He recognizes the approaching footsteps, rushes to close the window, sits down at the desk, and spreads out the papers of Res gestæ Cæsaris. The door opens and Cesare strides in. He’s dressed in his riding clothes, he still has his gloves on, he looks weary and bitterly cold.
“Greetings, Niccolò.”
“Greetings to you.”
“They told me you were hard at work. Bravo.”
“Was it a tiring journey, with this snow?”
“Ah, I wish it were only that.”
He reaches out his gloved hands toward the warmth of the fire and looks with curiosity at the papers that Niccolò has spread out in front of him.
“Is that new work? Did you finish the chapter?”
The duke takes the pages, grabs a chair, drags it over to the fireplace, and starts to read. Slowly, as he makes his way through it, he returns to his usual self, his vitality returning to him from some hidden source.
Niccolò thinks about Dianora’s footprints. They’re surely still visible, they won’t have been covered by fresh snow yet. He observes Valentino carefully, he’s completely taken with his reading. Niccolò is certain that those pages—written in a hurry, unwillingly, and incomplete at that—will displease the duke.
Instead, Cesare looks satisfied. Maybe he envisions himself projected through those words and into the future, centuries ahead, as if already there, elsewhere. When he puts down the pages, his gaze remains lost in the distance.
“Superb. You have managed to capture the essence of my soul.”
“I’m pleased you think so,” Niccolò answers using the voi form.
“Why do you address me with such formality?” Valentino says curtly.
He made a mistake, it’s his nerves, he can’t do it again. “I’m sorry but your compliment took me by surprise.”
“You explain everything perfectly. It’s concise. Not one mistake. This is exactly what I need. When will you be able to complete the final chapter?”
“One week. At least.”
“That long?”
“It’s a complicated subject.”
“It is indeed.” He holds the papers on his lap but leans toward the fire, talking without looking at Niccolò. “I want you to write the Republic and tell them that I will chase Pandolfo Petrucci out of Siena and take charge of the city.”
Now he wants Siena? Wasn’t it enough that he had forged an alliance with Pisa? I-have-faith was right to inform him that the duke was plotting with all of Florence’s enemies.
“It will be both to my advantage and your own. I would expect the Republic to send in some of its soldiers to fight alongside mine in this undertaking. I imagine that you’ll want to punish the city that has been your enemy for so long. If you don’t take advantage of this moment, everyone will think you are weak. Either we beat Pandolfo together or Siena will continue to be a safe refuge for everyone against you.”
“I will communicate it to them immediately.”
“And tell them that, in so doing, you will also be doing a favor for the King of France.”
“For His Majesty? But Siena is under his protection.”
“Louis protects the community, not Pandolfo; I will wage war against him, not against the people. I have already started to spread the news there. I expect that the people will be the ones to chase him out. But if this does not happen, I will bring my artillery unit up to their walls.”
Niccolò recalls the map of Florence, the secret that he now possesses. In that very instant, he sees a strand of Dianora’s long, blond hair on the desk. He is reaching for it when Valentino turns around and looks at him with an amused expression on his face.
“Once we have Siena under our control, then I will feel safe.”
Niccolò’s hand stops mid-air. He looks up, blinks, and glances elsewhere. The oddness of his movement attracts Cesare’s attention, who looks in the direction of Niccolò’s gaze, then puts the pages down on the chair, and approaches the envoy.
“After which I’ll lead my men to fight Louis in Lombardy and the Kingdom of Naples.”
Valentino halts.
The blond hair shines brightly on the dark wood surface.
The duke sees it. He picks it up. Niccolò sits perfectly still. The duke looks at him and understands instantly. He gets up, goes to the window, opens it, and peers out.
Dianora’s footprints are still visible, only partially covered by the snow and the sweep of her gown.
What should Niccolò say? That he approached Dianora on behalf of the Republic, and then lie and say she revealed nothing? It still wouldn’t save her, and might just make things worse, because while Valentino might be able to put up with a personal betrayal, his reaction would be ruthless if he suspects her of interfering in matters of state.
Valentino turns around and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Niccolò stays seated, incredulous, for a few moments. He can’t believe that they have been discovered. Then the awareness arrives all at once, and he feels his energy drain away. He puts his head down on the desk. It would be pointless to attempt escape. What will become of him? He will certainly be punished. He imagines poison, a dagger, a rope around his neck. Valentino will want to keep it quiet, no reason to make an enemy of Florence. He will probably end up like the ambassador of Venice, face down in a canal. A pretend suicide, an attack by some brigands along the road. Even Dianora will disappear, she has no one besides him and he is worth less than nothing. He can only hope, for both of them, that death comes quickly.
After a long while, he gets up to leave. Whatever destiny holds in store for him is better than waiting. He opens the door, intending to leave, but two of the duke’s guards turn and glare at him and block his path, gesturing for him to remain in the room.
At the first light of dawn, he opens the door again and looks out. Corella comes striding toward him.
He retreats into the study and goes to the window. The duke’s executioner bursts into the room but doesn’t approach Niccolò. He gathers up the pages of Res gestæ Cæsaris and places them under his arm.
“Come with me,” he says in a low, flat voice. He doesn’t even turn around to see if Niccolò obeys.