The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  He snapped his fingers and a servant leaped forward to take my master’s cloak. We went to the table and I opened the satchel and took out the design papers for the new armour and war machines. Then I stood to one side as the Borgia and the Maestro laid these out and studied them, together with plans of the castle. For several hours my master made notes and sketches until they had agreed on the most immediate work to be done.

  Then Cesare said, ‘You must be hungry. Eat now and we will talk later.’ He waved his hand in dismissal.

  ‘Are all of his captains in this plot?’

  We were in our quarters, a suite of rooms in another part of the castle.

  Felipe replied to the Maestro’s question in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Even my friend, Vitellozzo?’

  Felipe glanced towards the door and nodded.

  The Master sighed heavily. ‘Then his life is forfeit.’

  ‘Drink some wine,’ Felipe urged him.

  Graziano had obtained food and drink from the kitchen and we sat down to eat while they discussed the situation in low voices.

  The Borgia family wanted all Italy under their rule, but even with the papal armies in his command, Cesare had not enough men or arms to do this. He needed to make use of mercenaries and the armies of any who would back his ambition. With some support therefore he had taken much of the Romagna. But now his captains had become uneasy at his ambition and ruthlessness, and, fearing that he would turn on them, were conspiring with the deposed lords against him. Graziano had heard from the servants in the castle that it was common knowledge that the conspirators had met near Perugia to plot the downfall of the Borgias.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Matteo.’ Graziano smiled at me. ‘Prince Cesare Borgia regards us with favour. But should the castle of Imola fall, one of the rebel captains, a man called Vitellozzo Vitelli, is a friend of the Maestro.’

  Nevertheless I was uneasy. I had felt safe in a Borgia stronghold where Sandino might not look for me. It was a different matter to be in the place where Cesare Borgia himself resided. He had mentioned reports being brought to him by his spies. I had seen these men about the castle and I knew that Sandino acted as a Borgia spy. Sandino, who would still want to recover what I had taken from him. What would that vile brigand have been doing in the weeks when he had not found me? Some other murderous deed, no doubt, for whoever paid him most.

  I did not sleep well that night. And neither did another, for Cesare Borgia was rarely seen during daylight and roamed the palace during the hours of darkness plotting revenge on those who had betrayed him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WE BEGAN AT first light the next day.

  There was a meeting with the commander of the castle and then, furnished with my master’s drawings and details of the adjustments, the stonemasons and joiners were set to work. In the afternoon the Maestro summoned me to come with him and we went out into Imola.

  Over the next days he paced out every street of the town, from the Franciscan church to the river, from the castle to the cathedral, with me by his side as he measured, calculated, noted and drew.

  I, pretending to feel the cold, had the cowl of my cloak drawn close to keep my face hidden as I walked each alley with him carrying his materials. In the late afternoon he inspected the improvements being done to the fortress and made further changes as necessary. After his evening meal he set out his paper and worked on his plan of the town.

  When the map of Imola was finally presented to him Cesare Borgia was amazed and delighted.

  ‘Never have I seen such an image,’ he declared. He put it on the table before him and walked round it to study it from every angle. ‘With this I can see as if I were an eagle. Such power it gives me! Even if the town was taken, with this information we could devise a strategy for a counter attack.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Imagine if I had such a plan for every city and town in Italy!’

  He was so pleased that he attended our apartments to dine with us that evening, and so it was he heard the fable my master told as entertainment after we had eaten.

  It was the story of the nut and the campanile and went thus:

  A nut was carried off by a crow to the top of a tall bell tower. Falling from the crow’s beak, the nut became lodged in a crevice in the wall of the building. Saved from its fate of being eaten by the crow, the nut beseeched the bell tower for refuge.

  But before it did this the nut first admired the beauty of the campanile, its greatness, height and strength.

  ‘How wonderful you look, noble tower!’ said the nut. ‘You are so elegant and graceful. Your outline against the sky is beautiful for everyone to see.’

