The throne, p.22
The Throne, page 22
When Valentino was finished with her, she saw the bodies of all the other women in the chapel. She expected him to slay her, too, and she tipped her head back and offered him her throat. He looked at her carefully. Maybe he saw the intensity of her grief, or perhaps he was attracted by the challenging look in her eyes. A groups of soldiers came rushing in—Romans, wearing the colors of the pontifical guards, headed by Corella. Borgia pointed at her without saying a word. Corella grabbed her arm and pulled her downstairs. She had to step over countless bodies and even tripped on the corpse of her older brother.
She doesn’t have clear memories of the moments that followed, only brief fragments: the courtyard of the fortress, dead bodies everywhere, the surrounding streets, shouting and screaming. A house that the attackers had transformed into a small fortress. Corella pushed her into a room, then closed the door and locked it.
Only much later, at dawn, a woman came in. She was beautiful, slender, and dressed all in black. She had some bread and a pitcher of water.
“Was it—?”
“Yes, Lucina.”
Without a word, the older woman made her remove her dirty clothes and bloodied petticoats, and then led her over to one side of the room and washed her.
In the following days, during which time they transported her to the Rocca stronghold in Imola, she learned that Lucina was Spanish, from Valencia, from the same land where that horrible man was from.
Dianora didn’t eat for a long time. But then, she gave in from hunger.
She was given new clothes, precious ones. At first, she refused to wear them. Lucina had to dress her. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror. Every single day, Lucina combed Dianora’s hair very carefully, sometimes in long braids that she united on the crown of her head, or else in spirals on either side of her head, like a doll.
One night, about a week later, Valentino came to her wearing his black mask.
He didn’t touch her. He stayed with her all night and just talked to her. He wanted to know everything about her, as if he were a friend that she could confide in, which in a way was an act of even greater violence.
She is interrupted by her cough, but then it passes. She carefully takes a breath.
“He abused me with flattery . . . ”
For the month that followed, he visited her regularly, deriving great pleasure from his visits but never actually touching her. He told her over and over that he desired her more than he had ever desired anyone, that she was special, that without her he was nothing.
He alternated between kindness and brutality, showering her with gifts. He didn’t need to remind her that she was under his control; it was evident. He invited her to speak as if she had come to his chambers of her own will. And then, each time she said something, he would belittle her. Each passing day he stole something from her.
When he looked at her, it felt like she was being struck. When he spoke, it was like she was being kicked.
His words sank into her, left marks on her. She had bruises deep inside, although no signs were visible on her fair skin.
Her body felt filthy. She constantly relived the fear she experienced in Forlì.
Slowly, day by day, she broke down.
Every glance from him struck terror into her, and he derived great pleasure from this.
She felt his eyes on her even when she was alone,.
Soon she started receiving jewels, which she was forced to wear.
Then Lucina tried to win her over. She said that she, too, had been kidnapped five years earlier, in Spain, by Valentino’s men, who had raped her before handing her over to their leader. Now she was a prisoner, too. She was also under close watch.
“She dried my tears . . . ”
Then, after some time, Dianora was given some books of sonnets and canzones.
Lucina told her that she had been the one to ask for them because she realized how much her ward liked poetry.
After some hesitation, Dianora accepted them. They reminded her of how much she used to enjoy reading at home, how she had started writing poetry and had been encouraged in the endeavor by her father, who had always wanted her to study, like a man.
She would pick up the books, then put them down, then go back to them, consistently avoiding anything that had to do with love.
She knew many of the sonnets and canzones by heart but seeing them in print gave her the sensation, for the very first time, that they represented something of greater importance to her. It felt like she had rediscovered a friend, and that this friend had altered since they first met, but that its presence was still a gentle one.
For the first time in six months, she smiled softly.
But then she burst into tears. The memories of her loss were unbearable.
Lucina observed everything and referred it all back to the duke.
A few days later, Lucina, with an air of great secrecy, confided in Dianora that she had found a way to escape from the prison in which they were being held. They would have to wait for nightfall, for the guards to doze off. The men had forgotten to lock a door; they would need to go down a corridor, descend a staircase that led outside, and then through the fields and across the plains.
How she wished she could return to Forlì! Maybe some of her relatives were still alive. That night she got dressed with both anxiety and joy. She didn’t take the medicine that they usually gave her to help her sleep. The two women waited until it was pitch dark, opened the door, closed it behind them, and went downstairs on tiptoe.
It was summer. The night air was filled with the scent of flowers. The breeze felt like a gentle caress. They ran through the fields and down deserted roads, on and on, into the woods. And there, a group of men was waiting for them.
Lucina burst into laughter, greatly amused by the deception. Then he, the duke, that awful man, appeared and without saying a word he grabbed her, threw her down, and raped her.
Afterward, her guardian washed her with water from a fountain.
Then they locked her back up. Valentino came to her chambers whenever he wanted, but always at night.
One day she was given paper and a golden quill pen.
