The throne, p.26
The Throne, page 26
He leaves the inn to go speak with Farneti. He needs to talk to him, bring him up to date, find out if he has informers in Cesena, and organize a way of getting news. The shop is closed. He goes back an hour later but the tailor is still not there. He’s annoyed. He needs to see him urgently and this is delaying his departure. He walks into the snowy woods outside Porta Montanara and leaves a message in the hollow of the oak tree, getting soaked through with cold and wet. They must meet up soon, he writes, and if Farneti can’t meet him before the following morning, Niccolò will have to send someone on his behalf.
As he trudges back into the city, the cold air whips down the high drifts of icy snow. His bones ache with the cold and he begins to cough.
He discovers that Baccino has still not prepared their bags. Niccolò admonishes him and his manservant defends himself by saying that he doesn’t feel very well.
Then I’ll do it myself, Niccolò says angrily. Filled with rage, he prepares his own bags so that the following day they won’t lose any further time. He goes to bed early and wakes up at dawn feeling extremely weak.
He musters up the strength to get out of bed and drags himself downstairs.
“Do you feel unwell?” Gemma asks, peering at him closely.
I’m just tired, he replies hoarsely and then sneezes. His knees and elbows ache. His throat burns. Illness enters the body through the mouth, his mother Bartolomea used to say. He wants to go see Farneti but doesn’t have the strength and sits down heavily in a chair.
When Baccino comes in and asks how he is feeling, Niccolò replies rudely.
He then goes back to his room and flops down on the straw mattress. It feels like he’s sinking into an ocean of mud. Now even his muscles ache, as if he had been beaten with a stick. Clearly Valentino has infected him with whatever seasonal illness he had when he coughed in his face. He feels hot, as if on fire, and he coughs incessantly. He shuts his eyes.
In his wakeful, feverish state, he sees evil faces of people he doesn’t know. Then he has visions of da Vinci’s theater crumbling under the weight of the snow into an empty abyss.
A jolt runs through his body. He opens his eyes. He’s sweating heavily now and has no strength to speak. He surely has a high fever. He tries to call Baccino but the only sound he can make is a throaty rattle. No one can hear him and this pains him deeply.
He starts dreaming again. He sees Dianora walking off, he wants to call out to her, he begs her to turn around, but he can’t, he has lost all his strength. His colleagues in the Chancery laugh at him: why, he’s not even a notaio! Just the son of a second-rate lawyer, strapped with debt. How on earth did he even manage to get a job in the Palazzo della Signoria, they ask, sneering at him; did his ass belong to someone? To whom? Or is he kept like a dog on a chain, to be sent in to attack or hunt someone down? An animal to be kicked around, a cur that’s content with a rotten bone, a howling mutt . . . He sees his old teacher, Marcello Adriani, dressed in a sumptuous robe; he’s frowning at him. Greek, he says, you’ll never learn Greek, you just don’t have the head for it, he says. You’ll have to get by on your faltering Latin. You’ll never amount to much.
Niccolò hears mice scurrying around the room, up and down the walls. He knew there were mice, disgusting creatures, and now that he can’t defend himself they have come to take advantage of him.
Baccino leans over him and rests his hand on Niccolò’s forehead.
Niccolò looks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He coughs so hard it feels like his chest is going to explode.
“It’s this fever that’s going around,” his steward reassures him.
“Could it be . . . poison?” He is overcome by a convulsive cough, interrupting his painful questions. “Did they . . . find out . . . about us?”
“Silence, watch what you say. Rest now.”
Gemma peers in from the doorway. Baccino turns to her. Niccolò hears him say something about hot broth, and he thinks back to what his mother used to make when he was sick, strong enough to even heal the wounds of Christ. He sees the iron nails planted in the feet of Christ, he feels the weight of the cross that he carried when he left the church to avoid Duccio Del Briga. The killer stares at him with triumph in his eyes. He sees a body float by on the river, face down, dressed in elegant clothes, soaked through: it’s Alvise Boscolo, the orator from Venice.
He hopes the broth arrives soon but no one comes. He wishes he had the strength to call for help. He knows his fever is rising, even the straw feels hot. He coughs and coughs. The King of France looks down at him with a weary expression. The plague is at the palace gates.
Hot water flows over his dry lips. No, it’s broth. But it has a strange flavor. Is it poison? No one knows what kind of poison the Borgia family uses because no one has ever survived it. How many cardinals have they killed to possess such massive wealth? All those grand palazzi and vast holdings, transformed into armies. Why does he feel so ill? Maybe it’s not a winter malady, maybe it really is the plague. He recalls the dead infected bodies, the wounds and sores.
“We should let him sleep.”
Don’t leave, he would like to say. I have no one except you. I’m all alone, I have always been alone. That man gave me his fever, he says to himself again. Yes, that’s what it is, nothing more than that, just an illness due to the cold. Every winter brings its share of maladies, but I’ve never been this sick in all my life.
