Back in his room at the lodging house, Niccolò works on the chapter devoted to the death of Alfonso d’Aragona. Valentino will certainly appreciate the results, but the act of writing so many lies gives Niccolò a somewhat strange and disturbing sensation. The sadness he feels after meeting with Dianora finds its way into his sentences and thoughts. And yet he cannot stop; working on the manuscript is also a way of remaining by her side. A man in his position has to do whatever it takes, he knows. The fact that he has no choice in the matter is somehow reassuring. Even so, he finds a moment to put down his pen and decides to go have lunch in an osteria where they serve delicious soups and eggs stuffed with pecorino cheese. He pulls his new mantle tight, protecting himself from the cold wind that started to blow in full force the night before.
Niccolò sees don Miguel walking toward him, his arm lightly bandaged. When did he get back to Imola? Niccolò is surprised to see him. Corella looks at him with an obscure expression.
“Greetings, Envoy.”
“Salutations, don Miguel.”
“Nice mantle,” Corella says, stopping him in his tracks to feel the fabric and rub Niccolò’s arm. “I was on my way to find you. The duke has asked to see you.”
“Now? At this time of day?”
“He has something he wants to show you.”
The bastion in the city walls facing Bologna clearly was recently rebuilt and reinforced and the smell of lime still lingers in the air. Niccolò, escorted by Corella, steps out onto the windy terrace and sees four cannons pointed at the countryside. He also notices troops of infantrymen marching down below, creating a cloud of dust.
He had me come here so that I would see the soldiers, so that I write to Florence and tell them that he is moving part of the army toward Bologna, Niccolò thinks.
Valentino is supervising the work of a number of soldiers who are shifting the direction of a long cannon. He catches sight of Niccolò and turns to face him.
“Come, I want you to understand the kind of problems that I have to face every single day. I have the best military engineer in the world. He built this bastion so that it is unassailable, and yet the stupidity of an artilleryman who misdirected the cannon . . . ” A soldier standing nearby looks down in embarrassment. “A mistake like this could ruin everything. All it takes is a minor mistake to lose a battle.” He directs his attention to a group of men. “Now, push! More to the right! More! Now, stop!” He bends over the breech, brings his eye up to the vent field to check the sight line, seems satisfied, and motions for Niccolò to approach. “Now it’s in the right position,” he says, inviting him to have a look.
The cannon is pointing directly at the road below, where a few men are riding. The wind whistles ominously through the bore.
Valentino waves away the soldier responsible for the mistake. “Throw him in a cell with bread and water for a month.” While they drag off the man, the duke checks the position again and nods. “See? If I hadn’t thought of it,” he says, tapping his forehead, “I wouldn’t have been able to fix the problem. Potential mishaps can be corrected; those to which we fall prey, cannot.”
He moves away from the cannon and invites Niccolò to follow him to an area that is protected from the wind. Don Miguel follows a few steps behind.
“Are you always prepared for everything?” Niccolò asks as they take their distance from the soldiers.
“I try to be. Naturally, Fortune is always a decisive factor, but I think we are responsible for at least half of what happens.”
“Half . . . ” Niccolò repeats. The duke certainly likes dividing things in two. This time it’s Fortune and personal strength, while before it was the image a person projects and reality.
“It’s not enough, really. If we don’t take all precautions, a disaster can happen at any time. When a river breaks its banks, it destroys everything around it. When I make military plans, I exaggerate all the risks. I stay up nights musing over all my decisions very carefully. But you mustn’t write that! I never let anyone see that side of me. On the contrary, I want people to notice how calm I am. As soon as I make my final decision, all doubts vanish; I sacrifice everything for the success of the campaign.”
A table for two has been set in an area that is protected from the wind.
“Would you care to dine with me?”
“It would be an honor.”
“I was hoping you would say yes. I’ve already given instructions to the kitchen. How is the chapter on the final days of the Duke of Bisceglie coming along?”
“I’m making swift progress but I need more time.”
Borgia sits down and invites Niccolò to do the same.
“When it comes to writing, you know better than I do. But remember that I await it eagerly.”
They are served bread, water, and wine. Valentino doesn’t touch a thing. A taster steps forward and takes a few sips of wine. Another one chews the bread. The duke doesn’t even seem to notice them.
Even Corella, who has remained standing, seems to find the situation perfectly normal.
“I asked my cook to prepare some hare and boar. I hope they are to your liking,” Borgia says.
A servant brings a dish with some chunks of meat in an aromatic sauce. Niccolò, who is very hungry, looks at the dish, his mouth watering. A third taster takes a piece of bread, some meat and sauce, chews them up, and swallows.
“Now we have to wait thirty minutes,” Valentino says.
Just enough time to make sure the food isn’t poisoned.
“In the meantime, allow me to tell you about Urbino. Did you hear the news that it fell? No? Well, you will in due course. They put the entire garrison in prison and hung my governor, as well as many of my men. But I will have my revenge,” he says as if it is a certain thing. “They brought back the old duke, who was hiding under the protective wing of the Venetians. But, as I said, it won’t be hard to chase them out again—” He interrupts himself and looks at something behind Niccolò, who instinctively turns to see. A messenger in riding clothes comes forward with a pail covered with a cloth.
“Another dish prepared by your cook?”
“Something far better, if it is what I think.”
Corella approaches the messenger, softly asks him a question, and the man nods. Don Miguel takes the pail and brings it over to the table.
“Is it news from Florence, Miguel?” Borgia asks.
Corella nods. “Yes, it has just arrived.”
Niccolò must be strong and contain his nerves. Did they hear that Andrea Ulivieri had been arrested? Of course, the traitor couldn’t possibly have been on his own; someone else may have raised the alarm . . . What if Dianora had set a trap for him? What if she and Valentino had a plan? After all, she is in the duke’s hands. Oh, why on earth did he ever trust her?
Borgia smiles at don Miguel.
Niccolò looks off into the distance, far beyond the bastion. For a moment he thinks he would rather throw himself off the edge than be taken prisoner, but he knows he wouldn’t have the courage. It’s better to live, whatever the cost.
Borgia motions for his private executioner to show the contents of the pail to Niccolò. “A gift for you. Have a look.”
Corella approaches. Niccolò raises the cloth. Inside, covered with salt, is the head of Duccio Del Briga. He’s been beaten and his face is covered with congealed blood. Niccolò feels his stomach constrict: he’s horrified and relieved at the same time.
“A man, a problem. No man, no problem. Your family is now safe.”
“But Nicia, the banker, might find another way,” he says in a hoarse voice that doesn’t sound like his own.
“Del Briga’s body was left in front of Nicia’s house. I think he’ll let it go after a warning like that.”
Niccolò feels as though he is about to vomit. He covers the head with the cloth and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Excellency.” The horror has passed. He now feels surprisingly content. “From the bottom of my heart.”
Valentino nods benevolently.