Niccolò closes the door slowly behind him and takes a deep breath. He looks up and down the corridor in confusion, then sees the young page with the red hair get up from a chair down the way and come toward him, bear fur over his arm. He was waiting to accompany Niccolò to the prince.
Niccolò wishes he didn’t have to see anyone, not now at least, but he can’t refuse. He readies himself, concealing all the emotions that run through him.
Valentino is in the great hall, in perfect health once more. He strolls contentedly between tall architectural model buildings, two arms’ high, that have been built to reproduce an entire neighborhood of a city. There are buildings, churches, and cupolas. Walls are dark in color while building cornices are lighter. There are doorways, windows, and balcony parapets. The prince beckons Niccolò over, saying how pleased he is to see that he is well again. This is how Cesena will be, he explains with pride. It will take years of work, but this is how it will be.
Niccolò recognizes the fortress high on the hill. The light wood model version is surrounded by bastions that are stronger than the existing ones and the road uphill that connects it to the city is dotted with bulwarks of varying sizes. The buildings below are laid out in an organized manner on a grid of perpendicular streets to be built in the future. A few churches will remain where they are but many will be demolished.
Borgia points to a long boulevard that will lead to the royal palace and begins to walk up it. It was designed by him personally; he told the architects what to do. No, not Leonardo da Vinci, because he’s busy with other things.
With evident pleasure, Valentino lifts up the roof of the model of the royal palace and reveals the minute details within. There are endless rooms, miniature pieces of furniture, and even a theater with sets.
“These are my wife’s chambers, and these are my daughter’s, who will one day be Duchess of Romagna.”
The rooms set aside for his daughter are substantially larger than those of his bride.
Luisa Borgia, future duchess of Romagna. The Pope might have granted his son the lands that once belonged to the Church, but the prince is already thinking about future generations, Niccolò observes.
“I recently received a portrait that depicts how she looks now. She will not be a great beauty,” Valentino says.
Niccolò wonders why the duke feels the need to tell him that.
Borgia stares at him closely and continues. “I know you saw Dianora. How did you find her?”
“It would appear that her dark mood is passing.”
“Good. Did you read her poems? What do you think of them?”
“I found her work excellent.”
“So, she’s a real poetess. Might she aspire to some fame?”
“She has all the necessary qualities to go far,” Niccolò says. Even in a world that accepts and idolizes writers like Anteo Nuffi, he thinks.
Cesare hints at a smile and stares off into the emptiness. Niccolò has never seen him with such a keen expression.
“My mother was—and still is—very beautiful. My sister Lucrezia resembles her very much,” the duke continues, somewhat to himself.
What does this comment have to do with the previous one about his daughter? What is he thinking but not saying? He mentioned Dianora, then spoke of the beauty that a mother transmits to her children . . .
Does the duke intend to get her pregnant? He already has illegitimate children spread out across Italy, at least eight of them, they say, but no one knows who the mothers are. Perhaps they were important for building alliances, or merely to widen his circle of influence.
Niccolò tries to think of something to say that will prompt him to share further intimacies. He struggles to find the words without revealing what he is thinking, so he remains silent and waits for Valentino to continue.
But it’s too late. The prince has already turned back to the architectural model of the kingdom. “You can’t see it here, but I’ll knock down some buildings around the court to create gardens. Not immediately, though. I don’t want to make too many enemies out of the townspeople; my most recent requisitions have caused some to protest. Does the family you are staying with ever mention me?”
Is that why he placed him there? To spy for him? “No, not directly anyway.”
“Have you noticed any unpleasantness?”
It wouldn’t be wise to deny it all together. “Nothing specific.”
“The head of the household does not like me. But his children are starting to side with me . . . ”
How does he know that? Who is his informant?
“ . . . Just like many others who are starting to realize that it’s worth their while to side with me. Things are getting better. Soon I’ll sign an agreement with Bologna. Bentivoglio has agreed to a pact. I hope your Republic will soon do the same.”
“I have only just started replying to letters . . . ”
“I imagined as much. Have you heard anything about Ramiro de Lorqua?”
The duke is like a fish, darting this way and that; suddenly he is where you least expect him, wherever his interests may lead.
“No, this is my first time outdoors in some time.”
“Yes, but I mean in the house where you’re residing.”
Niccolò shakes his head.
“I must leave now,” he says. “When will you return to see Dianora?”
“We didn’t make any plans.”
“Do it soon. You are good for her.”