He hears a man and a woman talking about calling a doctor. I’ll go, the man says. Niccolò starts coughing again, he can’t hear them. When he goes back to breathing normally again, they’re gone. Who were those people? My father and mother? No, they’re dead. My father died when I was in France; I couldn’t even go and say a final farewell to him. Why do we think that the final moment of life is so important? While surely it is for the person who is dying, it’s far less important for those who are left behind . . . And anyway, my father still talks to me. When was the last time he came to me? Every cough feels like a raw wound.
Someone pours some liquid into his mouth. It has a sweet flavor and is as thick as oil.
“No, Gemma! What’re you doing?” he hears Baccino say. That’s what the man’s name is: Baccino.
“It’s a cough syrup I found on his desk.”
The steward takes the bottle out of the woman’s hand. “It’s not for that kind of cough.”
Niccolò understands. It’s the invisible ink. He tries to spit it out, but he’s already swallowed it. Will it hurt me? He doesn’t even have the strength to ask. It’s December and rain is falling on the Arno. He watches from Ponte Vecchio, his black tabard pulled tightly around him. He wants to go home but can’t find the way.
Niccolò wakes up. A man with a scent that he recognizes places a cold hand on his chest.
It’s just a winter cold, Niccolò says, trying to wriggle free.
Allow me to decide, the master physician says and, with help from Baccino, he rolls Niccolò over to auscultate his back.
Exhausted, Niccolò sinks into the straw. He hears them talking about his lungs. He can’t find the words to describe the depth of pain he feels.
They have him drink something that tastes like rusty iron.
Is it the invisible ink again? No, this has a different flavor. The idea of picking up a quill pen seems impossible, as if it were an enormous iron club that not even a giant could raise. A blank piece of paper seems like a tangled forest, impossible to make his way through, not even by striking out with a sword. Gone is his strength to write, it will never come back. The stories that he could have written have disappeared, like water on sand. Words that could have become houses or cities for so many people are lost forever.
He feels sad for the words that he never managed to breathe life into; they were like bold children who could have made people laugh or incited anger or brought consolation or provoked thought.
I’m sorry, Dianora. Those words will belong to someone else. They will belong to people like Anteo Nuffi, who always manages to find success. Conte Guido will no longer ride for Tuscany. No, he never even existed. Neither him, tall and proud, nor his elegant horse. I didn’t even find time to read your poems. Forgive me.
He hears someone dragging a chair over to the side of the bed. It’s Baccino. He’s staring at him.
“Did you go into the mountains?” Niccolò asks him.
“Quiet, Niccolò. Don’t worry about anything. Don’t say anything.”
Even in the haze of his fever, he understands what his steward is trying to tell him. He remembers that he’s there as a spy and must be careful of what he says.
“Sleep. Drink water. Do as the doctor ordered.”
Water brings life, he knows that much. It generates life, the way women generate us. But what does water represent to people? It is the things they believe in. The things we have them believe, isn’t that right, Baccino?
The man looks at him in silence. He places a hand on his shoulder, as if to tell him to be strong, and then stands up and leaves.
Niccolò shuts his eyes. He feels his chest rising and falling but has a hard time breathing because of the cough. He needs air. He looks around for it with determination. That’s when he finally sees Dianora’s face again. She is smiling at him.
Day turns to night. Gemma brings in a new candle each time the wick burns down. They have to keep it lit so that she can see if Niccolò, may God protect him, has gotten worse.
When the sun rises, Torrella, the master physician, returns. Baccino helps him raise Niccolò up to a seated position so the man can visit him quickly and ably.
His lungs have not been compromised, the fever will vanish in two days, but he may be weak for much longer, he says. Even His Excellency was ill for some time but now he’s feeling better. He sends his greeting and expects to see you soon in Cesena; he is counting on it.
Dianora’s waiting for me too, Niccolò thinks and nods in reply. I’ll be happy to join him there, Maestro, he then says.
Torrella glances around the room, noticing the uncomfortable conditions. We shall requisition the finest home for you, he adds.
“Thank you, but the Republic will pay for me . . . ”
I must insist, the doctor says. You need warm lodgings, an adequate place. Write to your Republic, explain the situation, I am sure they will not stop you from accepting the duke’s kind offer. He cares about your wellbeing, which is also that of Florence.
I agree, Baccino says.
Niccolò understands what his steward is implying: with their limited means, they could never afford lodgings in another city without dipping into their own personal funds, which they do not have.
“We’ll provide you with a covered carriage to transport you there as soon as you are capable of moving.”
Torrella looks over at Baccino. You, as his steward, need to tend to him, and travel with him in the carriage. He then turns back to Niccolò. Now rest, he says.
Niccolò closes his eyes with gratitude. While he lets himself drift off to sleep he hears Torrella prescribe some medicines that will also be paid for by the prince.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Gripping his reddish mantle tightly around him, his bones and lungs still aching, Niccolò climbs into the covered carriage decorated in Borgia’s colors. Inside, it’s more or less like a wooden-paneled room with small windows, seats, and even a daybed made of interwoven leather strips and covered with cushions and rugs. He no longer has a fever but still feels weak. The snow on the roads is almost entirely gone. Has it been six days, or more? He can’t say.
