The throne, p.6
The Throne, page 6
He tells her that he hopes she succeeds and he keeps her talking. He does it artfully, because everyone knows that prostitutes and constabulary guards are in cahoots, managing to get her to talk about Borgia and how the people of Romagna feel about him. She has only good things to say: Valentino brought order where before there was none. Prior to his arrival, her region was controlled by a number of capricious lords who imposed outrageous taxes. Today the taxes are lower and everything is decided by law. It’s all very clear.
As he listens to her, he thinks back to Dianora’s pained gaze and the story of her awful suffering.
He points out that the duke also brought war and that cities and castles are now battling each other to death.
Well, some people always go looking for trouble, don’t they? Licia replies.
CHAPTER SIX
Niccolò returns to his room at daybreak and throws himself down on his straw-filled mattress. It occurs to him that Zerino, the new messenger, will arrive later today and he has nothing to communicate to the gonfalonier. He sleeps a couple of hours and by mid-morning is up and about. He leaves his room to hunt for news.
The sun is warm and the wind has died down. He walks between the market stalls and admires the wares on display in the piazza around the duomo, stopping to haggle over some fried fish, which he then eats while meandering up and down the surrounding streets and looking in one shop after another.
Although he never turns around, he knows that the duke’s men are following him. He is putting on this act for their benefit. When he and Tullia, the singer from the theater troupe, were lovers, she taught him a key element to acting: if you want to be believed, do less rather than more. So he doesn’t overdo it. He acts like a man out for a walk. He finds he enjoys it. Indeed, it occurs to him that being an actor and being an envoy are quite similar; both roles require simulation and dissimulation.
Slowly, he makes his way to Farneti’s shop, where he stops to feel the swathes of fabric as if he had never felt them before. He can’t keep trading clothes with Baccino or waiting for the cover of darkness to go out. He needs to establish a connection with the shopkeeper that seems casual but that also has a purpose. As soon as the merchant comes out to greet him, Niccolò asks him about prices and which fabric would be best for a mantle. It’s not an excuse: soon it really will be cold and he definitely can’t wear his old country tabard to the court.
The shopkeeper points out a few different rolls of fabric and tells him that they’re well-priced and warm but that if he comes inside he would gladly show him others. Niccolò pretends to hesitate before entering.
“Do you really need a mantle?” Farneti asks once they are inside and alone.
Niccolò nods, reaching out to feel a soft, brownish fabric with reddish hues. “This one is nice. How much is it?”
“It’s costly, I’m not sure with what they pay us . . . ”
“Yes, of course. While it’s never a good idea to throw away money, I actually got lucky at cards. Is it warm?”
“If you can afford it, yes. It’s the best there is.”
They quickly come to an agreement on the mantle as Farneti has more important news to share. Two new militias, recently arrived from Lombardy, have been deployed at the border. They didn’t even enter the city but went directly up into the mountains. They’ve increased the surveillance in the area making it practically inaccessible; it will take time to find informers among the new troops, all of whom are foreigners, which complicates things even further. Farneti also found out that Borgia’s military commander, who has been busy reinforcing Imola and constructing new weapons, has just returned from a reconnoiter in Tuscany, done in the greatest of secrecy.
“Leonardo da Vinci went to Florence?” Niccolò asked in alarm.
“Yes, and we have no idea why. He was there for two or three weeks. We realized it only now that he’s back: a carpenter in his bottega found out.”
Niccolò wonders if he went there for personal matters. Probably. Da Vinci is originally from a town outside of Florence and would never betray his city . . . Or would he? After all, he does work for Borgia. What if he went to draw maps of the city’s walls? He definitely knows the city well enough and even lived there once.
“We have never met in person; perhaps I could try to sound him out,” Niccolò says.
Farneti shakes his head with skepticism. It’s a well-known fact that to get a word out of da Vinci you need red-hot pliers. But maybe he could try getting Saladino to talk. No, not the great Turkish sultan. Saladino, or Salaì as he’s familiarly known, is a boy from Lombardy, a scoundrel really, who Leonardo likes having around. Niccolò might find the young man outside his master’s workshop, on Via di Santo Spirito.
Someone walks in the shop, a woman of about forty and her daughter, who is around twenty. Farneti changes the topic.
“Excellent choice of fabric. Allow me to take a few measurements for your mantle,” the tailor says, extending a measuring tape across Niccolò’s back.
Afterwards, Niccolò walks down Via di Santo Spirito, cautiously observing Leonardo’s bottega from the outside, through the open door. He sees several piles of wooden arches and wonders what they’re for. They’re made of aged chestnut, like those being used at the worksite near the Rocca. Will they be taken there? Is that one of da Vinci’s projects? What kind of contraption is he building?
He goes and sits down in an osteria across the street. The list of foods and wines and their prices are written on a wooden board: they’re not cheap. If he sits at one of the tables outside, he can keep an eye on the entrance to the bottega. He orders a goat-meat pastello and some house wine, and savors the food while planning his next move, gradually identifying the ingredients of the dish: in addition to the flaky pastry and goat meat, there’s lard, fragrant herbs, a soft cheese, eggs, and something else that he can’t quite place.
