The throne, p.15
The Throne, page 15
“His Excellency went there in late summer. He spent the night on the river’s edge, just thinking. He told me that he had an important dream while he was there.”
“A dream?”
“Yes, he didn’t say much more than that, except that it had to do with a prophesy an oracle once revealed to his father. Have you heard the story?”
“No.”
“When the Pope was still a boy, the oracle told him that he would give birth to the king of Italy.”
Of Italy no less, Niccolò thinks to himself.
“When my Lordship went to the Rubicon, he took a book with him which I would like to present to you as a gift.”
De Lorqua hands him a volume bound in thick leather with gilt decorations. It’s Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, a text that Niccolò has long desired but could never afford.
He once saw a far less valuable copy, when he was twenty, in the library of his teacher, Marcello Adriani, now the Head Secretary of the Dieci, the man who signs their letters. He recalls the feel of the paper, how it practically crumbled in his fingers, not at all like this magnificent edition.
Niccolò holds the book in the palm of his hand. A bookmark decorated with the symbol for good fortune causes it to open to the section that has to do with Caesar and his passage across the Rubicon.
The following day Niccolò rides toward the sea in the pouring rain. He had wanted to go to Cesenatico but he lost his way during the violent thunderstorm. Then he caught sight of the sea. He stopped to remove his beautiful mantle, which he folded up and stored in his saddlebag, and put on his old black tabard, which kept him dry.
Although it is not raining that hard along the coast, the sky out at sea is as black as night, even though it’s not yet midday. High waves, whipped by the wind, crash in dark metallic colors. The sound of the surf as it pounds the sand fills his ears.
Niccolò has never seen the Adriatic before, and only saw the Tyrrhenian two years earlier—he was, after all, born inland—when he was sent to oversee one of the many phases of the endless attack on Pisa. He had been impressed but not to any excessive degree: he had never been terribly swayed by the marvels of nature. But now he finds the sea truly awe inspiring.
Bobbing about on the tall waves, less than a quarter of a mile out to sea, is a small boat. Three fishermen, surprised by the storm, are struggling. He can’t quite discern what they’re doing. Slowly he realizes that they’re trying to bail out the water that has collected in the bottom of the boat. Three small men against Nature.
Unable to do anything to help them and realizing their lives are in danger, he is distressed, but at the same time he finds their suffering fascinating to watch from where he stands at a safe distance.
He knows that sooner or later he, too, will encounter dangers, and that other people will look on who won’t be able to help him. Like those fishermen, he will find himself at the mercy of something decisive, as impersonal and eternal as nature, something that decides the destiny of mankind: war, peace, the rise and fall of our lives. Will he be strong enough? Will he get by with only the virtues he possesses? Will he be lucky enough to survive?
He approaches the water’s edge, which is somewhat dangerous because the wind and raging seas could easily drag him out, but he can’t resist. If he could get closer to the fishermen, he feels like he might be able to save them.
He watches, holding his breath. The wind grows stronger, forcing itself deep into his lungs, the rain and saltwater splash up from the surf, slap his face and fill his mouth and nose. If he could see himself, he would perceive his tense expression, as if the future had already arrived, and it was indeed terrible, and he was struggling to survive.
The boat splits in two. He sees the two parts separating. The small figures are thrown into the water.
He cries out in horror but the sound vanishes in the howling wind.
Two of the fishermen manage to grab onto the larger portion of the boat and hold on for dear life, bobbing up and down on the waves.
The third man disappears below the waves.
The storm moves up into the Apennines, the sky clears, and soon only a few scattered clouds are left in the sky.
The luminous water of the Rubicon flows slowly past the grassy shore. Niccolò watches the river from the parapet of the three-arched Roman bridge, which was built after Julius Caesar crossed it. No, the bridge wasn’t there that fateful January night when the general decided to challenge Rome and become its king.
Niccolò clambers down the banks to the water’s edge, making his way between the trees and thick clusters of reeds. A water snake glides by. Two geese fly overhead. This is how it must have been in Caesar’s time. He sits on a tree trunk with his copy of Parallel Lives. The wind blows hard, he feels the moisture in the air, and he begins to daydream.
Back then, Rome was poorly governed, bordering on anarchy. Two men grew in strength thanks to their armies, who were scattered across the lands dominated by the Republic: Caesar and Pompey. Each man wanted to kill the other. Pompey had more soldiers and was certain that he would be able to manipulate the Senate.
Caesar, then fifty years old, returning from his conquest of Gaul, reached the Rubicon with a single army. In those days, Roman generals were not allowed to cross the river with their militias; it was tantamount to insurrection. Caesar stopped by the river’s edge and sent the Senate and Pompey an offer, which was moderate and balanced, at least on paper, and designed to confuse them.
It occurs to Niccolò that Borgia did the very same thing with Florence and is currently doing it with Vitelli and the other mercenaries. Perhaps Borgia has taken inspiration from the man he considers his predecessor or maybe subterfuge just comes naturally to him.
