The throne, p.13
The Throne, page 13
“It’s one thing to be forced to do something but to lose oneself is an entirely different matter.”
“But how long can a person continue to do something they find repugnant before they become that very thing?”
“You will never be the same as the evil done to you.”
Of this, Niccolò is certain. He has never seen so much melancholy dignity in a person. Dianora sighs again, but this time it as if a weight has been lifted, at least temporarily, from her shoulders.
The prior gestures to them from the far corner. His face is livid with tension.
Dianora tries to compose herself. Niccolò glances at the nave: Lucina and the guard are sitting in a pew, talking. Now and then the woman glances at the sacristy and then back at the soldier.
Dianora starts to speak again. “I beg you, when you go to Forlì, go to my family’s tomb and place your hand on it for me. It will be as though I am there. Surely they have been buried in San Francesco Grande, in the family chapel.” As she speaks she slowly reaches out her right hand.
Niccolò nods, deeply moved. “I promise.”
Dianora stands up quickly. When she returns to the nave, Lucina and the soldier get to their feet and escort her out of the church.
He watches her walk off. The thought of what Dianora suffered and continues to suffer brings him a sharp pain in both his chest and gut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The road from Imola to the coast is crowded with people, animals, carts, and merchants. It’s windy and clouds of dust swirl around them. Niccolò rides a docile and strong black horse. Wrapped in his mantle, he is grateful that his profession allows him to visit new places, meet people, and take journeys which he could otherwise never afford.
It’s cold but sunny, and horseback riding is a pleasure in these conditions. On the right are the hills, while the plains extend to the left in a bluish hue. From how other people look at him, his horse, and his clothes, he realizes that they think he is a wealthy man and this amuses him greatly.
He observes people, too. He sees a young woman with a Greek profile carrying a bundle on her head; a child follows behind, grabbing at her skirt. A white-haired old farmer drives a cart full of vats of strong-smelling grape must. Three men with pale, cruel faces look like they’ve been up all night.
Niccolò has his old tabard in his sack in case it starts to rain. Before leaving, he removed the holy medallion that Marietta had sewn on it and left it at the inn. In one of the pockets of his robe he carries the letter of safe conduct from Borgia, which obliges soldiers and subjects to let him pass without paying taxes or duties. Innkeepers at rest stops must provide him with food, lodgings, and the best horses they have. And everyone else he encounters along the way has to offer their help any way he might need.
He thinks back to what Dianora said about Valentino. It’s true that without the money and military might of the Church the duke would be no one. On the other hand, he is making the most of the good Fortune that he has been dealt, as they say, and not everybody is capable of that.
Two opposing truths, side by side. The world is full of contradictions. None of them ever weighed heavily on him, but he finds this one a burden.
What is happening? Dianora’s words have gotten under his skin. He shares her hatred for the man. At the same time, he can’t ignore the relevance of everything the Prince has confided in him about power, or his keen intelligence for that matter. This troubles him and he continues to mull it over. The best preaching comes from the worst pulpits, he once heard someone in the Chancery say, and he knew immediately what that meant.
He is startled out of his reverie when he hears someone shout at him. Without realizing it he had been riding directly toward a man leading a mule that carried a woman with pitch-black hair. He apologizes and guides his horse more carefully.
The main gate to Forlì is greyish yellow, imposing, and flanked by two defense towers. Niccolò was there six months before Borgia conquered it, sent as a simple envoy, as usual. Humilis, minimus servitor, he used to sign his letters. But at that time, he had reached the city via a different route, along the Castrocaro road, and he had entered through a different gate. He had been sent to negotiate the acquisition of gunpowder and cannonballs, and to renew a mercenary contract for Florence with the son of the Countess. As such, every minute of his time was counted for. Now things are different; he can look around and observe the people freely.
Waiting for him at the gate, near the soldiers on duty, is a man dressed in bright colors. He bows to him. “Lord Machiavelli, I am the secretary to the castellan. Have you ever been to Forlì? It will be my pleasure to act as your guide.”
Niccolò bows deeply in reply. “Thank you for your kind welcome. Yes, I have been here before and, as you will read in the duke’s missive, I have complete freedom to move around and see whatever I choose.”
The man frowns and doesn’t even glance at the papers. “As you wish, but grant me at least the privilege of having you as my guest at the fortress for dinner, and to spend the night.”
“Thank the castellan for me; I will gladly join you.”
“That way we’ll be able to talk about everything you learn in the meantime,” the secretary says sarcastically, stepping to one side, and allowing Niccolò to enter the city. But then, overcome by his own arrogance, he says, “And how exactly do you plan on getting to know the inhabitants of a city that is not your own?”
“I have my ways,” Niccolò replies. “And they’ve never failed me.”
The prostitute has luminous, olive skin. Originally from Puglia, she came to Forlì to live with a rogue of a man who was initially charming but really only wanted to take advantage of her. She realised it soon enough. And yet, she was still in love with him.
