Niccolò returns to the royal palace early the following morning for more news. He sees close to twenty knights riding out the front entrance. They’re in a hurry and they quickly pick up speed. Swords hang by their sides and they’re dressed in light armor.
He’s forced to step back against the walls like the other passerby, so as not to be knocked over. He recognizes some of the duke’s soldiers. Even Rodriguez is among them. Then, on a black steed, comes Cesare himself, wearing an iron chest plate but no helmet. He’s talking rapidly to Corella, who rides alongside him. He has a resolute air about him and looks angry. What has happened? Does it have something to do with the arrest of de Lorqua?
No one notices Niccolò.
He watches as they go by, disappearing as quickly as they came.
As soon as he enters the palace, he seeks out the duke’s secretary.
Geraldini greets him cordially. Did the envoy come to gather news about the newly deposed governor? He’s been accused of corruption, extortion, and kidnapping. He starved the people, increased taxes in an arbitrary manner, and made vast profits by stockpiling and then selling enormous quantities of grain that belonged to the State.
But they already knew that, Niccolò thinks to himself. What changed? Is Geraldini hiding something from him?
He will be tried immediately and justice will be served, the secretary goes on to say. The fact that he has been imprisoned shows, yet again, how the prince, in his great wisdom, can both make and unmake men as he wishes, according to their merits.
The pockmarked ambassador of Pisa rushes over, out of breath, for information. He stops short when he sees Niccolò and glares at him coldly, as if there were some kind of personal dispute between them and not just the age-old hostility that exists between their two cities.
Geraldini notices, understands, and smooths all feathers. Ah, the ambassador from Pisa. You’re probably wondering, Machiavelli, why he’s been invited to court, seeing that we care so deeply about our friendship with Florence. You should know that it was Pisa that came to us, and we simply could not refuse to meet with them. I can tell you this, though: they came to ask advice from His Excellency after being contacted by the King of Spain, who has every intention of supporting them and reinforcing their military presence . . .
So Spain wants to build another front against France in Tuscany. It would have been better for the Republic if they had found out sooner, he thinks. How did the prince respond? Niccolò asks.
Oh, he considered such an alliance dangerous, Geraldini replies. So many Italians stand with the French; Louis XII is powerful in Italy and an enemy of Spain. But His Excellency also took advantage of the opportunity to build a relationship with the Pisans, in order to help Florence. In fact, if the Prince creates an alliance with the Pisans, he will have an easy time of bringing the two cities to the table to negotiate, with the help of France.
Not a chance, Niccolò tells himself. What a great number of intriguing plots get woven in this court! They’re playing at so many tables all at once.
You’re amused by it all, Geraldini says. That smile of yours gives it away. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed it. Believe me, you Florentines should welcome someone helping you with Pisa, to end the fighting and bring about peace. And that’s what the duke wants, after all. A long-lasting peace. He has shown it by dismissing the French spearmen. What else can he do to show his good intentions?
Do you want to go up to your study? How long will you stay? You don’t know yet? I understand, the work of the writer is never done. Sometimes I think that we writers are like miners, who toil far from the light of day: life goes by and we don’t even realize it.
He longs for the night, but it seems to take forever to come. He can’t write, he can’t concentrate, he can’t think coherently. But nor can he leave. The workers climb down from the scaffolding just before dark, at the sound of a whistle.
He barely touches his food—steak, some vegetables, bread, dessert—that a pageboy brings him. He pretends to review his papers. He drinks some wine for courage.
He peeks out into the corridor. As usual, two guards stand watch at the far end, even now with the prince away. Surely the level of surveillance is less stringent. Maybe he can risk it. He goes back into his study, opens the window, and looks out at the scaffolding, which is barely visible in the darkness. In his mind he sees the layout of the rooms around the corner. There’s the room where he met with Dianora, which has two windows. Sister Sebastiana came out of a doorway that probably leads to the chambers where they sleep, a little farther down the corridor. One window, then another, and he will have arrived.
He sees a fire burning in the hearth across the way, a distant glow. He decides to go all the same: the darkness will protect him. He extinguishes the candles and leans out the window. The wind is picking up, he feels it on his face.
From the chimney across the way comes a gust of smoke, carrying with it the smell of roasted meat. He realizes he is hungry, so he crawls back to his desk and nervously bites off a morsel of meat. He wipes his mouth and fingers on the napkin, then hurries back to the scaffolding, leaving the window slightly open. He’s not sure why, but he is reminded of that October night when he snuck out of his house to get away from the men he thought had been sent by the money-lender. That’s when all this began.
He makes his way forward, sliding his hands across the wooden structure and the stones of the façade, feeling his way. He heads to the left, as planned. He reaches the corner and goes around it. After three arms’ length, he comes to the corridor window. He then makes his way over to the windows of the main hall. Peering in the lead-paned windows, he sees the room is empty, but there are embers in the fireplace and their weak glow illuminates the furniture.
He reaches the next window and looks inside without pressing up too closely to the glass, so he remains hidden. A stub of a candle on a night table sheds light on a cot where someone is lying. The Dominican nun’s habit rests on a chair. Suddenly, he sees Sister Sebastiana sit up and blow out the candle.
He stays still for a long time, waiting for her to fall asleep. The wind picks up, blowing harder and colder. He hears two dogs barking in the distance.
He moves on to the next window. It’s pitch black. Is this Dianora’s room? Did he calculate it correctly? He taps ever so softly on the glass with his fingertips.
He’s afraid that the nun will wake up, and yet, at the same time, he knows all will go well. He feels warm inside, despite the cold air outside. He taps again. Softly. Even softer.
He’s about to give up. It’s too risky. He taps one more time.
Dianora emerges from the darkness with a look of alarm on her face. Niccolò brings his face up to the glass, smiling, imagining what he might look like to her, with his cheek and nose deformed by the glass. Dianora looks surprised and happy. She opens her mouth but doesn’t say a word.
There’s the light sound of the window being opened.
He leaps inside, his heart racing. They embrace without hesitation. He’s afraid of holding her too tightly, but she pulls him close. She’s trembling. The world ceases to exist; it has disappeared entirely. There is only silence and the sound of the wind.
Dianora glances back over her shoulder as if struck with a sudden fear, her arms loosen her grip around his neck. Then she squeezes him even tighter and brings her face up to his, crying with joy.
He caresses her head, kisses the salty tears that fall from her eyes, and feels the warmth of her body close to his, her breath on his neck.
Dianora lets herself go, as if a long period of suffering had come to an end. A shiver runs through her. “I knew you would come. These past few nights, I’ve being lying awake, waiting for you,” she whispers almost imperceptibly.
He feels her heart beating rapidly in her chest. He rests his cheek against hers, smooth and cool.
“Your beard is scratching my face.”
He forgot that he hadn’t shaved that morning. “Forgive me.”
The contact they lose through their cheeks is reinforced through their hands, both of them still so incredulous that they are actually together.
A sudden noise makes them jump. Has the nun woken up next door?
Dianora steps back, gripping Niccolò’s hand tightly.
Another sound. Footsteps. A light passes by under the door.
Niccolò kisses Dianora’s hand, goes toward the window, and climbs out onto the scaffolding.
Sister Sebastiana says something that’s hard to decipher. Dianora replies, “What noise? I didn’t hear anything. Hush now, let me sleep.”
The nun doesn’t come in. If she had, she wouldn’t have been able to see him. He’s already back in the darkness. He smiles. He will remember that night forever.