hopes that the look in his eyes relays this, since saying it with words is impossible. He watches her walk away; in the silence he hears the soft rustle of her dress.
Borgia puts down the papers. “You’ve disappointed me.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Niccolò asks unhappily.
The duke replies scornfully. “There’s not enough malice in your writing. And yet I was very clear with you about my expectations. And take that smirk off your face!” He throws the pages down on the table.
Niccolò grows serious, picks up a sheet of paper and reads a passage out loud: “‘People say that the death of the Duke of Gandía was desired by his brother, that he had a great deal to gain from it . . . ’ That doesn’t seem malicious to you?”
The duke shakes his head vehemently. “It should say, ‘People are convinced that the Duke of Gandía’s death was desired by his brother . . . ’ That I would understand.”
“But what reasons can I give for this certainty?”
“Invent them! I don’t know, you could say something like, ‘The two brothers were heard arguing and threatening each other only the day before about who would lead the pontifical armies.’ Of course, I know this is not true, but no one believes me anyway.”
“By doing that, you’ll never separate yourself from the gossip. It’s important to rely on undeniable facts. We could say, ‘The two brothers were heard arguing about who would lead the pontifical armies, a role better suited to Valentino because of his acumen and courage . . . ’”
“Yes, exactly. When truth is mixed with falsehood it becomes stronger. Acumen, courage . . . ” Borgia savors the words. He clears his throat. “I like that. Although one day these walls will fall, words will remain. The power you writers have is far greater than that of us warriors.” He stares at Niccolò with sincere warmth. “I wasn’t wrong about you, no. Rewrite it. Do it better. I want you to surprise even yourself. How much time do you need?”
“One or two days at the most.”
“Fine. I will have them set up a study for you here, so that you can work in greater comfort.”
“Thank you but that’s not necessary.”
“I insist. That way I will also be able to observe you while you work.”
“As you wish.”
Valentino nods and then stares at Niccolò for a moment before continuing. “My men in Florence have informed me that Duccio Del Briga has been ordered to kill you. I have relied on his skills in the past; he always carries through.”
Niccolò suddenly finds it hard to breathe. “But I’m here, far away, safe . . . ”
“So you haven’t heard that Nicia told him to teach you a lesson nonetheless? If the assassin can’t strike you directly, which for the moment is impossible, he will take it out on your wife or daughter.”
“What?” Niccolò cries out, deeply shaken.
“I’m certain of it.”
“The gonfalonier didn’t tell me about that!” he says inadvertently.
“Ah, so he only gave you part of the information? He was probably more interested in sending you here.”
When Niccolò finally speaks, his voice cracks with emotion. “I request your permission to leave. I must return to Florence immediately.”
Cesare raises his hand to interrupt him. “There’s no need. You have nothing to fear. I will stop the assassin.” Although he speaks with utter confidence, Niccolò continues to look at him nervously.
“I would be infinitely grateful, but why would you?”
“I need you to stay concentrated. You can rest assured that I will take care of the problem.”
“But how? Will you pay him? Or . . . ?” Niccolò does not complete his sentence.
Valentino replies curtly. “I will find a way.”
“If you do not mind, allow me to return to the inn so that I can at least write to my wife and warn her.”
“Write her from here. Do it now. I will send one of my messengers with your letter with both discretion and speed. You certainly can’t use the messengers of State for such a message.”
“But I can’t possibly accept . . . ”
“Are you worried about what they might think in Florence? I assure you that no one will even notice.”
As soon as Niccolò finishes his letter, he hands it to one of the duke’s messengers, a youthful and energetic man who assures the envoy he will leave at dawn and change horses often to get there as fast as possible.
Even so, it will take more than a day for his wife to receive his letter. What if the killer comes to their house before then? He thinks about Marietta and the baby. He would give everything to be certain that the messenger will reach his house in time. He is overcome by a feeling of his own impotence mixed with anger for Soderini, who never mentioned a word of this. He curses the lust that led him to pursue Bianca and swears to himself that if everything goes well he will never be unfaithful to Marietta again.
