Niccolò hurries back to his study filled with the emotion of commanding the troops. He feels like he’s flying over the Rocca, over Imola, over all of Romagna, the same way he felt when he looked at Leonardo’s map. His gaze takes in the lands around him, Tuscany, all of Italy; he revels in the fact that their country is desired by Louis XII, the Pope, and Valentino. Nothing good can ever come from the Church or France, but Cesare, on the other hand . . .
This is a man who knows how to fight—and how to win. Does he really have the wellbeing of Italy at heart? Dianora says he doesn’t but she could be wrong. Niccolò saw firsthand how his judges execute their roles fairly. Of course, if the duke were on trial they wouldn’t dare condemn him, but he is just with his subjects. And the majority of the people hold him in high esteem. Yes, he’s a killer, but his cruelty can be used for both good and bad. It’s true he had his brother, Giovanni, and his brother-in-law killed, but now he has the strongest army in central Italy and exerts control over a huge territory. Yes, he’s unscrupulous—he just can’t help himself—but he has a plan.
Hasn’t Rome always been ruthless? Hasn’t Rome always done far worse, ever since it came into being? The Romans never forgave their enemies. They never hesitated to spill blood whenever necessary.
He enters the study, glances at the window, and thinks of Dianora. He imagines her face, her gestures, the intimacies she shared with him, all her suffering, and he feels ashamed of considering Cesare’s aspirations the least bit noble. It’s as if he has betrayed her merely with the thought.
He rushes to the window, opens it, and leans out. Dianora’s room is dark. He waits for a long time, ducking back in each time someone passes below.
Dianora doesn’t come to the window.
Back at the inn, late that night, an exhausted messenger arrives with the gonfalonier’s reply. No change in plan, not for now. Niccolò’s task remains the same as when he left: propose an alliance with Valentino but do it slowly, while continuing to spy on him.
In normal ink, I-have-faith asks him to pursue the issue of Silvestro de’ Buosi, as if he were a very important figure. He does not know that the prisoner will never be freed.
As Niccolò reads the missive, he feels unease and anger building inside of him. He tastes bitterness in his mouth, as if he had been poisoned. It’s clear that Vexillifer Perpetuus is going to continue with this tactic of delays—although Niccolò isn’t entirely sure why—and that he will never consider forming an alliance with Spain.
Night falls and Niccolò can’t sleep. He dips his pen in the invisible ink and rapidly composes an epigram that he writes down on white paper. The lines disappear as soon as his words take shape.
La notte che morì Pier Soderini,
l’alma n’andò de l’Inferno a la bocca;
e Pluto le gridò: “Anima sciocca,
che Inferno? Va’ nel Limbo tra’ bambini.”5