City of God

by Cecelia Holland

  “His wife’s brother is married to Beatrice d’Este,” Nicholas said, “whose only concern is her collections of statuary and painting. You might let her acquire a few of the prizes of Guidobaldo’s collection. I understand he has a piece by Michelangelo that she once tried to purchase from you.”

  “She offered much too low.” Valentino leaned back, his hand on his stomach. He looked off across the room, past Nicholas, his pale brow furrowing. “I do not like your Republic, Nicholas.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, startled at the sudden shift.

  “Better than giving me Urbino would be a plan to bring Florence to her knees before me.”

  “Yes, Magnificence.”

  Valentino frowned, his face still turned so that his eyes were directly past Nicholas; he spoke much louder than before. His hand had clenched against his stomach.

  “They have insulted me, abused my faith, betrayed a contract signed and sealed—yet I hardly even know their names!” The prince hammered with his fist at the table. “They reach power, they humiliate me and my father, and then before I can retaliate, those men are down and another set are up, claiming no knowledge of what went before.”

  Nicholas’s mouth was dry. He said, “It is a government intended to be ineffectual, Magnificence.”

  “It effects my shame.” Now Valentino raised his stony gaze to Nicholas’s face. “You will tell me how to remove it.”

  Nicholas’s eyes burned; he wanted to look away, sure that Valentino would read his mind through his eyes. He said, “Magnificence, you need only threaten Florence, and the Republic will fall.”

  He did not say that any government that followed would certainly be more adamantly against Valentino than the existing state. He pressed his sweating hands to the table linen, wondering how the conversation had led him to this precipice.

  “So easily?” Valentino asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Nicholas said. He forced himself to go on meeting the prince’s gleaming feral eyes. “You need only send your armies into Tuscany to put this Republic in its grave.”

  Valentino twisted to look at Miguelito behind him and straightened again in his chair. “It will serve as a diversion, too—while we take Urbino.”

  Nicholas said, “Yes—and the King of France cannot accuse you of disobeying his order against attacking Florence directly.”

  Valentino frowned again; his gaze slid away from Nicholas and he stirred in his chair and rubbed his throat with his hand. “The French king,” he said, loudly again. “The French king may dance as he wills. Now that the Spanish have an army in Italy—”

  Then the French had in fact guaranteed Florence against the Borgias. This was fresh news. Nicholas did not look away from Valentino now. He had the sensation of rushing into the slack jaws of a crocodile, picking at the morsels between the teeth.

  “There are a number of cities in Tuscany who hate the dominance of Florence,” Nicholas said. He lowered his voice. He wanted to seem diffident. “You need only convince one city to open her gates to your army—”

  “Which?”

  “I shall study the problem.” One more succulent tidbit between the crocodile’s back teeth. “You know that Pisa has defied Florence, now, for so many years—if it could be revealed to the Florentines that Pisa has offered herself to you—”

  Valentino tipped his head back. “Will Pisa come to me?”

  No, then. Nicholas smiled at the prince before him. “Whether she will or no, the rumor will be enough.”

  Valentino laughed and slapped his hand on his broad thigh. “My darling mouse. To think your talent might have withered and died, there in the Florentine legation.”

  “He is hungry,” Miguelito said.

  The Borgia pushed his chair back and stood. “Eat,” he said to Nicholas. “Send for more, if you wish.” From his full height he smiled down on Nicholas, his leonine beauty vivid with good humor. He took his mask from the table and went out.

  Miguelito followed him to the door, where he turned again toward Nicholas; sober-faced, he bowed his head and made a little flourish with his hands. The door closed silently behind him.

  Nicholas took his place in Valentino’s chair. He fell upon the feast that Valentino had left to him.

  Carnival began. White as skulls, the painted faces of the celebrants swarmed along the Corso and through the web of crooked streets beside the river; every piazza resounded with dancing music and the racket of fights. Nicholas kept his purse tucked safely away under his coat. He avoided the thick of the crowds, going always down the side of the street, along the edge of the piazza, until he came to the bullring near the river.

