The throne, p.14
The Throne, page 14
She was a courageous woman and, when needed, cruel. She revealed this side of her character when a number of conspirators killed her husband and took her children as hostages in the fortress. She chose to meet with the rogues personally. When they threatened to kill her children, she boldly raised her skirts and showed them her pudendum, saying that there were more children where they came from. She won that battle, reconquered the fortress, and then exacted her vengeance coldly. But she lost to Valentino. Mirafuentes was right: a fortress is not enough without the support of its people.
When they finish their soup, three servants rush over and clear their plates.
“The duke is well-liked because he made it safe for people to live here. Ask anyone, the majority will tell you as much,” the castellan insists.
“I believe that the envoy is already doing that. He’s talking to just about everyone,” the secretary intervenes.
The servants bring out a dish of sturgeon, first boiled and then fried to a crisp, covered with its eggs and a slightly tart sauce.
“His Excellency has a special place in his heart for Romagna,” Mirafuentes says, bringing a large forkful of the fish to his mouth and chewing noisily. “His plan is to make it a place of happiness, the center of his kingdom.”
Niccolò’s chambers in the fortress are located next to the chapel. It’s a spacious apartment, with many rooms. He’s almost certain that it’s the same place where the Mambelli family sought refuge but he thinks it’s probably wise not to ask.
When he’s alone, he chooses a room with a single bed, wondering if this was where Dianora slept. He moves about gingerly, respectfully, as if she had indeed stayed there and he didn’t want to disrupt something that had once belonged to her.
The heavy furniture is made of walnut. As he is unpacking, he takes a false step and falls onto a corner of the dresser; its sharp edge jabs him in the ribs and knocks the wind out of him for a few seconds.
When he catches his breath, he goes over to the window and looks out at the moon. He wonders how long it takes to truly forget the scars of war and change of regime. Even Florence is peaceful in appearance, but he knows that the followers of the Medici family, who were chased out eight years earlier, are numerous and powerful, and that they continue to plot against the Republic. Forlì seems calm, but how can Valentino have won over the hearts of all its inhabitants in only two years’ time?
He lies down on the bed—the moonlight shines through the window—and while the fatigue of the day begins to overcome him and his muscles begin to relax, he thinks about Dianora and how she slept there, about her inner strength despite all that she lived through. The words of Boccaccio come to mind: bocca basciata non perde ventura, anzi rinnuova come fa la luna.1 She has survived, and may well be stronger because of it, but she has been forced to pay a hefty price.
And what of him? He’s full of doubts and painful thoughts. The news that Pier Soderini will probably be gonfalonier for life has shaken him. Damn that ambitious man and his manipulative ways. Damn the Dieci, too, for not realizing that they have a spy in their midst, that they are being duped by a foreign Prince. Damn the people of Florence, whiners and complainers the lot of them, capable of exploding with rage but then forgetting about everything, like a passing storm.
Damn Borgia, that rapist, and his greed for other people’s lands; he’s cruel with the weak and cowardly with the strong; he’s false, self-aggrandizing, and evil. Damn the duke’s father, too, who has never done or thought of anything other than deceiving his fellow man, always finding people who are gullible.
Damn Vitellozzo, whose French sickness is driving him insane; damn all the Orsinis, whose allegiances fluctuate like a weathervane; damn the lord of Fermo who killed his relatives and took their place, damn the incestuous lord of Perugia, and damn the lord of Siena, who is weak and a turncoat; damn the lord of Bologna, who can barely take a step without sinking. Damn everyone these men are connected to, separate from, uncertain about, or cruel with. Damn even those they want to kill.
Damn the Very Christian King of France, who’s just one big chicken thief, concerned only with nabbing other people’s lands and defending himself from other chicken thieves. Damn the Catholic Kings of Spain, the Emperor, and even the Great Turk.
Damn all of Italy, which after all is only a name: hundreds and hundreds of cities incapable of joining together, each one wanting the death of their neighbor more than their own life, always so petty, lacking in greatness, never thinking of the future.