  Next the nut praised the tone and appearance of the bells. ‘The melodious chimes of your bells sound through the city and out to the far hills. Many stop from their work to listen and enjoy their music.’

  Then the nut lamented how it had been prevented from falling from its parent tree upon the green earth.

  ‘A cruel crow has carried me off to this place, but if you, most gracious and generous campanile, could suffer me to shelter within your wall then I will stay quietly and end my days peacefully here.’

  And the campanile, moved to pity, agreed.

  Time passed. Each day the bells tolled the Angelus from the campanile. The nut rested silently.

  But then the nut cracked open, and, from within its shell, fine tendrils stretched out. It put roots among the cracks and crevices. Then it pushed shoots upwards which rose taller than the bell tower itself. Branches appeared, became strong. The roots grew thicker and thrust the stones of the building apart.

  Too late the campanile realized that it was being destroyed from within.

  Finally it was torn asunder and fell into a ruin.

  This tale was not, of course, really about a bell tower. It was a fable to illustrate how a person might cleverly insinuate himself into the life of another, draw sustenance and favour from them, and then with ingratitude betray them.

  Did Cesare Borgia take this story unto his own self, and allow his dark mind to reflect upon it as he pondered his situation? Messengers came and went at all times of the day and night, bringing him intelligence as to the whereabouts and the dealings of his former condottieri captains.

  So in the last months of 1502 the other city states of Italy waited to see what would be the outcome of the captains’ revolt. One in particular, whose territory bordered on that of the Romagna, was anxious to obtain information and dispatched a special emissary to Imola to find out the intentions of Prince Cesare. In previous years the affluent republic of Florence had driven out one powerful ruling family, the Medici, and did not wish them replaced with the another of equal but more sinister power, the Borgia. Thus the Florentine Council sent Messer Niccolò Machiavelli to Imola as their ambassador.

  This Machiavelli was an intriguing and witty man and the mood in our apartments altered when he joined us. My master was able to talk of the classics with him, while he and Felipe cautiously discussed the political situation. They agreed as to the menacing demeanour of our host.

  ‘His former captains have now taken for themselves some of the towns he captured,’ Machiavelli told us. ‘He will never forgive them for this. His manner bodes ill for anyone who has angered him.’

  As Christmas approached Il Valentino seemed to be less tense and decided that he would celebrate the holiday season with a dinner. He invited one of his lieutenants, a man who had been known to disagree with him, to attend.

  The weather had become intensely cold and we shivered as we worked. Looking down from the castle wall on the morning of the dinner party, we saw the lieutenant ride in with his wife and retinue. There was to be a banquet that night in the great hall. Cesare himself came to greet them in the courtyard, helping this man’s wife from her carriage and kissing them both warmly.

  ‘Such a greeting,’ said Graziano, ‘should make the lieutenant happy.’

  ‘Or,’ murmured Nic
colò Machiavelli, who was standing with my master, ‘deeply suspicious.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE EYES OF Cesare Borgia flickered over his dinner guests. His gaze rested on me where I stood beside the Maestro’s chair.

  ‘Do we need this boy here?’

  ‘He will fetch my sketches and plans should you require them, my lord,’ said the Maestro. ‘Matteo knows where everything is kept.’

  The dinner began.

  I reached out and lifted my master’s wine cup. Before I handed it to him I drank from it.

  The Maestro’s eyes opened in surprise. ‘You insult our host,’ he said in a low voice.

  We both looked to the top of the table. The Borgia had turned his head to listen to his dining companion. She was the wife of the lieutenant who had arrived that morning, and quite beautiful. She smiled at him coquettishly. He laughed.

  His guests relaxed.

  I did not.

  Cesare Borgia ate heartily, but drank little. Frequently he glanced around the table. He had the countenance of a man who has just entered a brothel.