  There the sausage vendors and the sweetmeat vendors were hawking their delights in voices hoarse from overuse. Nicholas loitered near the wall of new lumber that kept the bulls in. He watched a young sprig of the Cattanei, mounted on a gaudy chestnut horse, chase a black bull around and around the ring. None of the Italians knew how to fight bulls. Nicholas bought a drink of wine from a vendor wearing a red and white mask and a false beard. Down the street to his left came a chain of people, singing and dancing, each with his hands on the shoulders of the one before him.

  The young nobleman at last succeeded in turning his bull, and the bull in one charge drove him out of the ring. The crowd hooted. Bits of bread and small stones showered him as he rode away.

  “Well met, Nicholas,” a voice boomed, “and what do you today?”

  It was Amadeo, splendidly dressed, his face half-concealed behind a jeweled mask; he wore jeweled gloves also. Half a dozen of his familiars were standing in the street behind him.

  Nicholas turned his walking stick up under his folded arm. “Well, Amadeo, I am looking for an honest man.”

  “During the daylight, Nicholas, how decadent!”

  Nicholas laughed unconvincingly; Amadeo always pushed him into these half-witted duels, grasping for witticisms. “Only in Rome is honesty a matter for the dark,” he said. Beyond the ring, the crowd’s voice swelled to a thunder: someone was riding to the bull.

  “When you find him, will you do me the favor of joining me?”

  “Really, Amadeo. In the daylight?”

  Now Amadeo laughed. He ran his fingers over the bottom edge of his mask, adjusting it on his nose, so that all the jewels glittered. “Feeble, my dear Nicholas. I see you’ve been drinking, it affects your wit.”

  At that moment Stefano came up to them. Already more than half-drunk, he was not wearing a mask, only the great floppy hat pulled low over his eyes. He said to Nicholas, “Am I late?” and looked curiously at Amadeo.

  Nicholas said, “This is Amadeo Risi, Stefano.”

  “Oh,” Amadeo said, smiling. “Is he honest?”

  “What?” Stefano asked blankly.

  Amadeo was grinning at him like a fox. “An old continuing joke between me and my friend Nicholas here. We haven’t met, have we? I thought I knew everyone in Rome. Nicholas is coming with us to a little party at my house—do come too.”

  “I haven’t seen much of the Carnival yet,” Nicholas said quickly, before Stefano could agree.

  Without a word, Stefano brushed between them to reach the wall of the bullring. Amadeo’s avid stare tracked him faithfully.

  “Oh, come,” Amadeo said, “what’s to see? Carnival is tame, now—a hundred years ago, only think, we’d have enjoyed the spectacle of a hundred pigs dashed to pieces on the rocks below Testaccio. Come to my house. I have a keg of Perugian—we’ll broach both ends before the night’s over.”

  Stefano said, “Isn’t that Valentino?”

  Nicholas reached the wall in a single step. It was Valentino; the man riding to the bull was indeed Valentino. He should have guessed it by the racket of the crowd, still roaring and waving their arms and hats.

  Valentino rode a black horse against a black bull; he turned it at the far side of t
he ring from Nicholas and the bull charged. Its horns were longer than the horns of a Spanish bull. Valentino bent his horse neatly around a circle, avoiding the bull’s rush, and when it wheeled, he raced past its heels. Confused, the bull stopped and shook its head and snorted.

  The crowd whistled and cheered its approval. Valentino raised his hand to them; he made his horse dance sideways, its legs crossing one over the other, for another shout of applause. Word that he was riding had spread and more and more people were moving in around the ring, shoving for a place near the wall. They pressed against Nicholas, uncomfortably close.

  Valentino took a lance from someone at the gate and played the bull from side to side, leading its charge with the lance. They turned in circles in the middle of the ring, the bull around the horse and man, like the sun around the world. Suddenly, with no warning, the bull veered from the lance and struck the horse in the shoulder.