And damn you, too, he says to himself as he falls asleep, you poor sod, from your lowly background and fallen nobility, the offspring of ironmongers; poorer than even your poorest ancestors; so cruel with that unfortunate damsel, interested only in getting information out of her, continuing to do so even though it weighs heavily on you. You, Niccolò, with your coat of arms that depicts iron nails! Nails!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Valentino’s troops spread out like a dark sea across the moonlit fields outside Florence, armor clanking and horses whinnying. Soldiers advance rapidly across fields and through hedges, footsteps muffled by the earth. Thousands of them. Every so often there’s the flash of a lantern.
The troops can see where to go thanks to the light of the moon shining in the dark sky, but it’s not so bright that anyone who sees them from high up on the ramparts could tell just how many of them there are.
But no one sees them. Only Niccolò, and he’s paralyzed with terror. He opens his mouth to scream but no voice comes out, only a long groan.
As the wind whips down from the mountains, he feels the moisture from the rocky walls deep in his bones. He watches as a hundred or more foot soldiers rush the gate at Porta al Prato; someone sends up a flare, an intermittent signal. Ulivieri replies from up high, his skin shining white in the silvery glow. He’s naked except for his unlatched helmet; a large knife is wedged deep in his belly, the blood around the wound is caked and dry.
The bastions to Niccolò’s left crumble softly, as if made of sand. A long crack appears in the protective stone wall, splitting it open and extending like lightning, creating deep gouges in the earth from which shoot tall, fiery flames.
He sees the Arno to his right—even though he knows it can’t possibly be there as it flows on the other side—teeming with boats crowded with Swiss mercenaries, their pikes poking forward like the quills of a porcupine, the river itself a black and bloody gash in the defenseless body of the city.
The bells toll and toll. He glances behind him: enemy forces have already entered the city, soldiers engage in battle around him. A horrifying tangle of human bodies tear at each other like snakes, fighting with spears and hatchets and swords.
He shivers, then looks down at his hands and sees he is entirely defenseless, with neither weapons nor armor. He’s standing in a deep puddle of foul water. The gonfalonier lies on the ground, his throat slit, his mouth twisted in an obscene snarl. Niccolò doesn’t dare approach the body as people might think he killed the man.
A woman’s shrill scream makes him spin around, a girl with long red hair; she is struggling to free herself from a terrifying man in black armor who has pushed her up against the bastion and is tearing her clothes off, with the intention of raping her. To defend herself she has managed to jab a small hook into his neck and blood spurts everywhere.
Niccolò would like to step between them but he can’t move, he can’t react, he’s in the throes of agony.
The woman tugs on the hook. She and the man tumble into the putrid water.
He doesn’t have the strength to watch so he looks elsewhere. Farther down the ramparts, in a bed surrounded by green curtains, under white sheets and a red blanket, he sees Marietta and Primerana: silent, pale, and desperate. Enormous black rats scurry around the bed, in and out of the water, trying to claw their way up the blankets. He wants to run toward them but cannot.
Behind him, Florence is on fire. Flames shoot out the windows and doorways of the stately buildings, their great wooden portals smashed in. People try and put out the fires but the wind constantly revives them.
Now the man who’s been stabbed with the hook turns around and stares at Niccolò, who tries to keep his distance. Suddenly, Niccolò feels a smooth rope tighten around his neck, then someone hammers a nail into his temple. He falls to the ground and is dragged by the feet through the water. He holds a sharp scythe in his right hand and swipes out at the air around him, trying to free himself. He is overcome by an unknown and invisible strength; his arm turns onto himself, the blade sinks into his ribcage, slices him open, his ribs crack, the wound grows deeper, a man screams in pain.
