I’m pleased to see you and am eager to get back to work,” Borgia says, turning away from the fireplace in the grand room and facing Niccolò. The vigilia secunda has rung. The grey mastiff rubs up against the duke’s leg and receives a pat in reply. “I read the corrected version of the manuscript. This time I can say that you were sufficiently malicious.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
“There’s just one thing that still does not convince me. Your style varies too much, even on the same page.”
“We must always try and imitate nature, which itself is varied. If I did the same thing over and over, I don’t think it would be strong.”
“This is true. You are right. Continue, then, in this manner. Did you hear how efficiently don Miguel punished the rebels? And that’s not all: Vitelli can barely stand on his two feet, he’s sick with the French disease, and Paolo Orsini is covered with scabies. The planets are truly not aligned this year for those who chose to revolt.”
Niccolò nods politely.
Dianora is sitting next to the fireplace. She is reading a different book this time. It’s as if she’s invisible.
“Perhaps,” the duke continues, “in their desperation, those two men will move their soldiers towards my lands. They may even cross the border into territories belonging to Florence. It’s happened before, you know.”
Why is he telling Niccolò this? What is he trying to say?
“Let’s not forget that they’re my enemies as much as they are yours. Vitelli hates you Florentines. And the Orsini army goes wherever the wind blows. I do believe that the alliance you propose might actually suit both of us.”
Cesare, the dog at his heels, walks away from the fireplace and over to the table on which lays a map. He bends down to examine it, then beckons to Niccolò to join him.
As he does, Dianora turns her head and gives him a piercing look, signaling both alarm and dismay. He scrutinizes her face for more clues while listening to Borgia, whose back is turned to him.
“And we have other shared enemies . . . It would be wise to fight them together, too. I know it and so does the Dieci. But the term we really ought to be using is ‘go to war’ and not just ‘fight.’ For some reason, your Republic is always afraid of calling things by their proper names . . . ”
The damsel subtly shakes her head from side to side. Even though she says nothing, Niccolò intuits that she is trying to tell him something. He nods to show that he understands.
“Come over here and look,” Borgia says. He indicates the map, which shows the Italian peninsula in its entirety.
Niccolò has never seen anything like it before. It’s as if the person who drew it had flown overhead and had an eagle-eye view of what lay below: every single state is carefully outlined in black; the mountains are shades of green, depending on their height; the main thoroughfares are white; the rivers are blue, with the most important ones a darker hue; the names of the cities are in varying shades of red, with the larger the city, the darker the color. A sense of balance and harmony prevails over all. This is not the work of a mere cartographer but a true artist, someone skilled at blending and using colors. It must have been done by da Vinci, Niccolò quickly realizes.
The duke points at Città di Castello. “Look, Vitelli’s home town is only five miles from your border. At this very moment, I know that he is moving artillery. Is he doing it against me or against you? It would be in both our interests if you were to send troops to your nearby town of Borgo San Sepolcro, there.” He indicates a spot on the map. “You could keep an eye on him and on the surrounding roads.”
“I will relay your observation and request to the Dieci in the hopes they accept it,” Niccolò says. It occurs to him that what Borgia is saying has some logic to it, but sending troops to Borgo San Sepolcro would mean taking them away from the garrison in Arezzo, where there may be further acts of rebellion, or from the ongoing war against Pisa. Is this what the duke is actually trying to achieve?
“Machiavelli, it is in situations like these that one learns who one’s friends truly are. The Republic would only have to move fifty soldiers on horseback, three or four hundred infantrymen, a few cannons . . . If necessary, I’ll gladly assist with the expense.”
How keen he is on the plan. Too keen.
“My city wants nothing more than to form a pact with you, Your Excellency, but we must, of course, ask permission from the Most Christian King.”
“Naturally. And I will do the same. But you can be as sure as death that His Majesty will want the Florentines to come to my assistance. And I would be exceedingly grateful for it. Also, because, mere days from now, I will receive reinforcements of men and artillery from France, at which point I plan on attacking Bologna.” He points to Bologna on the map as if it were already his.
That makes sense, Niccolò thinks. He has already laid siege on part of that city and now he wants to deliver the final blow. But it is well known that the duke often does the exact opposite of what he says.
“Bologna has forged an alliance with Vitelli and the Orsini brothers, who have sworn to defend the city . . . ” Niccolò says cautiously.
“I’m not worried about fighting on two fronts at the same time.”
Unfortunately, he is also in a position to do so, Niccolò says to himself.
“This evening, though, I would like to tell you the story behind the tragic death of my brother-in-law, Alfonso d’Aragona, Duke of Bisceglie, whom I was unfairly accused of killing. As usual.”
“The second point on your list.”