She earned the nickname La Scura because of her dark skin. She was there when Borgia invaded and conquered the city. Niccolò suavely gets her to talk about those days. It was December, it rained constantly, it was bitterly cold, and everything happened all at once. If the townspeople surrendered, Valentino promised them protection, but that’s hardly what came to pass. His troops, the French and German armies, and the soldiers of the Church all started sacking houses. She, herself, was not harmed because she managed to hide in a cellar.
Things went less well in the fortress, which resisted for a month. The sound of exploding cannons was incessant and the air was practically unbreathable due to the acrid stench of gunpowder, an odor that was new to La Scura. There were countless deaths, and even more were wounded. La Scura still remembered the sound of the men yelling to defend the fortress, and then, when the fortress was breached, the sound of both men and women screaming in pain. Then came the wailing. And finally, silence.
All cities change hands now and then, she knew that well. She had seen it happen elsewhere, as she traveled up the length of Italy.
Two years have passed since then, and people complain less now. Many, the majority, are pleased with Valentino; most of the men who govern the city are far better than the ones who worked for the Countess.
The Mambelli family chapel in the church of San Francesco Grande is tucked away in a corner between the transept and the nave, not far from the main altar. It’s the only one with unlit candles. Its walls are frescoed in lively colors with scenes from the Passion.
Niccolò walks over and examines the burial plaques: the oldest ones date back two hundred years while the most recent ones are from only ten years ago.
An old woman notices him. “Did you know the Mambelli family?” she asks.
“I am a distant relative from Florence.”
“I thought there was no one left except the daughter, who met with a terrible fate.”
“She’s a cousin of mine.”
The woman peers at him closely and shakes her head. “Poor girl, how I pity her. That family had everything; some of their ancestors are even buried near the reliquaries of the True Cross, under the central altar. A rare privilege. But they were stubborn people. You just can’t fight some things.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t see the tombs for the family members who died recently; I thought they would be buried here, among their ancestors.”
“Their bodies were thrown into the crypt along with everyone else when the battle ended,” the old woman says, pointing to an oak trapdoor in the floor at the end of the transept. “It was practically overflowing with bodies . . . So many people died.”
Niccolò imagines the bodies being carelessly dumped into the pit and sprinkled with lime: mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters; the old and young, all piling up on top of other cadavers that were already decomposing and putrefying; thieves and other wrongdoers, eventually all reduced to bone and dust.
He says nothing.
“May they rest in peace,” the old woman says, crossing herself and kissing her fingers.
Niccolò walks over to the trapdoor. He bends down and gently rests his hand on it for a long moment.
Outside, he stops at a gurgling water fountain in a quiet piazza, leans over the spout, and gulps some water. He dries his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at an elegant, three-story home across the way. Its large windows have marble sills and elegant arches. The sky is heavy with dark clouds.
“Is that where the Mambelli family used to live?” he asks a middle-aged passerby with a large mole on his face.
The man looks at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“I sold them some fabric a while ago and they owe me money. I just arrived from France and heard what happened.”
“The family was decimated. Now the building houses a Rota, a court of appeals set up by the duke.”
“A court of appeals?”
“Yes, and it travels all around Romagna. When they’re in Forlì, the judge holds court there. Anyone can go and ask him for justice. And he doesn’t grant special consideration to the powerful, either, not like before.”
Niccolò looks up at the house, and points to where the sitting room must once have been. “Is that where he holds audiences?”
“Yes, there’s one going on now. Anyone can go in and listen. Did you have a contract with Mambelli? Were there witnesses to the contract?”
“Witnesses? Yes. And yes, I have a written contract.”
“Then you should go in and petition for compensation from the State; they took over all the wealth and goods that belonged to the people who rebelled. I’m sure you’ll get the money you’re owed.” The man goes on to enthusiastically explain how the new justice system is different and better than the earlier one: it used to be that the magistrates were all from Forlì, they all knew each other; now they’re from other towns. They pass judgement and move on. Before Valentino took over, the judges’ only job was to make sure the rich slept well at night, and they were very good at doing that. Anyone who didn’t follow the rules or fought back was marginalized and left to rot, like that fellow, Baldassarre: he didn’t follow anyone’s rules and survived only by stealing a little here and there. Back then, when a judge ruled in favor of the rich, he received money and honors. Now the tune has changed, and everyone is deeply grateful to the duke for it.”
Niccolò goes inside and walks upstairs to the stately hall: its walls are of light-colored stone, the ceiling is high, and a pearl-grey light shines through the windows. He observes the crowd, cheek to jowl: they’re workers, common folk.
He goes and stands in front of a window from which he can see the room in its entirety. He continues to study the people, noticing an eagerness, a sense of expectation. He tries to hear what people around him are saying. He has always enjoyed eavesdropping: he takes in everything and retains only what is useful.