His own voice wakes him up, he’s covered in sweat, it feels like the nightmare has not yet ended. He waves both hands in front of him to banish it, chase it away, but it overtakes him. The only thing he can use to defend himself is that tiny hook of reason. He reaches for it and yanks on it with all his might.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The vivid dream and the fear that something serious is about to happen stay with him as he gets dressed. Sunlight distances the ghosts, but they don’t disappear entirely. Only when he steps outside into the street does the cold brisk morning air chase them away for good.
As he continues on in his journey, Niccolò notices that the fields that extend between Forlì and Cesena have not been ploughed in a very long time. This means that farmers won’t be able to sow new seeds, the time for which is fast approaching. Niccolò knows the names of all the plants on his land in Albergaccio. Some of them were passed down to him from his father: Little Mandolin, Always Loaded, Marvelous. He understands the soil. He gets off his horse to pick up a handful, crumbles it, and lets it fall through his fingers. It’s healthy and rich in nutrients, so why aren’t they working it?
He stops for lunch at the humble home of some farmers. The house sits between an oak and linden tree and is protected by a weathered wooden fence.
The head of the household is a bald man with gentle eyes, around fifty, his skin wrinkled and dark from working outdoors. His wife is younger; she has a round, wide face and her hair is still black. Three sons, their wives, and children live there too. All the family members are emaciated. Seeing such gaunt children makes Niccolò deeply sad.
The woman welcomes him warmly. She gladly sets a place for him at the table so he can regain his strength and continue onward. Her husband invites him to sit on a bench, while children and grandchildren gather around. His wife blows on the ashes in the fireplace to get the fire going, shucks some beans, and puts them on to cook.
They bring out a few small terracotta amphorae with two kinds of olives, some cheese and bread. The woman then sets down some eggs that have been cooking in the embers, together with a basket of sweet-smelling apples and grapes. They serve him water from the well. Niccolò feels like he has never eaten such good food. Time passes quickly as he engages in conversation with these good people.
“Why are the fields around here left fallow? The soil is good, I myself have a farm in Tuscany and know about such things.”
“Because we don’t have any grain,” the man says both sadly and cautiously.
“Why not?”
“There’s none to be found . . . ”
Niccolò perceives that the man is both embarrassed and wary about saying too much. Someone must be hoarding grain. “But the landowners, surely they have grain . . . ” he says gently.
The head of the family nods slowly. “Yes, but they pay a great deal for it and are not willing to share it.”
Without saying anything specific, he has told him everything. Someone is definitely stockpiling grain and reselling it at an impossibly high price. It can only be the governor, Ramiro de Lorqua, an able soldier—and thief. Niccolò says no more. He doesn’t want to embarrass these kind folk.
“Ramiro the Ogre hides the grain and only sells it to certain people,” one of the sons blurts out. “Meanwhile, we’re dying of hunger.”
The father looks at his son uneasily and then back at Niccolò. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Of course, I promise. I know how to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I’m only passing through.”
Borgia knows how to pick his soldiers but not his administrators, he thinks.
He would like to pay for the lunch and takes some coins out of his pouch. They look at the money, it’s an immense amount for them and would make their life much easier, but they don’t accept it. Niccolò tries to insist but is unsuccessful. They accompany him to his horse and say their warm goodbyes. He knows he will never see them again and yet he already feels close to them. It’s hard to say farewell.
When he gets to the fence, he’s tempted to leave a florin on the gate post but then he decides against it. He truly doesn’t want to offend them.
The outline of Cesena lies ahead, faded yellow in the late afternoon light.
Suddenly, a cloud of dust appears ahead: three riders, galloping fast toward him, take up the entire road.
He observes them as they approach. They’re wearing light armor and no helmets, their swords hang by their sides. Leading the group is a broad-shouldered man, around fifty, with long hair and a keenly intense gaze.
Niccolò is careful not to stare and rides over to the side of the road to let them pass, but they slow down and come to a brusque stop in front of him. From under the horses’ hooves, pebbles shoot every which way. The cloud of dust is swept away by the wind.
