Not a day has gone by that Niccolò hasn’t thought about her. Sometimes the memory comes to him softly, like a whisper, but more often than not, it screams out from deep within.
He never told anyone about Dianora and yet he speaks to her constantly. She is a wound that time cannot heal, a sadness that helps him survive life.
He is at home, he sits at the window that looks out on the street below and stares at the blank pieces of paper before him. His face is now lined with wrinkles. His hair is thinning and grey at the temples.
He hears the sounds of everyday life around him: the voice of Marietta, their two sons, and the babble of little Guido, who’s only a year old, sounding tragically similar to the sounds that little Primerana used to make. She succumbed to a fever when she was still in her infancy.
Bernardo and Lodovico giggle and run to him on their strong, little legs. Their mother chases behind them. “Let your father write,” she says, pulling them away.
He’s grateful to her for saying those words, even though surrounding noises never bothered him. When he holds his pen in his hand, he is transported elsewhere, to a place where the noises of the world fade far away.
But now he is not writing. Marietta thinks he is, and he continues to pretend in order not to delude her, out of a sense of discipline, and due to the fear of emptiness. It is the only activity that is truly his and he can’t give it up, even if his role has been diminished to the degree that he only goes through the motions. With utmost care, he sharpens the tip of his feather pen and dips it into the inkwell. And then he hesitates with uncertainty as he has done thousands of times.
He has no one left to write to.
He can’t write to the Dieci or to the gonfalonier, he misses having to constantly write letters. Back when he needed to, it sometimes felt like a burden, but now it would be a pleasure. The city’s leaders have changed, the Republic was defeated by the Medici family with the help of Spain one year earlier, during the summer. The new people in power have isolated him from all public duty; they simply couldn’t forgive him for having served their predecessors. Other men were given a second chance: Pier Soderini is comfortably ensconced in Dalmatia, for example. Niccolò was not given an opportunity simply because he does not come from a powerful family. They took away any money he had and now he gets by on loans from friends and acquaintances.
He could always write poems . . . as he had always wanted to do.
“You’ve found your voice,” Dianora once said to him.
If he had indeed found it, he lost it that same night. He has not composed anything as strong as that poem and he is now over forty.
If Dianora had never met him, she might still be alive. He can never forgive himself for that. If it were possible, he would change the way things came to pass. Over and over, he imagines the early moments of their fall: the initial glances, their first tacit looks that held a reciprocal promise. No, no, he says to himself; he wouldn’t do it again.
Then again, maybe he would. He often thinks back to the sense of danger that united them.
He was never as happy as when he was with her.
In fact, a part of him died with Dianora. He had already changed that very night, after Valentino killed her, when Corella pushed him out the front door and into the icy cold, which was punctuated by blasts of heat from the fires that raged throughout the city, the flames reaching high above the rooftops, sparks flying every which way.
Some people tried to put out the fires with pails of water, others wavered unsteadily on their legs, drunk on the wine they had stolen. Screams of terror came from near and far, as did frenzied laughter and the sound of women calling for help.
Don Miguel led him to a group of soldiers on horseback. They would accompany him to the border of the duchy, he said, going on to inform Niccolò, who struggled to comprehend what he was hearing, that everything that he had written up until then would be sent to him in Florence so that he could complete the task. He then placed a heavy wad into his clothes: the remainder of what he was owed.
Corella threw a shabby, old cape over him. Niccolò was reminded of Holy Friday processions he had seen when he was young; Roman soldiers had thrown the same kind of cape over Christ.
He recalls struggling for breath, hoping that some sudden illness would strike him dead, but that did not come to pass.
Don Miguel had then whipped Niccolò’s horse across his hindquarters and the animal had bolted, carrying him off, soldiers by his side.
A single thought came to Niccolò. It was senseless but it filled him with fear. It was January, the same month that Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon on his way to attack the Republic. Valentino would do the same with Florence.
And indeed the prince tried to do so the following year, after conquering Perugia, Assisi, Siena, and becoming protector of Pisa, thereby surrounding the Republic. He was stronger than he had ever been, he had a powerful and faithful army, he had erased all imminent danger, and he was ready to launch the final attack when the King of France intervened. Louis XII had started to suspect the Borgia family, both father and son. He knew they were trying to negotiate with Spain.
Niccolò followed the events from Florence, listening carefully to all the talk that circulated within the Chancery. Valentino was still their mortal enemy and they continued to keep an eye on him. Niccolò knew him intimately, unfortunately, and was well aware that he would wait until the French were stripped of the Kingdom of Naples by the Spanish to become Lord of Tuscany.
