The throne, p.19
The Throne, page 19
Valentino is almost pleased by the news. “Good, Miguel! Sack and burn the villages! That will serve as an example and will rouse the soldiers’ spirits.”
He turns to Niccolò. As if dictating, he says, “It’s healthy when a conquered town fights back, much in the same way that certain illnesses, when well cured, make the organism stronger.”
He looks at Corella. “Show no pity. Raze the buildings to the ground, hang all rebel leaders, and slaughter their families.”
He turns back to Niccolò. “Rebels need to be punished swiftly. That’s how you keep your kingdom.”
Niccolò is stunned. As Borgia goes back to issuing orders to don Miguel on how and when and where to strike, Niccolò compares the man’s lucid ferocity with the dithering and irresolute conduct of the Dieci and I-have-faith, and thinks back to how especially ineffective the leaders were at the revolt of Arezzo, the summer before. They didn’t punish the city for rebelling, they left the walls intact, they sent in additional troops, and ordered the noblemen of Arezzo to come to Florence for a scolding. Talk instead of action. Words alone cannot keep the Republic standing.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Niccolò is distracted. The duke finishes giving instructions to Corella, who starts to leave, and the duke is now addressing him again.
“We were discussing what it means to do battle when we were interrupted. I want you to understand what I’m talking about, and experience is the best instructor. Miguel!”
Corella, already at the door, turns back. “Yes, my lord.”
“Before you leave, send me a fifer and a drummer. The best ones.”
Niccolò looks with curiosity at Valentino. What is he thinking?
“Follow me,” Cesare says and walks over to the balcony.
They step out into the bright sunshine. The two crossbowmen who stand at either end automatically raise their weapons and point them out at the plains.
Below, beyond the dry ditch, obeying the signals relayed to them by the fife and drum corps, are four companies of one hundred men. They’re simulating a deep attack against a hillock that is being defended, for the sake of the exercise, by two hundred soldiers spread out in five rows. The assailants advance in close-knit ranks, one after the next.
“Those men are all subjects of mine from Romagna, they’re the same men you saw marching in a disorganized manner under your window. They were farmers, with no experience of weapons. I entrusted them to my best trainers and now, in less than a month, they move as a compact unit. Look at how they immediately recognize the signals that are being communicated to them. Can you see? Each company has its own fifer and drummer, near the flag-bearer. Can you hear the beat of that drum? It’s from that company, the one farthest away, down there. That sound means: turn to the right. And do you hear the fifer? That means: to the attack.”
Niccolò watches as the troops indicated by Borgia change direction and begin to rush up the hill. Other signals directed to troops on the opposite side have them bend to the left and begin running up the hill. The two central groups maintain the pace. Then they, too, initiate a swift attack, following different signals.
“That’s the flanking maneuver, and it wasn’t terribly well executed. But they will improve. Soon I will be able to send them into battle and they will fight honorably.”
Niccolò realizes that Valentino is capably transforming simple peasants into his own private militia. He wonders whether Florence might ever do the same.
There’s the sound of footsteps behind them. The drummer and fifer have arrived.
“Do you want to try and control the troops, Niccolò? I will order them to follow the commands issued from up here. You merely have to tell the musicians where you want them to go and your commands will be translated into music.”
“I truly do not think I am capable, Your Excellency.”
“Try! It costs you nothing!”
Before he can even answer, Valentino has told the fifer and drummer to issue a command to the entire company: stop, listen, and prepare for commands to be executed as one unit.
“They’re all yours,” Cesare says, gesturing to the soldiers who have interrupted their assault exercise and are busily recomposing their ranks, only slightly ruffled after their running.
“What should I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stop wasting time.”
“I would like the troops to go around the hillock and approach one side of those who are defending it.”
“All together or one at a time?” the drummer asks him.
“All together.”
The drummer beats loudly on his drum, echoing from above, and the sound of the fife flies through the air over the plains. The four groups do an about-face, retreat about a hundred meters, shift their formation, and recompose themselves.