Out of the corner of his eye, some distance away, he notices two men whom he is certain he saw the day before. They’re pretending to carry on a conversation and are acting the part rather well. Up until now, he hasn’t given them anything special to report: I took a walk, placed an order for a mantle, now I’m having lunch, all reasonable activities. But how will I find out more about da Vinci? Saffron—that’s what’s in the pastello. Delicious. This wine, on the other hand, is awful.
Suddenly, there’s the sound of raised voices from da Vinci’s workshop. A man with a heavy Tuscan accent is accusing someone of being a thief; this person, deeply offended, replies harshly in a Milanese accent.
A young man walks out. He has longish hair, a somewhat feminine face, and an insolent look. He continues to deny the accusations being slung at him from within, and with a grand show of disdain, he strides out and crosses over to the osteria, sits down at a table near Niccolò, and orders some food and wine, making sure the host knows he should charge Maestro da Vinci.
“I’m not sure you did well to order the wine,” Niccolò says casually to him as soon as the host walks off. “It’s not very good at all.”
“Maybe the wine they served you is bad. But I always come here and I get special treatment,” the young man shamelessly counters.
“Well, then, if that’s the case, kindly let me taste a bit of yours so that I might order some for myself,” Niccolò says with an agreeable smile.
After tasting it, he pretends to like it, and even goes as far as to say it’s extraordinary, suggesting that he buys a fiasco for the two of them to show his thanks to the man for his suggestion.
It’s hard for Salaì to refuse a gift. Two glasses later, Niccolò invites him to come sit at his table. He introduces himself as a traveling merchant and starts to talk about all the cities he has visited for work.
“In Tuscany, the city I like best is Pisa, and I have seen them all,” he says, topping up the young man’s glass.
“Enough, enough,” the young man says, feebly holding his hand over his glass.
“Just one more,” Niccolò says, encouraging him. “As I was saying about Pisa . . . not even Florence can compare.” He pauses for a second. “Have you ever been to Florence?”
“I just got back, actually,” Salaì says, taking a drink of the wine.
“Did you visit the whole city?”
“Yes, I even traveled to some of the surrounding towns.”
“So then, you surely went to Fiesole, up on the hill. You can see all of Florence from there . . . ” An ideal position for drawing a map of the city.
Salaì looks at him suspiciously. “Fiesole . . . yes. I was there. But why all the questions?”
Niccolò shrugs. “I miss home, I suppose. I enjoy talking about it.” He raises his glass in a toast. Salaì relaxes and refills his glass.
“There you are! I should’ve guessed as much,” a man calls out, approaching them from behind. Niccolò instantly detects hints of a Florentine accent in the man’s speech. He’s around fifty years old and has long hair and a long beard, both streaked with white. He glares at Salaì, then at Niccolò, then back at the young man. “Time to get back to work.”
Niccolò, who perceives that da Vinci was driven by jealousy to come over to them, doesn’t relinquish right away. “Please, come sit with us,” he says kindly.
“Now why on earth would I do that?” the man replies sharply. “My time is precious.”
Niccolò looks at him with a mixture of hostility and envy: da Vinci has a reputation not only as an engineer but as a painter and man of many talents. “As is mine.”
“Then use it more wisely.”
“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”
“This is my master,” Salaì says meekly, tail between his legs.
“Master of what?” Niccolò scornfully and rudely asks.
“None of your business,” da Vinci replies and motions to the young man to get to his feet.
Salaì obeys immediately. Leonardo throws some coins down on the table for whatever the boy ordered, as well as some additional ones.
“That’s too much,” Niccolò says sharply.
Da Vinci mumbles something and goes back to the workshop, followed by Salaì, who turns around and waves his farewell.
Niccolò doesn’t even bother replying. He knows he will never be able to talk to him again. He finishes off the contents of his glass. Another day is almost done and he still hasn’t learned anything about Valentino’s plans for Florence.
Later that afternoon, Niccolò writes first to the gonfalonier, informing him that two armies have gathered at the border and that da Vinci traveled to Florence on behalf of Borgia. Afterwards, he writes a letter to the Dieci filled with vague, impressionistic details. He then goes back to working on Res gestæ Cæsaris, giving shape to the intimacies the duke confided in him the night before, while reflecting on the notion of power. He feels as though the work is coming along nicely. He finds it easy to alter his style to suit his audience, it’s a skill he has honed over the years. Whatever task Niccolò has before him, he throws himself into it with zeal.
Later that evening Zerino arrives, covered in dust from the journey. Niccolò hands him the two letters, which he has already sealed. The messenger will depart the following morning, after which a third rider will arrive.
Niccolò dines with Baccino. The innkeeper offers them an unappealing dish so they decide to go out. As they walk up and down the city streets looking for an osteria someone had suggested, they plan quietly.
“I can’t leave Imola now, Baccino, but no one will notice if you go up into the hills and find out what’s going on.”
“On the border with the Republic?”