He imagined—like someone who can’t wake up from a nightmare—what the duke’s next moves would be: as soon as he no longer feared France, he would side with Pisa; Lucca and Siena would surrender immediately, partly because they disliked the Florentines and partly out of fear; the Republic would have no way out. The prince would win them over by acquiring so much strength and such a strong reputation that from then on, he would be able to survive on his own, without depending on anyone else’s fortune or strength, including that of his father.
But before all this could unfold, on August 17, 1503, the Pope and Cesare went to a dinner hosted by the wealthy cardinal Castellesi.
The following morning the Pope died and his son fell gravely ill. People said that poison had been put in the wine destined for the cardinal and drunk by mistake in abundance by the pope and to a lesser degree by Cesare. Or perhaps it was due to a fever, a frequent occurrence in the malaria-infested Rome of those days.
When the news reached Florence, Niccolò suspected that this time Valentino was in grave danger, and he was right. The man had spent his whole life preparing for the moment when his father would die, but he never imagined that he would fall ill too.
The people of Rome were overjoyed to come out and see the black and swollen corpse of Alessandro VI. Cesare was young and regained his strength with doses of strong medicine, but from that moment forward committed one mistake after the next, as if the death of his father had stripped him of his true strength. Dianora had been right, she had foreseen it. Her great ability to feel allowed her to understand things in ways that had nothing to do with reason. She had seen farther off into the future than Niccolò or anyone else.
During the conclave, Valentino sought out alliances with cardinals tied to France as well as Spain. In so doing, he made enemies of both. A pope was elected that he favored, but the man fell ill and died less than a month later, perhaps with a little help.
Valentino made even more serious mistakes during the following conclave. While he could no longer get one of his candidates elected, he could have easily blocked a cardinal that he had hurt in the past, or one he feared. Instead he cast his vote for Giuliano, from the powerful della Rovere family, who were deeply hostile to the Borgias. In exchange for being named pope, he promised Borgia the position of Captain General of the Church. Valentino trusted the man. He, who never trusted anyone. Or perhaps he had no other choice.
When, in October, della Rovere was named Julius III, he didn’t carry through on his promise and asked Borgia to surrender all his fortresses in Romagna. Cesare refused and was taken prisoner.
Romagna remained faithful to Cesare and refused to abandon him, a sign that, at least there, he had sown his crops well.
Because Cesare no longer had an army, he tried to ingratiate himself with the Spanish, who, in the meantime, had beaten the French and controlled all of southern Italy. Ultimately he surrendered Romagna to the Pope in exchange for safe conduct to Naples.
Yet another mistake. When Niccolò heard the news, he was pleased: Valentino was heading towards his definitive ruin. Naples was home to all the relatives of Alfonso d’Aragona, including Sancia, his sister, who wanted vendetta.
Also eager to get back at him was the widow of the Duke of Gandía, the brother he had had killed. Over time, she had become very influential in the Spanish court and wanted justice.
Valentino knew very well that one cannot offend the powerful and pretend they will not exact their revenge, but apparently he forgot this rule, or else he overestimated his own strength. He was placed on a ship, taken to Catalonia, and imprisoned in a fortress.
There were great celebrations in Florence at this news. Even Niccolò raised his glass, both for himself and Dianora.
Two years later, when people stopped talking about him, Cesare managed to escape. His wife had abandoned him when he fell into a state of disgrace, or perhaps she had been forced to do so by Louis XII, who had come to despise him. Valentino’s brother-in-law, the King of Navarra, offered him a safe harbor in exchange for his help in a small local war against a rebellious count. During a night-time skirmish near a castle, Valentino was isolated by his own men. Some people said he had advanced on his own, which was unthinkable for a soldier with so much experience. Others said it was destiny. His enemies surrounded and then killed him.
When Niccolò found out—it was a bitterly cold March, and the rooms of the Chancery were biting cold—he felt deep joy, and yet he was also surprised to feel an element of pain for the loss of that sharp mind.
Cesare’s corpse was stripped of his weapons and armor by his enemies and left naked until someone came to retrieve his remains. His bones were left to rot in a church somewhere. The year was 1507.
The Republic of Florence was constantly at battle with its neighbors, the Medici family, and the Pope.
Niccolò made every effort to assist the Republic by organizing and building up troops. He remembered how Valentino had successfully trained peasants, and he tried to imitate the duke in this, convincing the leaders of the city that Florence would be stronger if it could rely on its own men for soldiers, just like the ancient Roman armies. He started to recruit foot-soldiers and traveled through the hills around the city. Mostly he looked for peasants who were used to hardship, to toiling under the hot sun, people who knew how to handle iron tools.