Then the music of the drummer and fifer changes. The four hundred soldiers obey.
Niccolò observes how the dark mass advances like a single person. He feels loftily surprised that he was the one who made it happen, almost noble. Something deeply primordial rises up inside him.
Borgia watches him attentively, judging him. “Are you beginning to understand what it means to be in command?”
Niccolò nods.
“There’s nothing quite like this feeling,” Valentino adds.
Niccolò, thrilled, issues another order for the musicians. “To the attack!”
The two men hesitate and glance at the duke.
“You want them to attack now?” Cesare asks to be certain and with some amusement.
“Now. Yes.”
Valentino smiles and turns to the drummer and fifer. “Obey him.”
There’s a fast roll of the drums, a shrill whistle from the fifer, and the troops rush forward in unison. The first line sinks into the ditch. A few of them clamber out, but before they can all emerge, the second line is already on top of them. Then the third line closes in and the soldiers fall together in a shapeless heap. The men in the final row stop short and lose formation.
Borgia bursts out laughing. “Didn’t you see the ditch?”
“No . . . ”
At a gesture from the duke, the fifer and drummer stop. Cesare can’t stop laughing. It’s contagious and soon Niccolò is laughing, too. The crossbowmen and players try not to chuckle but have a hard time of it.
“Do you know that those men think that I gave the order?”
Niccolò is mortified. He turns serious again.
“Don’t worry! It’s not serious! We’ll say it was that idiot of an ambassador from Ferrara, that I let him command briefly to please my sister, the Duchess, Her Ladyship,” Valentino says, laughing again. “I’m grateful for the distraction, thank you.” The duke wipes away a few tears and issues terse orders to the two musicians. The drummer drums, the fifer fifes. In the blink of an eye, the soldiers retreat. Those who fell down jump to their feet, and the rows are recomposed.
“Companies in line,” Borgia orders.
The men get line up.
“Half-moon formation.”
The mass of soldiers assumes the shape of a scythe.
“Advance at top speed.”
Dust rises from eight hundred feet running at the same time across the plain.
“Faster.”
The dust cloud grows thicker.
“Bend the tip of the half-moon toward the hillock, have the rest of the army follow. At the attack.”
The scythe attacks in one point only, cutting through the lines of defense. The two groups mix together.
Cesare looks over at Niccolò, who is watching in admiration.
“That’s what a commander can do. If this were a real battle, from this moment on everything would depend on the soldiers, as I was saying earlier.” He turns to the drummer and fifer. “Beat the retreat,” he orders. Then Cesare looks at Niccolò. “And you go back to your desk; it’s better for everyone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Niccolò hurries back to his study filled with the emotion of commanding the troops. He feels like he’s flying over the Rocca, over Imola, over all of Romagna, the same way he felt when he looked at Leonardo’s map. His gaze takes in the lands around him, Tuscany, all of Italy; he revels in the fact that their country is desired by Louis XII, the Pope, and Valentino. Nothing good can ever come from the Church or France, but Cesare, on the other hand . . .
This is a man who knows how to fight—and how to win. Does he really have the wellbeing of Italy at heart? Dianora says he doesn’t but she could be wrong. Niccolò saw firsthand how his judges execute their roles fairly. Of course, if the duke were on trial they wouldn’t dare condemn him, but he is just with his subjects. And the majority of the people hold him in high esteem. Yes, he’s a killer, but his cruelty can be used for both good and bad. It’s true he had his brother, Giovanni, and his brother-in-law killed, but now he has the strongest army in central Italy and exerts control over a huge territory. Yes, he’s unscrupulous—he just can’t help himself—but he has a plan.
Hasn’t Rome always been ruthless? Hasn’t Rome always done far worse, ever since it came into being? The Romans never forgave their enemies. They never hesitated to spill blood whenever necessary.
He enters the study, glances at the window, and thinks of Dianora. He imagines her face, her gestures, the intimacies she shared with him, all her suffering, and he feels ashamed of considering Cesare’s aspirations the least bit noble. It’s as if he has betrayed her merely with the thought.
