He leaves the words trailing.
“Very well.” The cardinal speaks for all of them. Whatever his doubts, it would be ten times worse to leave without a plan. “With that plan in mind I am ready to put my name here and now on a pact of allegiance.”
There is a rolling murmur of agreement around the table.
“Don’t worry about ink,” Baglioni shouts, gleefully jumping to his feet and pushing his sleeve up to expose his arm. “We’ll sign in blood.”
The cardinal suppresses a small sigh. This is not the moment for second thoughts.
CHAPTER 22
From grief to rage: such weather-vane energy the Pope has.
First he is prostrate, drowning in tears for the lost baby and his daughter’s illness, now he is stomping along the corridor that connects the different rooms of the Borgia apartments, cardinals and chaplains dancing after him as he vents his fury. His secretaries could fill a dozen papal bulls with the tortures, on earth and in hell, that he will unleash against the poxy Vitelli, the Baglioni trash and the Orsini traitors.
But most of all the Orsini. Five years, five whole years since Juan’s body was dragged out of the Tiber, knifed by their hired thugs. Sweet Jesus, how he had loved that boy! Every anniversary of the death has been marked by a mass in case his appetite for revenge should be allowed to wane. It had always been only a matter of time. The greater Cesare’s victories, the sooner they can cut loose their ties from men they need but do not trust, bottom-feeders like Vitelli and da Fermo and the lesser puny twigs from the Orsini family tree. Once they are gone, he can move in for the kill, take down the rest of the house, finish the job they had started long ago. And now this: the head of the family, a cardinal no less, launching a revolt against them.
“What? They thought we wouldn’t find out? All of them on the move at the same time, leaving slime trails like snails in their wake. My God, they must be more stupid than they think we are.”
Burchard spends the first days putting out excuses: His Holiness cannot see anyone right now for he has eaten something that disagreed with him. But as the diplomats fill up the papal receiving room, it’s impossible to miss the stream of sweat-soaked dispatch riders being given immediate access. Even without the tentacles of Borgia intelligence strung across Italy, the meeting in the Orsini castle at La Magione was bound to leak out. The size of the egos involved was proof of that.
The world’s eyes will be on Duke Valentine, for he is the target. But it is Alexander who will foot the bills.
“How much is that?”
“Sixteen thousand ducats, Your Holiness.”
As ever Burchard is on hand for the more delicate matters of massaging funds out of the papal treasury.
“Not enough. The duke needs eighteen to pay for new recruits. Find the extra two from somewhere and an armed guard to take it. What? Does this offend you in some way?”
Burchard as usual has remained stone silent, but the Pope’s belligerence is overflowing.
“This is not profligacy, Johannes, this is war. A member of the College of Cardinals rising up against his pope is treachery against the Holy Mother Church herself. I tell you we will have the Orsini lands and benefices to pay back twice what he makes us spend now.”
Eighteen thousand. He knows that will not be the end of it either. With their enemies united, they’ll need French troops to supply artillery. Eighteen thousand. It is almost as much as he spends annually on the whole of the Vatican court, wages, ceremonies, provisions, everything. Though his enemies never stop whining about Church corruption, half of them would refuse an invitation to dinner because the food isn’t lavish enough. Two courses and a jug of simple Corsican wine is his favored fare. You could endow a convent on what he saves here. I know monks who eat better, he wants to shout in Burchard’s face. But it isn’t Burchard he is fighting. Faced with Cesare’s endless demands for cash over these last years, Alexander himself has felt if not conscience, then a certain foreboding about how he is plundering the Church for money. If he were to add it all together…But he will not do that now. Whatever the price it will be worth it to see this rebellious scum crushed. How much is Cardinal Orsini worth? When he has trouble falling asleep that night he does the sums to keep him happy.