  The horse fell and Valentino leapt to the ground; he slipped and went to one knee in the dust. The screams of those around Nicholas made him catch his breath. Stefano pushed into him from one side, pushed himself by the people behind him. Nicholas was pressed against the rough boards of the wall. Across the sand from him Valentino surged up onto his feet and pulled his sword from its scabbard.

  The bull dropped its horns and charged him. Valentino stood like a stone before the sweeping horns until the bull was one stride from him; he pivoted to one side, and the black beast shot by him. With both hands Valentino brought his sword down across the bull’s neck.

  The bull went down so suddenly that it tumbled head over heels. Blood sprayed in a broad sweep over the dust; one horn had broken off against the ground. While it thrashed its legs Valentino ran in behind it and struck it again, and the bull’s kicks gradually ceased. Valentino backed away.

  Nicholas sighed. The wall shook and rocked under the impact of the cheering people around it. He turned toward Stefano, who gave him a shocked frown.

  “I think you are in love with him.”

  “Bah,” Nicholas said, which was not denying it.

  Amadeo had taken off his mask, and held it in his hand, while he smiled at Stefano. Abruptly he turned to Nicholas and said, “What does he have?”

  Nicholas gave him a pointed look, embarrassed; he hoped that Stefano would not judge him by this friend. “What he needs,” he said.

  “Really, Nicholas. Jealousy is a woman’s trait.” Amadeo fit his mask smoothly back over his head. “Well, we’re off. Are you coming? I promise you we shall enjoy every pleasure this evening.”

  Nicholas glanced at Stefano, who had turned back to watch the bulking, where some men with a cart were butchering the dead bull. Valentino was leading his crippled horse out of the ring at the far end. Nicholas faced Amadeo again.

  “Another time, perhaps.”

  “I’ll join you,” Stefano said.

  Amadeo beamed all over. “Oh, wonderful!” he cried, and looped his arm through Stefano’s. “Nicholas,” he said, “how sad you can’t come too. But we will see you—another time?”

  Stefano’s face was carefully bland. He glanced at Nicholas, but his eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Amadeo hurried away down the street. Nicholas stared after them, sour.

  Old Juan was used to planting a kitchen garden by the back fence of Nicholas’s house. As soon as the winter rains broke, not long after the beginning of Lent, he searched out the shovel and the rake and lugged them off into the weeds.

  “I cannot fathom you,” Nicholas said. “You are too old for such exercises.”

  He was washing his hands in the stone basin in the kitchen. On the table to his left, Juan was opening a pouch of seed he had traded for in the marketplace. The old man inserted his nose into the pouch and took a loud sniff.

  “You might easily purchase all you need,” Nicholas said, shaking water from his hands. Juan put down the pouch of seeds and brought him linen.

  “Nothing tastes as fine as fresh herbs,” Juan said. “And it reminds me of Navarre.”

  “You live in memories.”

  “It is pleasant to me—the work.”

  “When you strain yourself, that will not be entirely pleasing, I am sure.”

  The old man brought him his coat and he put it on. The coat was new; the stiffened lining under the fur collar bit his neck.

  “Is Stebano coming tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are some apples left. I shall bake an apple cake.”

  “Why do you bother with him so much? Per Baccho, perhaps I ought to be jealous.”

  “He appreciates such things.”

  “And I do not?”

  The old man was sniffing at his seeds again. Wisps of colorless hair floated here and there over the dome of his bald head. He poured seed out onto the palm of his hand.

  “I think he must have belonged to a large family, wherever he came from. He longs for them, and so he lives in a family with us.”

  Surprised, Nicholas searched the old man’s face, pacific with age. Juan was always making up tales about people he did not know, yet this one, this was very close to truth.

  “His family is dead,” he said slowly. “Died of plague, all save him and his father.”

  Juan crossed himself. “Holy Mother gather them to Thee.”

  The gold hooks of the coat were cool under Nicholas’s fingers. He slipped the prongs into the loops, pulled his sleeves straight, and ran one finger around the scratchy inside of the neck. The old man was right: this house was home to Stefano, living in a taverna, dining on whore’s leavings, over a rented table. It irritated him that this simple explanation had eluded him but not Juan.