Three women are discussing a sentence that the Rota emitted the day before. A rich nobleman who had always been forgiven was forced to compensate a carpenter whom he hadn’t paid for his work. Because the nobleman had his men beat the carpenter to keep him quiet, the nobleman had also been sentenced to ten beatings with a stick. The punishment would take place the following Sunday in front of the Duomo. It didn’t matter that he was from an important family, who his relatives were, or that he had hired the best lawyers. The case had also been very enjoyable to watch, one of the three women says, and it sounds like the one that will take place today will be equally, if not more, entertaining. The judge will be ruling on a notable timber merchant who chopped down wood from a city-owned forest without permission.
Niccolò looks at the accused man. Heavyset, red in the face, and all dressed in black, he stands talking to his lawyer, who is tall and pale. Nearby are two guards dressed in Borgia’s colors.
He tries to imagine the great hall when Dianora lived there. It must have seemed enormous to her when she was a child and then, for many years, it was probably the center of her happy world, until war forced the family to seek refuge in the fortress. She surely received guests there, banqueted, danced, and celebrated Christmas and Easter in that room. He can almost imagine her gliding nimbly between all the people.
Strolling, dancing, and smiling.
Smiling. It occurs to him that he has never seen her smile. He is overcome with such a deep emotion that he’s forced to look away, outside, onto the piazza below. He sees people hurrying by, two carts cross paths, two women stop to talk at the fountain from which he had drunk not long before.
The crowd buzzes and he turns to see why: the judge has walked in. He’s tall and lanky, he has a Roman nose, and his eyes shine brightly. As soon as he opens his mouth to speak, Niccolò hears someone say that, based on his accent, he must be from Rimini: an outsider, not someone who is part of local politics. They approve heartily.
The case unfolds swiftly. The court has done their research well and they have clear proof. The judge measures his words, asks careful questions, and in an artificially benevolent manner he deflates the lies that he is told. Niccolò admires his style: he’s serious, goes into detail, and is never swayed by rhetoric. The public, meanwhile, is somewhat let down. They preferred the judge from the day before, who was from Bologna and a prodigious orator. Even so, they’re satisfied with the sentence the judge emits: the timber merchant has to pay a hefty fine and spend eight months in prison. The guards take him away.
Someone yells out that justice has finally been served.
As he’s walking to the fortress, with night falling fast, he sees dozens of Swiss mercenaries in their black and red doublets. Niccolò observes the stately home in which they are housed; it too must have once belonged to an important family who resisted Valentino. As he passes by, he sees about twenty soldiers standing around a bright bonfire in the courtyard, drinking and laughing while two whole pigs roast over the flickering flames.
In one corner he sees a cluster of pikes: they must be about nine arms’ long. Niccolò begins to suspect that Borgia is scattering his troops all across Romagna to conceal just how many of them there actually are. The duke is aware that Niccolò will notice this; it’s a display of his power and he wants Niccolò to inform Florence of it.
When he arrives at the fortress he looks for signs of the attack, but there’s no trace of it, except for the bricks of a different color where the wall was breached. Clearly, reconstruction was done rapidly and carefully.
“His Excellency found Romagna to be run by incapable lords who, instead of governing their subjects, robbed and plundered them. These lands were once full of thieves and brigands, but the Prince brought order to the people. He has united them and instilled peace.” The castellan, Gonzalo de Mirafuentes, speaks Italian well. A skinny man, he eats voraciously and enthusiastically, slurping down his capon skin soup and talking at the same time.
“What about the people? Do they all support him, or did the war leave some scars?” Niccolò asks, sprinkling his soup with powdered cinnamon, a delicacy he’s tasted only once before.
“Did you notice any misgivings in the people you spoke to?” the secretary interrupts him to ask.
“No, but I think it is a fair question to ask.”
“Yes, your Lordship, it is a fair question,” Mirafuentes replies. He takes a sip of his wine then wipes his lips. “The difficulties we encountered in the recent past did indeed generate some hatred, but the duke is now purging these feelings, and soon he will win over all the inhabitants. He has instituted a court of appeals, presided over by a very capable man, so that the people will have justice.”
“Yes, actually I saw the court at work.”
“And what impression did it give you?”
“Admirable.”
“That is not His Excellency’s only reform. He is also dividing Romagna into four districts to govern it better. He has put Leonardo da Vinci in charge of rebuilding and reinforcing the fortresses that were damaged, although he knows well that this will be for naught without the support of the people, as Caterina Sforza learned at her own expense when she tried to resist him here—against the will of her own people, who instead welcomed us.” As the castellan speaks he gestures proudly at the vast hall around them, as if it were a trophy.
Niccolò had been in that room before, when he was sent as an envoy and received by Caterina Sforza in the room next door. A robust and pretty blonde, Caterina was a strong and astute negotiator. She sold him infantrymen, gunpowder, and cannonballs in exchange for Florence’s help in fending off Cesare Borgia, a danger she had even then perceived.