“I didn’t touch them for weeks, and then, suddenly, I picked them up and began to write poems.”
She never showed the sonnets to anyone. They brought her a few moments of relief from her agony.
When her guardian noticed, she informed the duke instantly.
Lucina took away her poems.
The following night, Valentino returned them to her saying that he liked them. He was pleased with her. None of his other women had ever known how to write poems.
He then handed her a key to her own chambers and opened the door that led to the great hall where he received visitors, the most elegant and largest room in the Rocca, thereby extending the perimeter of her prison.
“Even so, I’ll never be able to escape. For that to happen, he will have to die. Only then, and if he hasn’t left orders to have me killed, will I be free . . . .”
Saying those words made it feel possible to her, if only for an instant. But then the thought was immediately extinguished. “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay longer, but I’m beginning to feel weak.”
Dianora struggles to get to her feet and whispers her farewell. “Who knows if the Lord God will allow us to see each other again. I will pray for it.”
“I also hope to see you again, I hope it with all my heart,” Niccolò says softly.
Her story leaves him in a state of shock. He knows it was good for her to share her pain but he wishes he could do more to help her. He watches as she makes her way back to the friar and the guard; when they see her approach, they stand up straight. Coughing occasionally, she slowly walks off. She treads lightly, as if not wanting to leave a trace of her existence on earth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lord God—if you even exist—how can you let all this happen? How can you not see what is going on? Why don’t you do something? The world is commanded by those in power and they sit on thrones dripping with blood and tears. Niccolò ponders such questions as he walks slowly back to the inn.
He suffers for Dianora, but he also admires her courage, the dignity with which she faces life. She will never debase herself by accepting what has happened to her or how she is forced to live.
With every passing day the awareness that he is free while she is a prisoner grows more acute. Although he’s been forced to do things, he essentially chose his path. She, on the other hand, has to put up with the whims of a tyrant. How can he, Niccolò, possibly set her free? When could he? He feels powerless and it is infuriating, but it is the truth.
Like her, he could write about what goes on, the brazen offenses, the torture; he could do so in both poems and prose. And yet while words can console, they don’t compensate for loss, they don’t right wrongs, and often all it takes is a gust of wind for them to get blown away. But if you stack them up like an army, they become stone, bronze, iron. Why else would that man and other powerful people like him fear words so much?
Will he ever manage to be as strong as Dianora? Where does all her strength come from? Desperation. Hope. That’s what her poems reveal.
And his own verses? They simply don’t have that strength. He’s not desperate enough, he doesn’t hope hard enough. Will he ever change? If he could, he would be more worthy of her.
He interrupts his reflections and returns to his senses at the sight of an approaching group of riders. At the head are two servants, one on a white horse and the other on a chestnut; neither wears a hat or helmet. Behind them, on a black horse, is a forty-year old man with a beard and curly hair. He’s wearing an opulent yellow robe with a brown border, red hose, and a large black and white bonnet.
Niccolò recognizes him instantly. An etching of his face has circulated through Italy; all learned men have seen it at least once. It’s Anteo Nuffi. He leans over to say something discreetly to the older man on his left, who wears a blue outfit and a red head covering. This must be the scholar whom Nuffi entrusts with the early phases of research for his writing. Two men around thirty follow behind, one with a weaselly face and frizzy hair, the other balding and terribly skinny. These men, they say, write Nuffi’s first drafts, which the poet laureate then edits and signs.
Travelling with them are two attractive ladies. Both have strong features and wear brightly-colored long dresses. Bringing up the rear is a servant who leads two mules piled high with their belongings.
Niccolò wishes he could take a different path and avoid them. He’s not worried about being recognized by the man who criticized his writing and stole his job—Nuffi doesn’t even know who Niccolò is—but it pains Niccolò deeply to have to look at him. And yet he continues on, much in the same way we are tempted to touch a wound even though it hurts, or root around in our mouth with our tongues when we have a toothache.
The procession halts in front of the Locanda del Sole, the finest lodgings in the city, from which emanate delicious aromas of roast meats. Anteo Nuffi certainly treats himself well. These are the privileges that money can obtain. Everyone dismounts, a stable hand rushes over, and the innkeeper hurries out to welcome the guests with pleasantries. Horses and mules are taken to the stalls, while the poet laureate and his entourage walk toward the main entrance.
Niccolò slips by. He hears the innkeeper showering Nuffi with compliments, who in turn replies with a grand show of modesty. One of the two women asks what they will be having for lunch.
To banish the feeling of powerlessness, Niccolò takes a long walk up and down the city streets and even goes outside the city walls. He walks as far as the oak forest beyond Montanara gate. There are no new messages from Farneti.
The following day a young man dressed entirely in black comes to Niccolò’s lodgings. Sent by the duke’s secretary, he bears an invitation for the envoy of Florence to attend a performance the following evening; all the orators and ambassadors will take part. The invitation is late to arrive. Perhaps the Duke hoped he already had an engagement. This is not an offense to Florence, but to him personally.