“Exactly.”
Although Niccolò feels he can trust Farneti, it would be good to get confirmation of the news from a second source.
“I know that they’ve increased the surveillance,” Niccolò says. “To pass without being noticed, you’ll need to take a different road each time and pretend that you are either on your way to Florence or coming back from it.”
Baccino nods. “I’ll set out tomorrow.”
“If anyone asks, tell them you’re a merchant.”
“I wish I were! I’d live a grand life,” the steward says with a chuckle.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At the sound of the vigilia secunda, Niccolò hurries back to the Rocca. He brings with him the pages he’s written about the killing of the Duke of Gandía. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to set foot inside Valentino’s secret world. He also hopes to see Dianora again. He recalls the way she looked at him, the desperation and anger in her eyes. What is really going on in her mind?
There are twice as many workers on the construction site as the night before. The roof is almost complete. On one side it is supported by the city’s external walls and elsewhere by a number of the wooden arches that Niccolò saw in da Vinci’s bottega on Via di Santo Spirito. United together, they form a dome or cupola. Niccolò sees the Maestro up high, Salaì is there, too, holding a burning torch while da Vinci hammers the wood, inspecting it probably, testing its quality.
The duke waits impatiently.
Dianora sits next to the fireplace, a small book in her hands. As soon as Niccolò walks in, she gets to her feet to leave, as if the duke had forewarned her. Her blue eyes glimmer in the flickering light. She’s wearing a mauve dress and her hair has been braided into a crown.
Cesare doesn’t even bother introducing her. He grabs the pages out of Niccolò’s hands and starts reading them attentively. The young woman approaches Niccolò, looks at him meaningfully, and bows her head ever so slightly, as on the prior occasion.
“Milady . . . ”
“Milord . . . ” Her voice is sweet and the Romagnolo cadence gives it a pleasant musicality.
Borgia continues to read. He begins to frown, his face growing darker by the minute. Niccolò musters up the courage and speaks to Dianora with great courtesy, whispering so as not to disturb the duke, while she passes by.
“Are you reading a collection of strambotti?”
She slows down and delicately whispers her reply. “How did you know?” Her hand automatically goes to the back of her neck.
“I recognize the publisher’s imprint, from Venice . . . ” he replies softly. He would have continued but Dianora glances quickly at Valentino and gestures for him to be quiet.
The duke, bothered by their voices, looks up at them and then goes back to concentrating on the text before him.
Dianora walks away, down the corridor, casting a backwards glance at Niccolò that expresses so much: pain, dignity, strength. He stares at her, wishing he could talk to her further, help her. He hopes that the look in his eyes relays this, since saying it with words is impossible. He watches her walk away; in the silence he hears the soft rustle of her dress.
Borgia puts down the papers. “You’ve disappointed me.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Niccolò asks unhappily.
The duke replies scornfully. “There’s not enough malice in your writing. And yet I was very clear with you about my expectations. And take that smirk off your face!” He throws the pages down on the table.
Niccolò grows serious, picks up a sheet of paper and reads a passage out loud: “‘People say that the death of the Duke of Gandía was desired by his brother, that he had a great deal to gain from it . . . ’ That doesn’t seem malicious to you?”
The duke shakes his head vehemently. “It should say, ‘People are convinced that the Duke of Gandía’s death was desired by his brother . . . ’ That I would understand.”
“But what reasons can I give for this certainty?”
“Invent them! I don’t know, you could say something like, ‘The two brothers were heard arguing and threatening each other only the day before about who would lead the pontifical armies.’ Of course, I know this is not true, but no one believes me anyway.”
“By doing that, you’ll never separate yourself from the gossip. It’s important to rely on undeniable facts. We could say, ‘The two brothers were heard arguing about who would lead the pontifical armies, a role better suited to Valentino because of his acumen and courage . . . ’”
“Yes, exactly. When truth is mixed with falsehood it becomes stronger. Acumen, courage . . . ” Borgia savors the words. He clears his throat. “I like that. Although one day these walls will fall, words will remain. The power you writers have is far greater than that of us warriors.” He stares at Niccolò with sincere warmth. “I wasn’t wrong about you, no. Rewrite it. Do it better. I want you to surprise even yourself. How much time do you need?”
“One or two days at the most.”
“Fine. I will have them set up a study for you here, so that you can work in greater comfort.”
“Thank you but that’s not necessary.”
“I insist. That way I will also be able to observe you while you work.”
“As you wish.”
Valentino nods and then stares at Niccolò for a moment before continuing. “My men in Florence have informed me that Duccio Del Briga has been ordered to kill you. I have relied on his skills in the past; he always carries through.”
Niccolò suddenly finds it hard to breathe. “But I’m here, far away, safe . . . ”
“So you haven’t heard that Nicia told him to teach you a lesson nonetheless? If the assassin can’t strike you directly, which for the moment is impossible, he will take it out on your wife or daughter.”
“What?” Niccolò cries out, deeply shaken.
“I’m certain of it.”
“The gonfalonier didn’t tell me about that!” he says inadvertently.