  “I will make the apple cake.” Juan went into the pantry.

  “Here, old man, bring me another glass of wine.” Stefano made pouring gestures with his hand over his empty glass.

  Nicholas came out of his room to the sight of Stefano, already lounging in the chair now recognized as his favorite, and ordering Juan about. Annoyed, Nicholas paused. Stefano tinned his beaming smile on him, and his eyes widened.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Stefano got up out of his chair. “You look like a prince. Where did you have your coat made?”

  “In the Lily-Row Street.”

  “It looks expensive.”

  Juan brought in the wine jar and filled Stefano’s glass; Stefano ignored it. He moved around Nicholas, fingering the coat and murmuring in appreciation.

  “But you should have done it in some color other than brown. Or at least you could wear a gold chain. Maybe two.”

  Warm inside the coat Nicholas lowered his gaze to the floor. Under Stefano’s scrutiny he felt like a piece of merchandise. Yet had he not worn it so that Stefano would admire it? He walked away from Stefano’s humiliating touch.

  “Juan, will you light the rest of the candles? And I shall have the Spanish wine.”

  Stefano was behind him, still watching him; Nicholas kept his back to Stefano.

  “You are early.”

  “I was losing,” Stefano said, “so I left the game.”

  He sounded amused. Nicholas turned the lyre-backed chair around and sat in it, now facing Stefano again, and saw with rising anger that Stefano was smiling at him. He pulled at the lavish fur cuffs of his sleeves.

  “I’m pleased you’ve learned to stop when you must.”

  “It isn’t hard. When I have somewhere to go.”

  Juan brought Nicholas his glass and went off to light the candles.

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Two hundred carlini. How much did that coat cost?”

  “Rather more than that,” Nicholas said.

  “Where are you getting all this money? It seems to me when I first met you that you were always poor. Haggled with me over a penny.”

  “I have made some wise investments.”


  Stefano took his favorite chair by the back and brought it across the room toward Nicholas.

  “May I sit by you?”

  Nicholas grunted. The gleam of amusement still danced in Stefano’s eyes, in his smile, his whole expression. “Yes, of course,” Nicholas said. He felt suddenly that Stefano knew him too well.

  “When are you going to have the walls finished?” Stefano nodded around the room.

  “When I have decided what to put there.”

  “It seemed right the other way.”

  “I was bored with it.”

  “It made the room seem …” Stefano stirred up the air with his hand, “it was like being in the country.”

  “Yes. It seemed very empty and bland. I loathe the country.”

  A banging on the door jumped him up out of his chair, startled, like some animal. He took three steps toward the door before he thought to let Juan open it. He touched his palms to the fur on the front of his coat. Juan hurried by him to the door.

  “Yes?”

  The old man spoke out through a crack of an opening. The voice that answered was muffled and Nicholas could not hear the words. Juan turned his head.

  “He speaks Spanish. He wishes to see you privily.”

  Nicholas went up to the threshold; one hand on the old man’s shoulder sent him away. On the walk outside the door stood Miguelito da Corella.

  “Are you alone?” Miguelito said. He was wrapped to the ears in a cloak. Nicholas wondered how he had come past the gate. “May I come in?”

  Stefano must have left the gate open. “There is one here,” Nicholas said. “He speaks no Spanish.”

  Miguelito nodded, and Nicholas let him into the room. Stefano was fifteen feet away, watching them curiously. Nicholas took Miguelito by the elbow and turned him so that his back was to the room.

  “My master ordered you to determine where in Tuscany to strike.”

  “Arezzo,” Nicholas said, low. “Tell him that the people are so sore from the taxes and abuses of Florence that they will probably welcome in any army he sends.”

  Miguelito’s mouth quirked. His thin black moustache hid the corners of his lips but the smile gave his face a kinder look. He said, “I thought it would be Arezzo. Or Piombino.”