  Dessert was announced with a trumpet fanfare. Cherries soaked in liqueur flavoured with cocoa, a delicacy brought from the New World. It struck me then that as few people would have tasted this plant it was the perfect opportunity to conceal poison.

  I bent and wiped the Maestro’s spoon with the napkin. I whispered, ‘Do not eat this dish.’

  ‘Tush, Matteo!’

  This plate was to be served to every individual separately yet at once. Led by a drummer, a long procession of servants filed into the great hall. They each carried a single plate, and they positioned themselves, one behind each chair, preparatory to placing a dish before each guest.

  Across the table from the Maestro sat the lieutenant. This man had displeased Cesare Borgia, and I remembered how, earlier in the afternoon, Il Valentino had made much show to welcome him, embracing the lieutenant in the courtyard as he arrived at the head of his column of soldiers.

  But now the lieutenant’s men were barracked some distance from this castle. And their commander sat alone at the table of the Borgia.

  My eyes met those of the servant who now stood behind his chair. The breath in my chest thickened so that I could not breathe. This was no servant. It was Michelotto, personal henchman of Cesare Borgia.

  The Borgia stood up and made a signal. Opposite me, like the other servants, the Borgia henchman, with both hands, placed the dish down on the table over the lieutenant’s head. The servants kept their hands on either side of the plate and waited.

  The guests at table made appropriate noises of delight at the unusual dish. Some of the ladies applauded. The lieutenant’s wife scooped up a cherry and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed. She tilted her head provocatively at Cesare Borgia. ‘You must try one.’

  He smiled at her but did not make any motion to eat. It was obvious that I was not the only one to have doubts about the strange dish, for although some people lifted their spoons, many hesitated.

  As if he had not noticed any awkwardness Cesare Borgia sat down then, picked up his own spoon and dipped it in the dessert. He put a mouthful to his lips. But it was not until he had eaten that the rest of the company followed suit.

  The lieutenant took his spoon in his hand.

  The Borgia nodded and waved to his servants in a gesture of dismissal. Everyone’s attention was on the table in front of them. Everyone’s except mine.

  On the opposite side of the table I saw the Borgia executioner smile. He raised his hands to withdraw. Between his fingers, in the candlelight, gleamed the wire of a garrotte.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IN A SUDDEN violent gesture the lieutenant’s hands clutched the table edge.

  A choking, gurgling noise retched from his throat. His fingers grabbed wildly and his plate went spinning. It fell to the floor and shattered.

  Michelotto tightened the torque.

  Unperturbed, Cesare Borgia continued talking to the lady at his side. She glanced down the table to see what had caused the disturbance. The Borgia smiled and leaned towards her. He whispered in her ear.

  She recoiled. Her hand went to her throat.

  Then she stood up and gave out a long scream. But she was too late to warn her husband and it took several seconds for the rest of the guests to appreciate what was happening.

  The lieutenant kicked out as he tried to twist away. His chair toppled back as his attacker hauled on the garrotte. The man’s own weight now helped strangle him. He reached up desperately, hands clawing at the face of his murderer. Then his struggles lessened. Michelotto gave one last pull and flung the man away from him. The body twitched and jerked upon the floor, shuddered and lay still. The lieutenant’s face was blue-black, with its swollen tongue protruding between his lips.

  Some of the guests rose from the table. Cesare Borgia snapped his fingers and the soldiers of his personal guard ran into the room. Their swords were drawn. At once all the dinner guests became motionless in their chairs; those who had half risen sat down again.

  The Maestro sank into his chair. He dropped his head into his hands. Felipe went to him and began to help him to his feet.

  From the head of the table Cesare Borgia spoke. ‘I gave no one permission to leave,’ he said silkily. ‘All will sit until I say otherwise.’

  He stood up and approached the lieutenant’s wife, who was crying hysterically. He slapped the woman on the cheek. She stumbled to her chair and sat down, still weeping.

  Felipe faced the Borgia and spoke calmly. ‘My master is unwell. I pray by your leave, my lord, that he may take his rest so that he may serve you to the best of his ability tomorrow.’