Baccino stands on one side, helping him in, and Gemma on the other.
He asks what day it is.
The twentieth of December, they reply.
Cold air sneaks in between the folds of the mantle and he shivers as he settles down in a corner of the carriage.
In a fog, he watches as Gemma sadly says goodbye to Baccino: even though his steward says he will be back soon, they both know it is farewell.
The carriage lurches forward, there’s the clatter of the wooden wheels on the cobblestones. Niccolò wishes he were lying warm in bed but knows it’s pointless to resist.
The carriage makes its way toward the city walls. Baccino hands him the letters that have arrived from Florence while he was unwell: three from the Dieci and one from the gonfalonier. Niccolò puts them to one side. He’s not strong enough to read them now and will only be able to decipher Soderini’s message when he arrives in Cesena.
The steward whispers into Niccolò’s ear things he hadn’t been able to say with Gemma present. It’s hard to hear and the wheels rattle loudly on the cobblestones. The French are still camped out in the villages at the foothills of the mountains and the townspeople are annoyed by their presence because the men are depleting all their provisions. The roads leading into the Apennines are now passable.
Niccolò’s weary mind is filled with thoughts and questions that move faster than his sick body. He needs more information, everything possible. Is it worth going to Farneti’s shop before they leave Imola? No, it would be too risky.
A crowd has gathered outside the gates. People look up at the walls. The duke’s soldiers are conducting executions, hanging people from the ramparts.
Baccino leans out a window of the carriage to see. Niccolò is also curious. Two middle-aged men’s bodies already hang dead. A younger man is still kicking.
Farneti, a rope around his neck, is forced to walk to the edge. His skin is a sickly white, he has bruises on his cheeks, and his mouth is caked with dried blood.
Niccolò gasps. So they managed to catch him and torture him. Did he talk? Are those other men his spies?
The soldiers give Farneti a push. He falls hard, his body twists, his neck snaps, his corpse swings back and forth. Niccolò didn’t hear if he said any final words. The people who have gathered below cheer with satisfaction as a noose is placed around the neck of the next convict, a man of about thirty wearing a soldier’s jerkin.
Niccolò clenches the mantle that Farneti made for him and stares at the swaying body of the tailor.
Baccino observes him carefully. He asks if Niccolò feels ill, if the fever is coming back.
Niccolò shakes his head.
Who do you think they’re hanging? Baccino wonders out loud.
I don’t know, he says.
The crowd cheers as the soldier falls to his death.
I wonder what it feels like to be killed like that, Niccolò wonders. How much did Farneti suffer? When did they discover him? How long had they been watching him? Did they know that he had been meeting with Niccolò? They can’t kill me for talking to him. It’s normal for an envoy to spy.
If Borgia’s men knew about Farneti and his spies, did they manipulate them? Did they feed him information that was useful to them? No, impossible: Baccino confirmed what Farneti had told him about the soldiers. Maybe the duke’s guards didn’t catch all of them. If any survived, they will contact the Republic.
Did Farneti leave a final message for him in the oak tree? Best not to collect it. Only a madman would risk going to look now.
They’re surrounded by fields. Baccino opens a wooden box lined with velvet. Inside are the medicines that Torrella prescribed. Niccolò recognizes them; he started taking them immediately after the doctor’s visit. He takes a few sips, always fearing that they might be poison. But he does feels better, this much is true.
The fields are still covered with snow, mainly under the trees, in the shade. Before they reach Forlì, he’s overcome with fatigue and dozes off, his head rolling forward onto his chest. He looks up, then dozes off again, over and over.
He wakes up with his shoulders and neck aching. Baccino is fast asleep across from him.
Outside, the air is clear and he can see far into the distance. He recognizes the road. They’re nearing Cesena. He sees the house of the farmers who generously fed him while he was traveling. No one is outside, but a wisp of smoke rises from the chimney.
He is warmed by his gratitude to them. He remembers their faces and the taste of those olives, the vegetables, that bread. It occurs to him that he could ask the carriage driver to stop, that he could pay them for their kindness. He knows, though, that they would be offended by the gesture.
He thinks about Dianora, now captive in Cesena. Feelings of regret weigh heavily on him, pain mixed with bitterness. He had been unlucky; his illness impeded him from spending time with her just when he received permission from Cesare to do so. Will he be able to see her again? Or will the duke forbid it, as a way of punishing him from having been in contact with Farneti? “Go ahead and try—if you can,” Valentino had said about spying at their very first meeting in Imola. Maybe he will allow Niccolò to see her again.
He wishes he had her book of poems; it’s in his travel bag, in a distant corner of the carriage. The time and effort it takes him to reach it is immense.
He strokes the soft damask cover. Remembering how Dianora stood in the light of the setting sun, he feels his strength return to him. He hesitates before reading, as if he’s afraid to bring her presence into the hardship of the current moment. But he needs to feel her closeness, so he opens the book.
He skims the pages, stopping here and there to take in a few words, not unlike how one looks at a landscape, initially attracted by the stronger marks of color, the tallest trees, the most striking shapes.