He rushes to the window, opens it, and leans out. Dianora’s room is dark. He waits for a long time, ducking back in each time someone passes below.
Dianora doesn’t come to the window.
Back at the inn, late that night, an exhausted messenger arrives with the gonfalonier’s reply. No change in plan, not for now. Niccolò’s task remains the same as when he left: propose an alliance with Valentino but do it slowly, while continuing to spy on him.
In normal ink, I-have-faith asks him to pursue the issue of Silvestro de’ Buosi, as if he were a very important figure. He does not know that the prisoner will never be freed.
As Niccolò reads the missive, he feels unease and anger building inside of him. He tastes bitterness in his mouth, as if he had been poisoned. It’s clear that Vexillifer Perpetuus is going to continue with this tactic of delays—although Niccolò isn’t entirely sure why—and that he will never consider forming an alliance with Spain.
Night falls and Niccolò can’t sleep. He dips his pen in the invisible ink and rapidly composes an epigram that he writes down on white paper. The lines disappear as soon as his words take shape.
La notte che morì Pier Soderini,
l’alma n’andò de l’Inferno a la bocca;
e Pluto le gridò: “Anima sciocca,
che Inferno? Va’ nel Limbo tra’ bambini.”5
CHAPTER THIRTY
RES GESTÆ CÆSARIS
The early conquests of Valentino in Romagna:
the siege of Imola and Forlì
A number of great achievements took place at the end of 1499. In December, Valentino, unifying soldiers from the armies of the King of France and the Church, marched into Romagna. The city of Imola surrendered immediately, as did most of Forlì, although not the stronghold, which Caterina Sforza was determined to defend, rallying her men for support and relying on stockpiles of munitions . . .
Niccolò stops writing. The moment he has most been fearing has arrived: he has to write about the fall of the fortress in Forlì. The words don’t come easily. Dianora has told him what happened and he doesn’t want to betray the painful secrets she shared with him. Anteo Nuffi wouldn’t hesitate to do so, but then again, he would stab his own mother with a pen if needed. He would probably even enjoy it. But Niccolò is different.
He also has a clear task to perform, and if he doesn’t do it right he won’t be able to continue with his mission. What words should he use? He knows that truth can be dressed in many ways, that you can say one thing and that it can be interpreted in an opposite way, but he hesitates. His sense of duty is at odds with his sentiments.
He recalls how Dianora spoke to him in the sacristy; he can’t write anything that will sully her. Only through omission can he respect her. He will find something else to write about, and it won’t be hard to fill the pages. He thinks back to Caterina Sforza and how he met with her in Forlì when he was sent there as an envoy. He will write about her, Cesare’s enemy. There’s a great deal to say because she was so many things all at once: vulgar and refined, sensual and erudite. He will describe her greatness while also celebrating Valentino. Dignifying the enemy does not diminish the protagonist, after all.
Niccolò learned this important lesson when he was around ten years old. Before he figured out how to avoid church, his mother, Bartolomea, who always smelled so wonderfully clean, used to send him to Mass. Once, a priest spoke about a passage from the Gospel according to John—or was it Mark?—in which Jesus is questioned by Pontius Pilate. The priest’s words stayed with him. The prefect of Judea, who held the power of deciding the prisoner’s life or death, asked him if it is true what people say: Are you the King of the Jews? To admit to the crime was equivalent to a death sentence as it meant he was contrary to the emperor of Rome. At first, Christ hesitated and then he admitted it: You said as much; I am King. It was the Gospel of John, Niccolò recalls. It could have all ended there: Jesus admitted to the crime and condemnation was unavoidable. But then Jesus added that he was born to bear witness to the truth, and that people on the side of truth would hear his words.
The final decision on the matter fell to the enemy, Pontius Pilate. Quid est veritas? he asked. What is truth? It is a question that has no answer. In fact, not even Christ could reply.