In the city of Imola, barely thirty miles from what is now the enemy territory of Bologna, Cesare lives in a single room, plans of fortresses and battlements stuck to the walls and a floor caked in mud from the boots of riders. There is a bed in one corner, but he hardly uses it, for who could sleep at such a time? When the news of the meeting at La Magione had reached him—always in every conspiracy there is a weak link, a man as frightened of his friends as he is of his enemy—he had been elated rather than alarmed. Ever since he first saw the eyes of his condottieri grow wide at the purses he threw across the table to them two years ago, he had known that eventually it would come to this. He might wish he was more ready, another few months would have made him invincible, but he will fight with what he’s got. He likes it that way.
“Who’s there?”
He hears the footsteps before the knock on the door. The less he sleeps the sharper his senses.
“The envoy from Florence has arrived, my lord. He begs leave to make an appointment to call when you are ready to receive him.”
“Florence? Show him in now.”
With so many enemies he could do with a few friends.
—
Niccolò had never expected immediate access. He had already been kept waiting at the western gate as a stream of dispatch riders took precedence over all traffic. The arrow-straight Roman road that runs from Bologna to the coast stretched out behind him. Three years ago Duke Valentine had traveled this same road, his army swelled by the very men who would now bring him down. More than once in his journey Niccolò had looked over his shoulder in case he might make out a dust storm of rolling guns and foot soldiers, for these last days he had heard nothing but rumor: the rebels are on the move; they will besiege Imola; they are massing outside Urbino; they are fighting among themselves; they are everywhere and nowhere at once, though with each retelling the size of their force gets bigger.
Once inside the gates, he passes the great four-turreted fortress that stands on the southwest corner of the city. He notes gangs of soldiers digging trenches farther out from the moat, presumably to hamper any offensive artillery positions. What happens if they are not enough? Could it be that Lady Fortune has slipped out of the duke’s arms so soon after becoming his faithful mistress?
He follows the guard upstairs to the small room, wiping his hands over his face to get rid of the grime, lifting his arms to gauge the stink in his cloth. What do they say in the drinking holes of Florence? That diplomacy is the art of covering bad smells with sweet words. However tired he is, his anticipation will trump it. History is being made in this little town, and short of sitting with Titus Lucretius in ancient Rome as he composed his treatise De rerum natura, there is nowhere else that he would rather be at this moment.
“Ah! The man whose face smiles even when he claims it does not. You left as secretary and return as permanent envoy. Congratulations are in order.”
From an indolent, insolent conqueror, the man who greets him now is eager, almost boyish in his good humor. And this time he wears no mask, a handsome face still, Niccolò notes, despite the shower of pockmarks. Energy, like a bright halo, pulses out around him. “Florence must have valued your advice, Signor Smile. Though whatever it is you wrote it did me no good.”
Having practiced a dozen opening gambits for this moment, Niccolò now discards them all. “I told them what I thought, my lord. That you were a man to be reckoned with, loved by your men and much favored by fortune.”
“Which would explain your promotion, for all that is true. Though no fortune was needed to secure the support of King Louis, I told you that I had that already. So how is the eminent bishop Soderini and his most civic brother?”
“Well, my lord. They both send you warm g
reetings.”
“Hm. I cannot help thinking how the bishop would suit scarlet robes. I shall talk to my father when I am next in Rome.”
Niccolò drops his eyes in case his astonishment might show. The change is extraordinary. Cesare waves him toward a seat, but he lifts his hands to show that he is content to stand.
“Too many hours in the saddle, eh? You should be a soldier—that would toughen your rump fast enough. You came in through the southwest gate, yes?” he asks as he sees the little diplomat’s eyes ranging over the maps on the walls. “What do you think of the fortifications?”
“I…I think that if the lady Caterina Sforza had done as much she would have held your army up for much longer,” Niccolò says, trying hard to keep his face impenetrable.
“Caterina Sforza, eh? Is it the woman or her fortresses that interest you?”
“I was on diplomatic mission to the lady once.”
“Ah! And? What did you make of the virago?”