The Prince nods and is about to say something when there’s a knock on the door. He spins around to see who it is. A soldier approaches and whispers something in his ear.
“I must resolve a problem that has arisen between the soldiers. I will not be long. Wait for me,” he says.
“Shall I return to the study that you graciously prepared for me?”
“You may remain here. In the meantime, read what they wrote about me and that crime,” Borgia says, pointing to the pile of slanderous writings. He pulls out one of the books. “Here, this one is particularly offensive,” he says, tossing it to Niccolò, who catches it.
The duke turns and looks at Dianora. He doesn’t have to say a word. She gets to her feet, goes down the corridor, and closes the door behind her. The key turns drily in the lock.
With the mastiff close behind, Valentino walks out, without locking the door to the grand hall. Niccolò sits down at the table but instead of reading the book he starts to mentally compose the letter that he will later write to Soderini to inform him of Borgia’s proposal. He will also have to communicate as much to the Dieci. But then he stops. He tips his head to one side. He thinks he heard something. Someone is tapping softly on the door that leads to the inner chambers.
He walks over cautiously, holding up a candle. From behind the heavy door comes the muffled voice of Dianora.
“Are you alone, Envoy? If so, speak quietly.”
“Yes, I am alone,” Niccolò whispers. He bends down, peers through the bronze keyhole, and sees Dianora’s face. She looks at him cautiously, her face wan in the weak light.
“Why did you agree to write for him?” she asks.
She’s reprimanding him for having accepted to write on commission. What does she know about his needs, duties, or his shortage of money? He has to provide for his family, make sure they can buy food to eat. He also has to protect the Republic, for it finds itself in a dangerous position, which justifies all possible actions. He certainly doesn’t deserve to be chided. He knows he shouldn’t be offended but nonetheless her words disappoint him.
“The best way of understanding a person’s intentions is to spend time with them,” he replies.
“I figured as much. And why did you propose an alliance with him after all he has done to the Republic?”
“For the very same reason.”
“But he’ll always be your enemy!”
“We know it well.”
The young lady is silent. She looks somewhat reassured but is still hesitant.
Niccolò feels the need to add more. “I’m here to save my city.”
“Then don’t trust what he says!” Dianora blurts out. “He’s not interested in Bologna. He is going to attack Florence when the moon is full. He has a spy who will open the gate at Porta al Prato—that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?—in the middle of the night. The name of his spy is Andrea Ulivieri.”
Niccolò knows the man. He’s one of the guards responsible for protecting the city walls.
“Andrea Ulivieri?” Niccolò repeats for confirmation from Dianora. And yet Ulivieri swore allegiance to the Republic . . . How long has he been pretending? Why would he betray them? What did Borgia promise him? And why is this young lady telling him all this? “Why are you revealing Borgia’s secrets to me?” he asks.
Even in the dark, he can see her face flush red with anger: two dark splotches appear on her cheeks. “I hate the man. I want someone to kill him. You Florentines could do it. I certainly won’t be able to.”
Niccolò is inclined not to trust her. It’s not in his nature and he has been shaped by experience. “How did you obtain this news?”
“Sometimes I listen in when he’s making plans with his men. He pays more attention to his dog than he does to me.”
“That’s not true!”
She sighs and says nothing, but he notices that her eyes are shiny with tears for the humiliation she has to withstand.
He peers at her closely, perceiving her pain. “Frequently there’s a way out of even the most difficult situations,” he says to her.
Dianora doesn’t say a thing. She would like to believe him but does not.
Niccolò understands the intensity of her pain and is tempted to show his respect for her with silence but also feels forced to press her for more information out of a sense of duty. “Can you open the door? We could speak better that way. You have the key.”
“It’s too dangerous. Even talking like this is risky.”
“Do you know anything else about the attack on Florence?”
“No, but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
“It will be hard to speak again.”
“We’ll have to wait for the right occasion. You’d better go now. He could be back any minute. And the woman who guards me might return soon, too.”
Troubled, he walks over to the window and stares up at the new moon. It’s a mere sliver now, hardly there, but it will be full in eleven—no, twelve—days. He knows Porta al Prato well, and unfortunately it is an ideal place for a surprise attack. It doesn’t have any side towers for extra defense and only has a single gate, no second entrance with a portcullis that could be lowered to fend off attackers. Its walls are low and should have been better fortified with a bastion. And then there’s the river Mugnone that flows nearby, which ought to have been closed off with a dyke to make it less easy to cross. He has to sound the alarm, he has to let Florence know how and when the traitor will act, he will have to send Mancino with a letter at dawn. But what if it’s all a ruse? What if Borgia is using her? It’s possible but it doesn’t seem probable. Dianora’s tears were sincere.
Dianora.
Despite his apprehension, he likes the way her name feels on his lips.