  Cesare Borgia gazed at Felipe for several seconds.

  Graziano had shoved his chair back from the table but he had not risen. His eyes were on Felipe. I tensed myself. By an effort of will I kept my hand away from the dinner knife lying on the table within my reach. I had already marked the soldiers by the door. Now I measured how many paces to the window. But I knew we had no chance of escape. If the Borgia chose to deem Felipe’s request an insult then none of us would leave this room alive.

  ‘Messer Leonardo’ – Cesare spoke slowly – ‘your work is valuable to me. Please go now and rest before your labours in the morning.’ He looked at Graziano, then Felipe, then me, as if memorizing our faces and names, before he continued. ‘You may take the members of your household with you.’

  Within a second Graziano and Felipe were on either side of the Maestro to help him stand. I picked up his bag. We retreated from the room as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible.

  As we left I heard Cesare Borgia call out to his musicians. ‘Such gloom,’ he cried, ‘will not do during a holiday. Play us a merry tune, minstrels.’ He took the sobbing lieutenant’s wife by the arm. ‘Perhaps now we will dance?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  THAT NIGHT NO one slept in the castle of Imola.

  My master did not eat or read or draw or undertake any of his studies. He sat by the open window with a heavy cloak about his shoulders and stared at the night sky.

  Some time before dawn Niccolò Machiavelli came and spoke with Felipe for a while. He had written previously to the Council of Florence, saying that he was in danger and asking to be recalled, but to no avail.

  ‘Perhaps now they will listen to me,’ he said. ‘I want to leave this place as soon as I am able.’

  ‘And I must try to disengage the Maestro from the services of the Borgia,’ Felipe replied. ‘But how to do it safely?’

  ‘Cesare Borgia’s mind is locked on one purpose,’ said Graziano. ‘And he will destroy anyone that stands in his way.’

  ‘Because he has deemed it a worthwhile cause,’ said Machiavelli, ‘he believes he has a right to employ any method to achieve his aim. It is an interesting concept.’

  ‘Has there been any more word about what his captains are scheming?’ Felipe asked him.r />
  ‘I have my own men working for me,’ said Machiavelli, ‘and I have recently received coded messages. But I fear these have already passed through the hands of the Borgia so it may be that I only hear what he wishes I should hear.’ He shrugged. ‘For what it is worth, the French are sending troops to help him. I suspect that he will wait until they are close and then offer reconciliation to the condottieri captains. They will not know that he has gathered more troops independently of them and may believe him to be trying to make peace because they outnumber him. He is planning to arrange a meeting with them to parley.’

  ‘Not here, surely!’ said Felipe, aghast. ‘They wouldn’t be so stupid as to come into his den to be devoured.’

  In the morning we had definite news. Cesare Borgia would meet with his former captains to discuss terms, but not at Imola. It would be on their territory, in a place they had just captured and where their forces were stationed. We had to make ready for a journey. Within the hour the Borgia, his men and retainers would leave for the coastal town of Senigallia on the Adriatic Sea.

  ‘Has every one of his captains agreed to this meeting?’ the Maestro asked Felipe as we set out. He was sitting beside me on a horse-drawn cart that carried his books and materials. Felipe and Graziano rode on their own horses beside us.

  Felipe nodded. Unspoken between them was the name of Vitellozzo Vitelli, the captain who was the Maestro’s friend.

  Flanked by six hundred Swiss pikes, we rode in the train of the Borgia army down the Via Emilia. Snow was falling in the last days of that bitter December. The villages we passed through were deserted. I suspect the inhabitants flitted out at our approach and then returned after the army had gone. We stopped at Cesena, where they gave a ball in honour of Il Valentino, and he danced and flirted as if he had no other care in the world.

  But secretly Machiavelli told us that the Borgia forces had been split up and were being sent ahead separately by different routes to converge on Senigallia.