What can he say? It had been his first solo mission as a diplomat and he’d been nervous as a young racehorse. Such a reputation she came with: a woman as lusty and bloodthirsty as any of her enemies, she had once exposed herself on the battlements to show her attackers how she could make more sons if they killed the ones they were holding hostage. Before their first meeting he had had a dream of her coming out of the forest like an Amazon warrior, her naked breasts leading the way. She had got the better of him in the negotiations, giving in to everything, only to change her mind at the last minute. It was a Pyrrhic victory; the Pope had already excommunicated her and her destiny was written inside the mouths of Cesare’s cannons. The gossip about what took place between them the night after her capture had scorched the tavern walls: two scorpions in a ring of fire, strutting around each other before the final sting. Alas, there is no diplomatic language to pursue that subject.
“In battle I think she would have been as brave as any man. Maybe braver.”
“You are right there.” Cesare gives a bitter little laugh. “Though once she started squealing you couldn’t mistake the woman in her. So, Florence sends me a military strategist as well as a diplomat!”
“Simply a student of history, my lord,” he says with studied modesty.
“Then you will be good company, since history is my business too,” Cesare grunts. Though he had feigned surprise, he had known whom Florence had appointed, had made it his business to find out more about the wily little diplomat who had danced so skillfully in the shadows of their last meeting. “You will know the Rubicon flows close to here, and that greatness awaits the right man who crosses it. I have his words on my sword.”
“Alea jacta est,” Niccolò smoothly picks up the cue. The die is cast. Caesar, he thinks. Always Julius Caesar. Rome’s history overflows with greatness, yet it is the general who destroyed the republic rather than saved it that ambitious men measure themselves by.
“Indeed. And we shall find much to speak of, I am sure, for whatever the past, there is no bad feeling between Florence and myself. How could there be? With or without a treaty, we are joined in natural friendship, for we share the same vision of a secure and stable Italy, able to defend herself against a storm of thugs and traitors.”
Ah! At last he has the scent, as pungent as if the dog has cocked his leg and pissed on him. He jumps in fast. “The council is most sorry to hear of this trouble with your erstwhile allies.”
“What? You mean the vermin Vitelli and Baglioni joining with the cockroach Orsini and others? Ha! A congress of losers, every one of them. Which Florence should be grateful for, since this rebellion is more dangerous to you than it will ever be to me. I would remind you that two years ago when I stood on your borders I had Vitellozzo Vitelli on his knees, begging me to let him take Florence. Ha! My refusal just fueled his fury. If he and the Orsini get their way, you’ll have no precious republic left to write aphorisms about.”
Every word he speaks is true, Niccolò thinks. But adversity cuts both ways: if Florence needs the duke more than she did, then at this moment he also needs Florence.
“Nevertheless, they claim a great number of soldiers, my lord. You don’t fear at all for the safety of Urbino?” he asks casually, alighting on one of the many rumors swirling in the air.
“I thought you said you had just arrived from the road,” Cesare snaps back.
Niccolò’s face does not move a muscle. My God, he is thinking, the duke is going to lose Urbino. This is news indeed.
“Whatever they claim is horseshit. Remember, I know these men and what they can and cannot do. The Orsini are dribbling girls in soldiers’ clothing and Vitelli has never done a worthwhile thing in his life. As for Urbino, it is even less than nothing: an uprising of a few disgruntled men in a fort near the city; nothing to do with these traitors, though I daresay they will try to take advantage of it. It is already being dealt with.”
“Your commander, de Corella?” Niccolò says, since Michelotto, whom everyone knows to be the duke’s shadow, is nowhere to be seen.
“Who is not important,” he retorts brusquely. “But since your business is information, Signor Smile, I tell you this for free. As we talk, seven hundred new recruits are already marching toward Imola, and I could show you now a letter of promise from King Louis for a thousand artillery and Swiss pikemen. These traitors do me a favor. They cannot show themselves at a time when it will damage me less, because I know now who are my enemies and who my friends. Write that to your earnest council. Unless they have sent me an envoy who they are still disposed not to listen to. Ah! Now at last we have a smile, or is it just the way your face behaves?”