The rider with the long hair hints at a salute. His face is chiseled and he has a muscular build. Niccolò notices a long scar running down his cheek.
It’s Ramiro de Lorqua; he has come out to greet him. When Niccolò last changed horses, someone must have recognized him and alerted the governor. He looks bold, even brazen. His recent defeats don’t seem to have disturbed him at all.
While Niccolò is pondering the reason for this encounter with Valentino’s right hand man—he helped the duke conquer Romagna and is in charge of a vast territory, with much to do and steal—the knight holds out a sealed, personal message from Cesare. It has reached him via a series of messengers. Niccolò opens it and immediately recognizes the handwriting.
Niccolò, we trust you are enjoying your journey through Romagna. We kindly ask you to indulge us and grant the Governor the same trust and faith you have placed in us and spend an hour with him. Allow him to conduct you to a particular location, after which you may return to the path that most suits you.
In expectation of your news and return, and with salutations . . . .
He signs with his first name only. A swirly arabesque: the S in Cesare elongated and intersecting with a flourish on the C, which arches over his name like a scythe.
Niccolò glances at de Lorqua, who looks at him dutifully. The governor knows—he has been informed—that Niccolò doesn’t want to be guided anywhere, but it would appear that de Lorqua desperately wants to show the envoy something that would otherwise be inaccessible to him, reserved only for soldiers: the stronghold of Cesena. He points up at it. It sits at the very top of the hill town and has thick new walls built in the French style, made to resist cannon balls.
From up there, he will be able to see the entire valley, the plains, the distant hills, and as far as the sea; surely such a view will be of great interest to the traveler.
De Lorqua has a playful but mischievous manner. Niccolò accepts the invitation, but continues to wonder why it is so important to Valentino.
The fortress holds a unique position from which they can see far off into the distance. The large inner courtyard is crowded with tents. It would appear that two armies of archers are camped out there, which means that Borgia also has men in Cesena. He clearly wants Niccolò to see this and the Republic to know it. But Niccolò is not there only for that.
From the highest point of the fortress, under the clear blue sky, everything looks so still and within reach. The sea shines on the horizon like a shiny strip of metal.
Niccolò takes in the recently reinforced walls. Florence can’t afford such massive protection. De Lorqua informs him that not even the newest weapons can break through such walls. Cesena will become the capital of the Duchy, and the fortress will one day be the powerful heart of the city. He describes Valentino’s ambitious plans: new frescoes for the churches; a university for the study of the liberal arts, engineering, and medicine; a vast library.
He points to a large building down below, which, together with several adjacent to it, is entirely covered with scaffolding. It looks like a spiderweb or an intricate forest of poles, and workers swarm across it.
“That’s where His Excellency will transfer his court. His wife and daughter, Luisa, will join him there. It will be his royal palace. As you can see, he is uniting and enlarging several adjoining large homes.”
De Lorqua then traces a line with his finger toward the coast, stopping at a dark spot that’s barely perceptible on the horizon. “That’s Cesenatico, our port city. The duke wants to make it more efficient, and Maestro da Vinci will take care of that. The entry to the canal was almost filled with sand but it is now accessible. And commerce with the East is flourishing again.”
The governor touches his right shoulder and says that a scar from an old battle wound aches, a sign that tomorrow it will rain. Niccolò glances skeptically at the azure sky, it’s hard to believe. De Lorqua insists, he’s certain of it, he’s never been wrong. The man then points to an area slightly inland and tells Niccolò to look carefully. “That, over there, is the Rubicon, which Julius Caesar crossed with his army when he set out to conquer Rome.”
Niccolò stares hard at the spot. He knows about that historic moment from his studies, how it marked the end of the Republic and the beginning of the empire, but he never actually set eyes on the Rubicon. Although he doesn’t believe that places have spirits, the way the ancient Romans did, he has to admit he feels a presence in the air. It must be his imagination, he thinks, and brushes away the thought.