Even though many years had passed, he often thought back to the time with Borgia when he had been incapable of commandeering those four troops, and for this reason he sought to hire the best condottieri.
His armies managed to conquer Pisa, their eternal rival.
They were incapable of defending Prato, however, where they suffered a disastrous defeat to the Spanish. This tragedy proved to be the definitive end of the Republic. And of Niccolò.
The weight of Niccolò’s sorrow had a paradoxical effect on him: the end of a dream gave him ample time to think rationally about things. And yet that was also a treacherous gift, one which he would have rather gone without, but which he could not refuse.
Over time, he came to realize that the Republic fell because of its own limitations, that he had also made many mistakes, and that not everything that Valentino did was completely wrong, but that actually, while he was still in command, he had behaved far better than many other princes, both past and present.
Rational thinking can, and often does, take us down surprising paths. While Niccolò’s hatred and disgust for Valentino remained intact, he was forced to recognize a voice inside his head that told him he had learned a great deal from the man. He thought back to the days when Cesare smugly confided his most intimate thoughts about war and power to him. Niccolò knew that Valentino had not lied to him in moments like that. Or, at the very least, he was aware that the duke had shared some truths about the world with him.
Over time, the teachings that Niccolò garnered from Cesare came back with greater frequency and growing intensity. The passing years purified the lessons and washed away the blood that stained them.
If he were a different person, he might have been able to ignore them. But he was not.
He has a vague recollection of the pages he wrote for the prince while he was in Imola and Cesena. As soon as an envoy delivered them to his house, as Corella had promised, Niccolò burned them. The mere sight of those mendacious words filled him with disgust.
Without realizing it, when he wrote them, he relinquished all sense of personal dignity. He regained it when he offered his life in exchange for Dianora’s in Senigallia. Perhaps this was why, now that he was entirely powerless, he felt he could distil new words out of the memory of those old and impure ones. He could write about what he knows. By taking new paths, he could reflect on the essence of power. But would it be worth it? Who would even publish it?
The ink on the tip of the pen is drying. His hand rests mid-air. The page is still white.
Writing takes willpower, energy, and desire.
He no longer has any of these.
He tells himself that they’ll come back to him one day and that things could be much worse. He was not stricken down by the French illness and Borgia’s money allowed him to pay off his debts to the money-lender.
These thoughts bring him some relief. But then he thinks back to Anteo Nuffi, how widely venerated that man was, and he is subsequently filled with a sense of disgust and dismay.
The midday church bells ring, the ink is drying again. And at what it costs . . . In order not to waste it, he writes a letter to an acquaintance. He would like to start a small business, make a little money, build a henhouse, sell chickens, but he needs a man to oversee it.
Outside someone walks by singing “Il Cavalier di Spagna.” The tune has gotten around, the new words have officially taken the place of the old ones, Conte Guido has been swept away. Cesare is dead, but continues to ride at the foot of a mountain. Hearing Anteo Nuffi’s lyrics bothers and weakens him, they’re like leeches sucking his blood.
The song stops, which alarms Niccolò. He detects an unnatural silence. All conversation has ceased and tension fills the air.
Someone knocks at the door, but not urgently. Marietta looks out the window and then over at him, her face filled with concern. Niccolò hurries to the window.
The men are dressed in the same leather jerkins that the Gonfalonier’s guards once wore, but instead of the lily of Florence they display the Medici family crest with its six balls.
Dino Gherardi still heads the unit. Without saying a word, he looks up at Niccolò, the expression in his eyes both firm and somber.
For an instant, Niccolò considers running out the back but he’s no longer a young man, and besides, he knows that someone would be there waiting for him. He embraces Marietta quickly and rushes downstairs, while the children huddle around their mother’s skirts.
As soon as he opens the door, an officer throws a black hood over him. A second man ties his hands.
“No!” he hears Gherardi shout, sensing that the captain has stopped a third man from striking him.
The hood is rank with the foul smell of sweat.
“What’s going on? What do you want?” he hears himself say, mostly because they expect him to say something. He knows that they won’t reply.
He perceives their movements around him. They have rushed into his home and are now searching it.
They drag him away. He imagines his wife watching without being able to do a thing as drawers are emptied and furniture is overturned. His children cry, his neighbors are surely watching through cracks in the shutters.
He moves his feet mechanically, stumbling every so often. They have to hold him up as they go. In the silence he detects not only the footsteps of the officers nearby but those of people who step out of the way. It makes him mournful to think about other people’s very normal lives, how they are on their way home for lunch, or about to sit down with their loved ones. He is aware that he has entered a terrible parallel world, one which he has long known existed but which he has always avoided thinking about, never having been forced to until now.
Weak and frightened, he lets himself be pushed along.