Who would not smile, Niccolò thinks as he makes his way down to the courtyard. He has mined nothing but gold today: Urbino on the edge and promises of troops who have yet to arrive. All the facts point to a commander who should be frantic, yet it is impossible not to be impressed by his confidence and vigor. Mounting his horse, Niccolò counts more dispatch riders, heads down, mouths muffled against the dust. Add those to the ones at the gate earlier. The Borgia intelligence network is legendary; some liken it to a great spider’s web strung across Italy, catching everything that wanders into its path. But watching this restless activity, he is reminded more of bees, always in the air, always moving from one flower to another, bringing the pollen of information back to the hive. Does the duke really know the minds of his enemies enough to predict their moves and therefore their downfall, or is it all just braggadocio, the credo of a man who believes he still has Fortuna in his bed?
—
The next day news arrives that a force under the command of Michelotto—for it was indeed him—has crushed the uprising and retaken the fort near Urbino. Niccolò now sends his first dispatch, striving to keep the words as close as he remembers them and also adding a few of his own, because one thing is already clear to him: though the duke may be isolated, it is his very aloneness that allows him to act fast and decisively. If this were a betting game, he still would have his money on the Borgia prince.
The assessment proves premature. Having plowed their own troops into the area, five days later his old condottieri, Vitelli, da Fermo and the Orsini cousins, join forces to retake the city of Urbino itself.
CHAPTER 23
The news has the duke’s antechamber overflowing.
Experienced in the art of waiting, Niccolò digs out his sweetly worn copy of Livy from his pocket, but he barely has time to open it before he is plucked out and given precedence over all others.
Inside the room a fire is burning—there is a chill to the air now—with the remnants of a half eaten meal on the table. Standing at the back is the familiar figure of Michelotto.
“Signor Smile.” Cesare holds out his hand. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept, though it seems to have done nothing to dampen his energy. “You know my man, yes?”
Niccolò can see him better in daylight, that face as violent as any story of his deeds.
“I congratulate you
on your retaking of Fossombrone, sir.” Niccolò addresses him brightly. “It was a brilliant stroke of soldiering.” He knows it will sound like arse-licking, but he means every word of it. In the drinking holes of Imola the newly returned men are full of it: how their commander had used plans of the fortress to unearth an old tunnel running from outside the walls into the inner keep, crawling through it with a dozen men in the night to break heads and slit throats. Not a single casualty on the duke’s side.
Michelotto’s silence suggests that he is not interested in praise.
“When he is tired, he never talks much,” Cesare says after he has dismissed his man with a wave.
The door now closed, he beckons Niccolò toward the back of the room. “Come, come, I have something to show you.”
On the back wall is a map, its corners oily with the sealing wax that fixes it to the stone. It is exquisitely drawn; a man with art on his mind would find it worthy of another kind of study, but the purpose here is practical. It takes Niccolò a moment to place it. He is looking at the city of Imola as it might be seen by a bird flying overhead, its walls and defenses all rendered in seemingly perfect proportions, down to turrets in the fortress and the gradients of the land and roads all around.
“You recognize the hand perhaps?” the duke asks casually. “He is one of yours.”
“Da Vinci,” Niccolò says, because everyone knows the duke has him on his payroll.
“Indeed. He has spent the last three months in my employ traveling through the Romagna assessing each of my fortresses and fortifications for improved defense systems.”
“It was his map of Fossombrone that gave away the underground passage?”
“Who else’s?” Cesare nods. “He is worth three times what I pay him, and he doesn’t come cheap. You know him?”
“By reputation only.” The gossip in government is that da Vinci and Buonarotti have such a dislike of each other they have made it their business not to be in the same town at the same time. Florence’s loss has become everyone else’s gain.