Valentino, completely ignoring Niccolò’s state of mind, starts to tell him how, three years earlier, he traveled to the court of the King of France to procure a wife. Niccolò makes every effort to listen but is in a state of shock and despair; hearing the duke talk about conjugal bliss makes all the concern he feels for Marietta even harder to bear. He notices a glint in the Prince’s eyes, as if the man were deriving pleasure from bringing the envoy this grief. Some people do enjoy tormenting others, Niccolò tells himself.
The story is not a new one: Cesare, after unsuccessfully trying to marry the daughter of the King of Naples so that he could enter into that line of succession and gain access to the throne, instead decided to join families with Louis XII. But Niccolò hadn’t heard the part that Cesare was now taking great pleasure in recounting: how he appeared in court with jewels sewn to his clothing, silver spurs, gold baubles on his bridle and saddle. Although he knew that the French would find it excessive, he was pleased nonetheless to be the source of envy.
Speaking as if it were all very obvious, Valentino explains that he was certain of success because of what he brought with him to the court of the Very Christian King: a letter of annulment from the Pope, so that Louis could get remarried. In exchange, Cesare received Charlotte of Albret, a seventeen-year-old relative of the monarch. Of course, Borgia also had to bring gifts for the girl’s family and promise her brother a cardinalship.
Niccolò can’t stop the duke from talking. Debilitated, he reflects on how he married Marietta for love, how paltry her dowry was, how they never really had much money.
Cesare keeps on talking about his wily marriage negotiations, which continued for months. Niccolò realizes that he’s telling him all this not only because he considers it an achievement, but so that he will include it in Res gestæ Cæsaris. In the way he wants Niccolò to write it, it should reveal how his choice of a bride was not dictated by love—highly unusual in such situations—but part of a careful strategy of increasing his grip on power. Charlotte was prey and he caught her. Perhaps this was why he had intercourse with her four times on their wedding night, a fact that was widely commented on, the duke says with pride. By becoming the cousin of the King, Cesare received the title of Count of Valence and Diois and was given a castle in Issoudun, which was not in the best of condition. He also received forty-thousand francs a year, an army of one hundred of the King’s spearmen available to him at all times, and was named Knight of the Order of Saint Michael. Valence was immediately elevated to a Duchy, and thus Cesare became the Duke of Valentinois, thereby earning himself the new nickname of Valentino.
Effectively he had made a good deal; he was now connected to a rich and powerful king. Of course, this also meant he had to send in his militia and condottieri whenever France’s interests in Italy were under threat, whether it was against the Duchy of Milan or the Kingdom of Spain, the only enemy that posed a true threat to the Very Christian King. But the advantages far outweighed the disadvantages, and Charlotte soon gave birth to a daughter.
“Luisa will marry a man from the House of Gonzaga,” he concludes with great satisfaction.
“But she’s only two years old . . . ”
“So?”
Niccolò’s thoughts go to little Primerana and he is overcome with anguish once more. The heaviness in his heart makes it hard to breathe.
He doesn’t sleep at all well that night. He gets up, lies back down, over and over. With the passing hours his thoughts begin to blur, he is reminded of mistakes he made in the past, and feels deep bitterness at his too many weaknesses.
As the duke’s stories about his marriage echo through him, Niccolò feels drained of both energy and mental acuity. If he could, he would chase away all those thoughts from his mind. Unfortunately, though, the words have sunk deep down inside, such is their power. In order to expel them completely, he needs to write, but he simply doesn’t have the strength.
At dawn, he hears a horse trot past. He looks out the window and sees the duke’s messenger riding toward the city walls under a drizzly and cloudy sky.