Unlike the Florentines, who pretended to welcome Valentino’s offer, Caesar’s enemies in Rome turned him down and chased his representatives out of the city, forcing them to flee dressed as slaves, frightened for their lives, thereby providing Caesar with the pretext he had been hoping for.
Niccolò opens the book and reads the lines of Plutarch that reach across the space of fifteen centuries.2
Now, Caesar had with him not more than three hundred horsemen and five thousand legionaries . . .
Less than half of what Borgia commands, Niccolò observes.
. . . for the rest of his army had been left beyond the Alps, and was to be brought up by those whom he had sent for the purpose.
Just like the reinforcements that Valentino was waiting for from France.
He saw, however . . .
However . . .
He saw, however, that his enterprise did not at first require a large force. Rather, it must take advantage of the golden moment, showing boldness and speed. He was more likely to terrify his enemies with an unexpected strike than by overwhelming them with full force.
And yet he decided to press on.
He himself spent the day in public, attending and watching the exercises of gladiators
The parades, processions, the bullfight . . .
but a little before evening he bathed and dressed and went into the banqueting hall. Here he held brief converse with those who had been invited to supper, and just as it was getting dark and went away, after addressing courteously most of his guests and bidding them await his return. To a few of his friends, however, he had previously given directions to follow him, not all by the same route, but some by one way and some by another.
. . . soldiers camped out all across the land.
He himself mounted one of his hired carts and drove at first along another road, then turned towards Rimini. When he came to the river which separates Cisalpine Gaul from the rest of Italy (the Rubicon), and began to reflect, now that he drew nearer to the fearful step and was agitated by the magnitude of his ventures, he checked his speed.
Then, halting in his course, he communed with himself a long time in silence as his resolution wavered back and forth, and his purpose then suffered change after change. For a long time, too, he discussed his perplexities with his friends who were present.
Who knows if Borgia is even capable of changing his mind. He certainly doesn’t confide in anyone and never seems to ask advice from anyone.
. . . estimating the great evils for all mankind which would follow their passage of the river, and the wide fame of it which they would leave to posterity. But finally, with a sort of passion, as if abandoning calculation and casting himself upon the future, and uttering the phrase with which men usually prelude their plunge into desperate and daring fortunes, ‘Let the die be cast,’ he hastened to cross the river; and going at full speed now for the rest of the time, before daybreak he dashed into Rimini and took possession of it.
It is said, moreover, that on the night before he crossed the river he had an unnatural dream; he thought, namely, that he was having incestuous intercourse with his own mother.
So that’s why the duke said he had a dream! Such is the degree to which he identifies with the great soldier after whom he was named . . .
Niccolò wonders if Borgia came to the river’s edge to consecrate his idea of becoming king of Tuscany and all of Italy. In much the same way that Julius Caesar made a peace offering while simultaneously preparing for war, perhaps Borgia thought that a surprise attack under the cover of night, aided only by the light of the moon, would be the best way to end the Republic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Niccolò rides swiftly back the way he came. The black horse they gave him is strong, agile, sensitive, intelligent—a true joy to ride. He sets out at a gallop. He’s traveled a great deal in the name of the Republic and always in a hurry, but this time he is rushing back because he is impatient to see Dianora. Now that he has seen where she lived, he feels incredibly close to her.
In his exuberance, he rides the horse off the beaten path and across the flatlands, the black steed responding quickly to all his desires. Niccolò whoops with pleasure to ride so fast, he stands in his stirrups, then sits again; he feels at one with the sensitive steed, a centaur.
He sees a row of vines. Instead of avoiding the obstacle, he rushes toward it. The black horse gallops hard, with precision and care; in the instant that Niccolò conceives of and signals the command, the horse leaps off the ground and lightly and effortlessly clears the row of vines, landing a good distance ahead. But when the horse’s front hooves sink a little into the earth, Niccolò almost loses his balance, his body still hurtling forward from the jump. He quickly realizes that he shouldn’t have taken such a big risk, and his heart starts to beat wildly in his chest. Slowly, reason returns to him and he goes back to trotting safely along the path for carts and merchants.
He thinks about Dianora. He will need to meet secretly with her again to obtain further information, and this worries him because she expects so much from him. He will have to encourage her, he will have to keep deceiving her. He knows it’s his duty, but it will also expose her to even greater risks than the ones she is currently running.
Should he keep his distance? It would be safer for her but more dangerous for Florence. And yet, Dianora wants nothing more than to hurt Valentino, and has every right to feel that way. Essentially, it is a race against time. Although Borgia seems to be charmed by her now, as soon as he tires of her, he might have her killed. Then again, he might not. It’s hard to say. Apparently, other girls that he has captured during his sieges are still alive. He may even keep other spoils of war scattered around other cities in Romagna.
Her beauty is her condemnation. When she walks into a room, even the air itself lights up. In this, her strength is also her weakness.
