Do you have news of the French spearmen? Are they in Faenza or have they moved elsewhere? What are people saying? The woman who guards Dianora Mambelli is unwell and has been taken away. Do you know where she has been sent? Even Her Ladyship Mambelli is ailing . . .
He stops writing and tears up the message for Farneti. That last line was too direct, it would reveal an excessive interest in Dianora. He starts over.
Do you have news of the French spearmen? Are they in Faenza or have they moved elsewhere? I overheard a soldier say there were rumors of the plague at the Rocca. Anyone who is sick is being sent away. Do you know where they take them, and who they might be? Perhaps someone in close contact with the duke?
He reads it over. That sounds better. This way he will obtain the information he wants without raising suspicions. Why didn’t he get it right the first time? Is it wise to lie about rumors of the plague? He has always instinctively known what he can and can’t say . . . What has changed? What’s wrong with him?
He burns the first message. Then, wrapped in his elegant mantle, he walks out of Porta Montanara.
The tents are all gone. The fields are empty. It is as if there had never been a military encampment there. The soldiers have relocated. But where have they gone?
He walks toward the oak forest, where he leaves the message for his informer.
He returns just as the guards are about to close the city gates.
As he makes his way back to the inn, he sees a man ahead of him, sword hanging by his side. He looks familiar but Niccolò can’t recall where he has seen him before. He’s with two wiry young men, also armed. He observes them closely and, as he gets closer, he sees that it’s Fosco Tinardeschi, the soldier who fights under Vitelli. How is it that he is walking, armed, down the streets of Imola? Niccolò pretends not to see him for both their sakes, but Tinardeschi turns around, salutes him, and waits for him to catch up.
“Why hello again, Machiavelli. They’re watching me, of course, but now that we’ve signed an agreement with the duke, there’s really nothing strange about the fact that I’m speaking with the envoy of Florence, is there?”
“Greetings to you,” Niccolò says with a puzzled look.
Tinardeschi imagines what he’s thinking and offers a reply. “I’m here as an ambassador. I carry with me the agreement signed by my lord as well as those who have joined forces with him. Otherwise I wouldn’t dare set foot in the city. Cesare knows me well, as do many others in his circle; it would be too risky to challenge destiny.”
“So everyone has agreed to sign the pact?”
“Everyone except Baglioni, who’s still negotiating. He wants better conditions for Bologna.”
“And His Excellency has signed?”
“Not yet, but he will.”
And yet, Cesare had told Niccolò the exact opposite. “When will you stop fighting him?” he asks.
“We’ve already stopped.”
“And what are the conditions of your agreement? May I know?”
“Of course . . . if you buy us something to drink.”
The wine that they serve in the osteria is strong and fragrant. Tinardeschi enjoys it thoroughly, as do his two aides-de-camp. One of them has smooth cheeks with a few dark whiskers and a maniacal look in his eyes, while the other one has a heavy jaw, high cheekbones, and greasy brown hair. Both men speak little and listen carefully.
Tinardeschi lists the clauses in the agreement that Niccolò already knows, having read it in the duke’s private archive. The terms have not changed. The exchange of hostages that will confirm the validity of the pact has already taken place. Vitelli and the others have each sent one of their own sons to the duke. Many carts of gold are now en route to seal the deal.
“In other words, you have returned to siding with the dragon . . . ” Niccolò says.
Fosco stares at him as he takes a sip of his wine, the expression in his eyes contradicting the comment that follows. “Yes, Paolo Orsini managed to convince everyone. My lord was skeptical up until the very end but then he also decided to join the alliance.”
“What do you personally think about it?”
“I am merely a soldier; I obey.”
“Who will you do battle against now?”
“This I can’t tell you. I go where they order me.”
No one says a word, but it is clear that thanks to the alliance between Borgia, Vitelli, and the others, they can go wherever they want.
“You should have accepted our proposal to join forces,” Tinardeschi adds.
“Unfortunately, it’s not my decision to make.”
“I know, I know. In your own way, you’re just a soldier, like me.” He pauses, then takes another sip. “Have you seen the duke much since you’ve been here? I haven’t. I have only spoken with his secretary.”
“Monsignor Geraldini.”
“Yes, him. I noticed that they transformed a part of the Rocca in apartments—what do they call it? Palazzetto del Paradiso?”
Niccolò nods, while reflecting that the conversation is taking an odd turn.
“Does Valentino sleep there when he’s in Imola?” Fosco asks. He’s trying to make his questions seem casual but Niccolò notices that one of the two men, the one with the heavy jaw and greasy hair, sits up in excitement, while the other man, the one with a few dark whiskers, pretends not to care.
“I know very little about his actions; the duke never discusses his routines.”
“Yes, of course. From what I’ve heard, he’s the embodiment of secrecy. Some time ago, during the Romagna campaign, I worked closely with him. By day, he was always surrounded by his guards. At night, he kept the door to his room locked from the inside and only his manservant could come in, and only after identifying himself. I wonder if he still does that.”
“I can’t say, really. I imagine those are precautions that all lords take,” Niccolò says, trying to end the conversation. It was getting too perilous for him.
“Yes, of course. I had Vitellozzo adopt the same measures. Exactly the same. The manservant was allowed to knock on the commander’s door only when he was absolutely certain that no one had followed him. It’s a good habit and usually it’s effective.”
“You mean sometimes it’s not?”
Tinardeschi shrugs. “It all depends,” he says, filling his glass. Niccolò turns to look at Jaws, who is following the conversation keenly but then looks away. Whiskers, meanwhile, holds his gaze.