As he’s closing the shutters, he hears an even louder clatter of hooves coming from the Rocca. It’s a group of knights, with Valentino leading the way. They’re wearing armor and moving swiftly; clearly they are not going hunting. Where could they be going? Riding alongside Cesare is don Miguel, as well as other members of his army, all of them talking animatedly. They don’t notice Niccolò, who instinctively retreats within.
He knows that the duke never announces his movements in advance. He disappears and reappears whenever he wants, unexpectedly, like lightning. But why were they in such a hurry?
As soon as the city wakes up, he walks down to the main gate, hoping to hear some news. No one knows a thing. The rain has stopped. Once beyond the city walls, he realizes that the tents they had been setting up when he arrived, and many others that were since added, are still empty. Apparently, the troops the Prince was waiting for have not yet arrived. There’s a buzz of activity: he sees an entire troop of soldiers gallop off down the road that leads to the sea. Are they going to catch up with Valentino?
Baccino is off reconnoitering in the mountains and won’t be back for two or three days, so Niccolò can’t send him to follow the soldiers who have just left.
He decides, instead, to go talk to Farneti, who tells him everything he knows. Borgia received a message by carrier pigeon at dawn and set out shortly after. About a thousand men left with him. They didn’t head into the mountains, this much is certain. Farneti has an informer in their midst and hopes to receive more news soon.
That night, unable to sit idly by, he heads to the Rocca in the hopes of learning something, and possibly some news from Florence.
The domed roof has been completed. Now the workers come and go through the front door carrying beams. He hears a furious hammering from within but doesn’t have time to explore it. He promises himself that he will, as soon as he can.
When Niccolò reaches the entrance of the Rocca, he pretends not to know that the duke has left. He says he is expected. They make him wait. Eventually a heavy-set, middle-aged man arrives. He has a thick beard, dark hair, and rheumy but keen eyes. He’s wearing a black tippet with a crimson border and a golden cross hangs around his neck.
He introduces himself as Agapito Geraldini, First Secretary to Valentino. Niccolò saw the man in Urbino, but never up close. An Umbrian archbishop, he is sharp, erudite, extremely eloquent, and deeply faithful to Borgia, who periodically uses him as an ambassador.
Geraldini, who moves slowly because of his weight, escorts him up to the Palazzetto del Paradiso and informs him that His Excellency left Imola for matters of state, that he does not know when he will return, but that Niccolò was indeed expected. The duke instructed his men to prepare a study for Niccolò and bring him some documents from the archives, leaving word for Niccolò that he should start writing immediately.
Niccolò frowns at the archbishop, annoyed. Do others know of his agreement with Borgia?
As if capable of reading his thoughts, Geraldini reassures him that he knows nothing more than what he just mentioned, that he has no idea why his lordship made those decisions, and that he certainly will not discuss them with anyone. Indeed, he came out to greet Niccolò personally in order to maintain the highest level of secrecy possible.
“We secretaries are held to utmost discretion,” he says complicitly.
A narrow spiral staircase leads them to an isolated room that has been decorated in a simple fashion, with windows that face the inner courtyard. A fire burns in the small fireplace. Various papers and scrolls rest on the desk, as well as writing implements, a bell, a tray with some grapes, a pitcher of water, some biscuits, a carafe of wine, and a glass.
“You can come here at any hour of the day or night. The soldiers know they should grant you access to the Rocca and you can find your way up here on your own. No one will disturb you,” he says, somewhat out of breath, while lighting a number of candles. He points to a door and explains with a complex web of words that beyond it lies a privy. “Whatever you may need, all you have to do is ring the bell and a servant who doesn’t know who you are will arrive.”
Niccolò nods and thanks him. He has never been given such a luxurious room for writing. The Chancery is always cold and crowded with noisy colleagues. He writes his historical and poetic compositions at home, at the dining table. Even so, tonight he just can’t bring himself to write. His thoughts are focused on his wife and daughter. He sees them before him, more alive than the people around him. Geraldini notices this, says nothing, and leaves him alone.
Niccolò’s despair worsens. It seems fathomless.