The production will take place in the theater built especially for the occasion by engineer da Vinci. Ah, so this must be the event arranged to celebrate Dianora’s birthday, he thinks. Initially, Niccolò is tempted to turn it down but he can’t possibly say he is ill; the messenger sees he’s in perfect health, and moreover it is one of his duties.
“There will be a performance of Cupid and Psyche, written by the famous Anteo Nuffi,” the man adds with satisfaction.
“Actually, the story was written thirteen hundred years ago by Apuleius of Madaura, an African,” Niccolò clarifies.
“Yes, of course, but Anteo Nuffi has adapted it for the occasion. It will also be interesting because of the machines designed by Master da Vinci, similar to the ones he used in the court of the Sforza in Milan; surely you have heard about them. No? Well then, you’ll see, I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Even the actors are top notch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The foyer of the theater has been painted in Valentino’s colors, with grey columns and a bright red gable above. Garlands of flowers are everywhere. A double row of torch-bearing pages flank the path to the entrance.
Niccolò blends in with the other spectators, all of whom are dressed in their finest clothes.
The theater itself is evenly divided by the stage and the seating area, which is formed by a rising semicircle of wooden benches, also painted in Borgia’s colors. Clusters of candles that hang in concave mirrors are positioned at either side of the stage, casting diffuse rays of light onto the stage.
The front row has room for only ten people and, for the moment, is completely empty. The second row, which is longer, is already occupied by the ambassadors and their consorts from various cities. Niccolò sees Agapito Geraldini, who nods at him in greeting. The third row, longer still, seats members of the clergy. Among them is Brother Timoteo, who pretends not to know him. There are still some empty seats there, but Anteo Nuffi’s noisy entourage comes in and makes its way over. Sitting in the even longer row above are various military men, some of whom wear the colors of the King of France. They’re probably the commanders of Louis XII’s spearmen, whom Farneti mentioned.
Niccolò’s seat is higher up still—yet another slight—in one of the last two rows, off to one side, and rather uncomfortable. From it, he can only see a portion of the stage and is surrounded by less important people: notable figures from the city and its outlying towns. As he takes his seat, he realizes that some of the orators turn to look at him, commenting on how the Republic has been offended by forcing him to sit so high up. Niccolò ignores them and continues to stare at the heavy gold brocade curtain.
They await the arrival of the duke and soon he makes his entrance, preceded and followed by his personal guards and don Miguel. Dianora walks directly behind him, her eyes downcast so as not to exchange looks with any members of the audience. Her hair has been combed with great care and woven through with fine gold ribbons and pearls. Valentino takes a seat. Dianora sits down to his right; she looks unhappy and coughs occasionally. Valentino’s personal executioner sits on his left, while his bodyguards find a place to stand along the walls. With no further delay, from the back of the room comes the music of viols; the concave mirrors in each corner rotate on themselves as if by magic, and the light from the candles vanishes. Darkness falls over the audience. The curtain rises. Hidden lanterns illuminate the stage as brightly as if it were day. The scenery reveals a bare mountain, its pointy peak as tall as the highest seats in the theater. Two paths wend between boulders on each side of the mountain.
The audience mumbles with admiration.
A warm female voice comes from the end of the path on the right. The actress, who slowly makes her way downstage, is dressed like an ancient Greek, in a white tunic tied at the waist with a golden cord and her hair combed in an elaborate manner. Even before seeing her face, just from the way she moves, Niccolò instantly recognizes her. It’s Tullia, his former lover from Florence. Clearly she’s been working hard, traveling up and down the length of Italy, going from one theater company to the next, to now be able to perform before the son of a pope.
He smiles fondly, recalling intimate details about her, while listening to her song; in rhyming couplets she promises a tale of desperation and love. A king and queen once reigned over a city, she sings, with their three beautiful daughters. While it was easy to celebrate the elder two with human words, it was impossible to describe the splendor of the youngest, whose name was Psyche. Everyone, even in faraway lands, compared her to Venus. She was so beautiful that no man had the courage to ask her to be his wife. Consequently, Psyche was always alone, and convinced she would never know true love.
With a pang of envy Niccolò is forced to admit that Anteo Nuffi’s verses, while banal, are deeply expressive. Apparently he’s learned a few things over the years. At the same time, Niccolò knows just how strong the myth is on its own. The poet laureate was wise not to alter much of what has worked for more than a thousand years.
Niccolò looks at Dianora, trying to ascertain her reaction. Her face looks pale despite the bright light that shines down on her from the stage. She appears indifferent. This pleases him.
Borgia also peers over at her, scrutinizing her expression.
Tullia, meanwhile, has reached center stage. She points toward the roof, where a bright light suddenly appears. That light is Venus, she sings. Venus is so jealous of Psyche that she asks her son, Cupid, to strike the young woman with one of his arrows so that she will fall in love with an evil man.