As he indulges in recalling her physical traits, he notices that he has unconsciously crossed a line: he has always been careful about not getting too attached to any one woman, precisely because he is so attracted to the fairer sex. This was the case even with Marietta. He knew that he would be able to live with her, thereby guaranteeing her the stability that is expected from both husband and father, only if he were able to keep his deeper sentiments under control. But with Dianora, this is not easy. She has broken through his defenses. He doesn’t desire her anymore—how could he possibly?—he feels the power of her spirit. He wishes he could protect her, but that’s both impossible and dangerous. She could lead him to make a mistake, and he simply can’t let himself lose control of the situation. He must remember to use her only as much as she is needed for his mission and keep his distance.
Never let your guard down, Niccolò tells himself. Valentino is always watching. He has been watching this whole time from Imola, manipulating Niccolò even though he promised him complete freedom. Borgia is like a spider weaving a web, day in and day out: first with the secretary of the castellan, who waited for him in Forlì and forced him to accept his hospitality; then through the message sent to Cesena and Ramiro de Lorqua, who addressed him by his first name; then by placing the book by Plutarch in his hands. Nothing was done by chance. Valentino was capable of manipulating Niccolò’s thoughts so that he would write what the prince wanted. Dianora was right when she said to be careful and not to trust him.
The black horse is drenched with sweat; lather has formed on its shoulders, neck and even its head. Its breathing comes rapidly and raucously. Niccolò pats the horse with gratitude and it flicks its ear and nickers. Soon Niccolò arrives at the post house where he will spend the night. He dismounts, leaves the horse in the care of the stablemen, asks for some food, and continues to wonder . . . Had he been tricked into sleeping in the room where Dianora’s family had stayed? Was he being tested? Had someone been following him? No, he’s almost certain that this was not the case. He had been very careful, especially in Forlì. Maybe it had been a mistake to accept Borgia’s invitation and travel through Romagna. There could be consequences for him later on. The letter that Valentino had sent to him in Cesena was surely copied into the archives of the Duchy, as dictated by protocol. It would come out sooner or later, and it could be used against him when he returns to Florence. If it does, he’ll need to invent an excuse to give to Soderini. He’ll need to say that he was indulging the Prince’s whims, which also allowed him to move freely through Romagna and observe how many troops he had in the various cities.
Even worse, the people in Florence might learn that he agreed to write a biography of the duke and use this against him. If that were to happen, Niccolò would say that he played along with Borgia, and even encouraged him, so that he could gain his confidence and find out his secrets, that he was just following the gonfalonier’s orders. The worst thing that could happen is that they ask him to return the money he received from the duke. While this would certainly be unfortunate, he would get over it. Once poor, always poor. The only problem was that he had already spent a fair amount of it.
Niccolò sits at a table on one side of the room. The roast veal is tasty and cooked to perfection, but he barely savors it because of his concerns. Suddenly, it dawns on him that he must leave Imola as quickly as possible. He needs to request to be summoned back to Florence.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Niccolò is unaware that a tough-looking man of about forty is watching him.
The man approaches and sits down. “How’s the food, Chancellor?” he whispers.
Niccolò almost chokes on a morsel and spits it out.
“Don’t worry! If I had wanted to poison you, you’d already be dead. I’ve been waiting for you for two days. I knew you would come through here on your way back to Imola,” the man says.
Niccolò regains his composure and peers with curiosity at the stranger. The man glances around the room. The other diners are all far away, but he lowers his voice just the same.
“I need to speak to you in private. My name is Fosco Tinardeschi. I used to fight for Valentino.”
Even though Niccolò has never met him, he knows the name. They say he’s a soldier of exceptional courage and fights for Vitellozzo. Why is he in enemy territory?
They take their conversation outside, under a tree, where they are somewhat concealed by darkness.
“I fought hard for Borgia under the leadership of my condottiere, Vitelli. But like him and many others I have had to distance myself from Cesare. The man is a fiend, a dragon, we were afraid that he would devour us all, one after the other. Instead, we chose to band together to fight him. And now we’re winning.”
“You are?”
“Yes! You must have heard how he lost Urbino. We’re getting stronger every day, even around here, where he thinks he’s in control. You have no idea how easy it is to travel in secrecy down the backroads, how many people here in Romagna are ready to rebel . . . ”
“I learned that many people appreciate him.”
Tinardeschi shrugs. “It’s easy to trick people, but when Valentino loses his next battle, they’ll come to their senses, and shift their allegiances to our side. We’ll attack him when and where he least expects it. By the end of the year he’ll be gone. We already have a strong enough army to do it. He himself fears us.”
“Perhaps you underestimate him.”
“No. The timing is perfect. I come to you because we want to offer your Republic a second chance at joining forces with us against him. We think you’ll accept when you see what we are capable of.”
“Second chance? When was the first one?”
“More than a month ago. Didn’t you know? Well, it doesn’t matter. Write to the gonfalonier or to the Dieci and tell them you met with me today. I represent everyone fighting against Borgia.”