If an apostle had written about this in a text dedicated to the glory of the Messiah, Niccolò could do something similar for Caterina Sforza—and indirectly for Dianora—without detracting from Cesare in any way.
He’s about to pick up his pen and start writing when he hears something outside the door. By now, he has come to recognize the man’s footstep and even his way of knocking.
“Rodriguez, is that you?”
“Yes, Envoy. The duke would like to see you.”
“Now?” he says, opening the door.
“That is what he said.”
The north wind scatters dead leaves far and wide.
Niccolò wonders why he has been summoned at this unusual hour and imagines that Valentino must need something urgently from Florence. He puzzles over what it could possibly be.
He knows that I-have-faith’s choice to prolong his strategy of evasion will not protect the city forever. Attacks might be temporarily postponed because of the snow, which normally falls heavily on the Apennines in December. As long as the duke doesn’t make his move beforehand . . . As long as the winter isn’t a mild one . . .
When he reaches the open space in front of the Rocca, he observes the mountain of scaffolding around the theater. They’re busy stuccoing and painting and filling in the fissures in the construction. His thoughts go to Dianora. Maybe he will see her again. Finally. His mood lifts.
With a great show of formality, a servant opens the door to the great hall and steps aside so that Niccolò can enter. He catches a glimpse of Dianora: her skirt and petticoat are in disarray and she looks deeply unhappy. As she slides off the stone table, he notices the blue of her stockings, which have been lowered down to her knees, and the fair skin of her thighs. Borgia is standing with his back to Niccolò, facing the window. He’s arranging something under his doublet.
Instinctively, Niccolò backs up to leave, but the servant has already shut the door behind him.
Dianora shuffles across the room, near the wall, her eyes downcast. She coughs repeatedly, her eyes are shiny and feverish. Niccolò feels deep pain for her. If it were possible, he would take her in his arms and console her.
She disappears down the corridor, still coughing. The duke turns to Niccolò.
“Ah, you’re already here? I expected you a little later.”
“I came as soon as I received your message.”
Cesare sits down in one of the stone chairs and indicates the other to Niccolò.
He obeys. They sit face to face. Between them is the table on which Dianora had just been forced to lay. A book of poems rests on the surface.
“Have your people in Florence made up their minds?” Borgia asks, scrutinizing him.
How can Niccolò keep buying time? “You said it yourself, Your Highness. In a republic, the decisions are made by many. This explains why they still haven’t let me know anything about your offer of alliance.”
“That may be, but I feel obliged to tell you that now Vitelli and the others seek peace and friendship with me . . . ”
Niccolò feigns surprise. Valentino goes on.
“They, too, are numerous, so negotiations with them are also taking some time. Everyone has a different opinion and they can’t come to an agreement. They have yet to agree on all the details of our accord. Vitelli is giving himself airs, and so is the lord of Bologna. Paolo Orsini is trying to convince them but may not succeed. It would be good if Florence acted swiftly, if your reply arrived before theirs.”
“I, too, hope for this.”
“What exactly seems to be the difficulty? As I see it, we can be friends in a general way or in a specific way. Generally speaking, I already consider myself your friend and I hope you feel the same way about me. However, we need to become friends specifically . . . ”
Where is Borgia going with this conversation? The duke gets to his feet and starts pacing back and forth, talking freely and dramatically. He called urgently for Niccolò because he wants to tell him certain things that he has never admitted to any living soul; he wants to tell him so that Niccolò, in turn, will communicate them to the Dieci and the gonfalonier, so they are fully aware of the situation. In April of the year before, shortly after conquering Faenza, the duke goes on to say, the Orsini brothers and Vitellozzo tried to convince him to return to Rome with his entire army via Florence. He said no; he didn’t trust them back then either. He knew that it was all a pretext to try and conquer the Republic of Florence with a surprise attack. Vitelli threw himself at the duke’s feet—he wasn’t exaggerating—and swore that neither the city nor any towns would be harmed. But Borgia detected betrayal and did not agree to the plan.
