An urgent letter from the Dieci arrives, delivered in great haste by Totto, the messenger. Niccolò has been instructed to communicate the contents of the letter to the duke immediately.
The members of the Dieci, shrewd merchants that they are, know that even spoiled merchandise can be sold when offered in the right way. They suggest that Niccolò pretend not to know about the agreement that has been reached between the duke and the allies. Regarding the duke’s proposal to become a condottiere for the Republic, the envoy should say that the Republic would be deeply honored but that such an important condottiere would need to be paid vast sums of money, which they simply do not have at their disposal, and that they would be embarrassed to offer him anything less than what he deserves.
Niccolò hopes to see Dianora in the great hall, but she’s not there. Valentino gets up from his throne and strides toward him swiftly and tensely, like a threatening beast. Not a good start. What Niccolò has to say will only worsen his foul mood. He expects the duke to respond with sarcasm and has phrases ready to keep him in check.
“I bring you a reply from the Dieci . . . ” Niccolò begins cautiously.
“I’m fed up with their lies. And with yours,” Cesare say quickly.
He’s furious, but why? Niccolò notices the black leather folder that holds the most recent chapter of Res gestæ Cæsaris lying open on the floor, pages scattered everywhere, as if Borgia had thrown it down in disgust. He sees that it has been marked up in red, some sections are underlined, there are notes between the lines, all in an unfamiliar handwriting. Whole passages have been crossed out and rewritten in the margins . . . Niccolò feels like he’s been stabbed in the heart.
Niccolò looks at the duke, who stands across from him, and is about to ask him what happened, but there’s no time.
“Something in your pages sounded terribly wrong! I just couldn’t hold back. I was deeply disturbed by them.”
“I apologize. And yet before you were pleased. What changed?”
“Don’t interrupt me! I read it over and I know what it is,” he says, pointing at the papers on the ground. “In your choice of words I detect that sneaky smile of yours; it’s as if you’re making fun of me. So I had a famous writer look at the pages, someone who deserves his laurels! And he agreed that you have treated me worse than my own worst enemies!” Cesare points to the libelous and defamatory books that lie on the stone table.
“But no! How can you say that!” Niccolò protests, but wearily. How many times has he seen this happen? Something praised one day is considered worthless the next. How easily those in power change their evaluations when they’re poorly advised . . . But who did Borgia talk to? Who did he ask to read it?
“And who might this literary figure be?” he finally asks.
“The name is not important.”
“There’s always a certain amount of jealousy among writers, maybe that’s why . . . ”
“You’re not even a real writer . . . ”
The pain Niccolò feels is transformed into rage. “That’s not what you said before! You even compared me to Sallust!”
“I was under an illusion. I simply couldn’t see how weak a writer you are.”
“And what exactly are my weaknesses? Allow me to prove you wrong.”
“It’s everything, all of it. It’s all weak. And you can’t keep asking me to waste my precious time with you!”
Valentino’s voice is so bitterly angry it’s clear he has taken it personally. His breathing is ragged with rage.
“You’re wrong, but as you wish. I’ll return the advance you gave me,” Niccolò says, knowing full well that this is impossible as he has already spent much of it.
“Keep it! What’s that to me? You did what you could, which is to say very little. I will have someone capable rewrite it all.”
Niccolò is filled with relief. At least he managed to avoid a dangerous and humiliating situation, the worst a writer can experience. He shrugs, bends down to pick up his pages, and reads some of the words in red: But aren’t we all truly vile? Don’t we all find pleasure in our baseness?
He immediately knows who is behind it: Anteo Nuffi. Hadn’t the duke dismissed him? He must’ve called him back. But when? What did it matter now?
He’s about to stand up with the papers in his hand, but Valentino kicks them out of his grasp and they fly everywhere.
“Leave them alone! I paid for them! They belong to me,” he says darkly.
Niccolò stares at him long and hard. “You would do well to hold onto them. People will forget about Anteo Nuffi, but my words will live on in perpetuity!” It was a giant risk, but he seems to have hit the bullseye. Borgia squints at him and then shrugs.
“Why do you say such meaningless things?” the duke says, and yet his tone has changed.
“I kindly ask you to formally dismiss me.”
“You can go. Leave. Tell your Republic that their time is up. They could have formed an alliance with me but they did not. Too bad for them.”
Niccolò nods and heads toward the exit. He weighs the man’s final words. The agreement that he came to with Orsini, Vitelli, and the others has fortified him. Valentino doesn’t need to pretend anymore. Neither does Florence.
He feels deeply wounded, as if he had been severely beaten with a stick. People have told me before that I have no future as a writer, that I have no talent, but here I am, he tells himself while leaving the Rocca. He wanders down the main street of the city, his mood alternating between rage and melancholy.
Will he ever be able to express the words that fill his heart?
What if it’s true that he really isn’t cut out to be a writer? Sometimes he worries about that. All he has ever written consists of a handful of poems, the beginnings of a few historical discourses, the countless letters he’s written to and for the Republic, and commissioned writings that he signs servitor, servant to the Lords of the Signoria, documents that will end up rotting in the archives.
And what about his women, the loves of his life? There are Marietta and Primerana, of course. Dianora . . . Dianora, whom he will never see again. While other authors and poets had their Beatrices and Lauras, he has whores whose names he has forgotten.
And yet he feels immense gratitude to them nonetheless. While their names may at times escape him, he recalls their faces and other certain aspects of them: the five blond women he met in France, for example, the brunette from Forlì, and Licia . . . Licia who never complains, Licia who would never hurt him, Licia, to whose chambers he is currently headed.
The two of them go directly upstairs and spend the night together. Early in the morning, when he wakes up, it occurs to him that if God actually existed, Niccolò wouldn’t be able to praise him enough for having created woman; they show us what life is, not just by bringing us into this world, but simply by existing. And when the world knocks us flat, they help us to our feet.
As he’s getting dressed, he realizes that the self-pity he experienced the night before has been transformed into a renewed strength. He thanks Licia for bringing back his spirit and even makes her laugh.
We are each our own person, he says as he walks out into the street, rain falling lightly. I don’t care what others say, I will be myself, and I will continue to write the way I know how.
Unfortunately, though, I’ll never be able to see Dianora again.