City of God (15 page)

Urbino stood on a precipitous mountain. The great cannon of Federigo da Montefeltro looked out from the walls. A condottiere had built it, with an eye to discouraging other condottieri. Nicholas hoped Federigo's work would keep its magic. He set his teeth together and endured the wait.

Oliverotto left first, grumbling, stamping through the public room in his awkward bearish walk. A few moments later the two Orsini came out of Valentino's chamber, putting their hats on as they passed by Nicholas. He heard them burst forth into talk just beyond the door into the corridor.

The page looked out and saw Nicholas and shut the inner door again. Nicholas reworked his arguments in his mind. His legs ached from standing so long, hours now. His left ear began to hurt. That was the cold; every winter he suffered pain in that ear from excess of cold. Gianpaolo's hangers-on came out of the private chamber and crowded around the hearth with him, talking. Although they buffeted him and nudged him, he did not give way to these menials.

A candle guttered in its brass wall sconce and went out.

The time stretched unbearably long. Nicholas could not stay still; he began to pace again along the hearth, dodging Gianpaolo's chattering familiars. He polished his arguments for the fiftieth time. It was so obvious, so simple a plan; perhaps they had thought of it. Perhaps there was some flaw, something a military man would see at once, invisible to a diplomat.

The page looked in. “Messer Dawson, come in, please.”

His mind numb, he went through the doorway into Valentino's chamber.

Only one candle burned. The little room was almost completely dark. The roaring of the wind and the rain outside sounded dimly through the walls. Valentino sat so that the light of the candle shone on his face, his gleaming feral eyes, and his hands. He wore black, unrelieved by ornament, and his face and hands seemed to float unbodied in the darkness. He said, “What is it, Nicholas?”

This room was warm. Nicholas coughed, already beginning to sweat. He became aware of Gianpaolo Baglione sitting to his left, slightly behind him. Valentino was watching him intently. He looked irritated. It was the wrong moment. He would only anger Valentino.

All his wit had flown; he could not gather the words he had memorized. He blurted out, “I have a plan for you, Excellency. For the spring's campaigning in the Romagna.”

Valentino's mouth worked behind the masking beard. His gaze shifted toward Gianpaolo. “Who does not?”

Gianpaolo said, “Do you fancy yourself a tactician, Messer Secretary?”

“My lord,” Nicholas said. “It seems so obvious to me—you must have considered it—I am a fool to suggest it, perhaps—”

“What?” Valentino said.

“Urbino.”

Gianpaolo made a rude sound with his lips. Above Valentino's luminous eyes, the pale brows flattened.

“You've never seen Urbino, little mouse. It's beyond reach.”

“I know all that.” Nicholas took a step forward, his hands out. “The guns, the walls—everything. I tell you, Urbino can be taken. With that city under your command, only think how strong—”

Valentino smiled at Gianpaolo. “How may Urbino be taken?”

“The walls and the cannon were Federigo's,” Nicholas said, “but he is dead. Guidobaldo, his son, is another sort of man entirely. He trusts in honor and justice.”

“On with it, mouse.”

“Make him your ally,” Nicholas said. He was talking at a racing speed, trying to reach the end of his argument before they sent him away. “Plan an attack together on some other city—beyond Urbino. I thought Camerino perhaps. He will put his troops and cannon at your disposal. You will seek permission to march through his territory on the way to Camerino. Then you swerve, at the last moment you march on Urbino herself while her defenses are gone. He will have no choice save to surrender.”

“Sweet Cross of Jesus!” Gianpaolo exploded. “The Devil's mouthpiece.”

Valentino's glowing eyes were rapt on Nicholas. “Messer Mouse, there are certain expectations of a man, even in war.”

“Is it more acceptable to slaughter hundreds of people—lose your own men by the hundreds?” Nicholas said. “This way Urbino can be had without the shedding of a drop of blood.”

Gianpaolo swore again in a voice harsh with outrage.

“You see,” Valentino said. “My own men will not accept it. It is too extreme. Unworthy of a soldier.”

“Urbino is property of the Church,” Nicholas said. “You are the standardbearer of the Church. You may recover your property efficiently, without wanton slaughter—I cannot see why any reasonable man would refuse.”

Valentino laughed. He shook his head at Nicholas. “War is not the game of reasonable men, my mouse. Go home. I will send for you again, before I leave Rome—there is some intelligence I require of other matters.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Leave the tactics henceforth to such as have some real knowledge of the practice of war.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

Nicholas bowed himself out of the dark room. He was relieved that it was over. Now he himself saw how rash his plan was. In fact he had forgotten that, like Urbino, Gianpaolo's city Perugia was nominally a Papal fief, and so the Baglione prince's reaction was utterly predictable. He had overlooked too much. Wrapped in his coats, he hurried home through the driving rain.

“Is Stebano coming tonight?” Juan asked,

“No,” Nicholas said. Juan's half-Spanished name for Stefano galled him. The old man set a dish of soup before him and sprinkled rubbed cheese over the dark surface.

“Bread?”

“Yes.” Nicholas picked up his spoon.

“Butter?”

“I always have butter on my bread.” He dipped the spoon into the soup and raised it to his lips. Juan was cutting slices from the loaf.

“Per Baccho.” Nicholas put the spoon down beside the soup bowl. “The soup is cold.”

Juan goggled at him. “Really?” He reached for the spoon, to taste it himself.

“You may take my word for it.” Nicholas thrust the dish away. The spoon clattered to the floor.

“I will put it on the fire,” Juan said, and slid his hands under the dish.

“Don't bother. I will eat somewhere else.”

“It will be hot in a moment.”

Nicholas left his chair. He toed off his fur-lined house shoes and kicked them aside. “Bring me my shoes and my coat.”

Juan left the soup on the table and went away to the bedchamber. Nicholas strode across the room to the rack by the door where his walking stick was hanging. The old man returned, and kneeling put the shoes on Nicholas's feet, then rising helped him into his coat. Nicholas shifted his stick from hand to hand.

“Keep the door. I shall be late, probably.”

Juan gave him an instant's pointed look but said nothing. He opened the door for his master.

Nicholas went across the city, past the Colosseo and the gloomy walls of the basilica by the Forum, and turned into the warren of alleys and lanes across the Piazza San Marco from the Campidoglio. The rain had stopped but the street was slippery and smelled of mud and refuse. There were no lights. He went along slowly through the narrow way, listening for voices. Sometimes bands of men prowled the streets at night looking for easy theft. Pope Alexander kept better order in Rome than most Popes but at night the city was still unsafe for unarmed people. The street ended against a hillside where goats grazed and Nicholas found and climbed the footpath up to the top.

On the far slope was a taverna; two sputtering torches lit up the doorway, and along the front wall a dozen young men were ranged. Most of them leaned up against the wall; they all wore their coats and shirts open to the waist, in spite of the cold. It was their uniform, their invitation. On the far side of the street was a myrtle tree, where Nicholas waited in the shadow while a few people entered the taverna.

When the street was empty and he had made his choice among the young men, he crossed the open way to the third boy from the door, whose broad shoulders and fair hair attracted him.

“Good evening,” Nicholas said. “It's a raw night.”

The young man smiled at him. He had excellent white teeth. “Yes, but at least it isn't raining.”

“A cup of wine would warm us both. Will you join me?”

“I'm not thirsty,” the boy said. His lips performed the smile even while he talked. “I'll sit with you, if you wish. While you drink.”

“The wine here is inferior in any case. Perhaps you'd take a stroll with me?”

“Forty carlini,” the young man said, through his smile.

“Very well.”

They went around behind the taverna. In the darkness by the wall, between two tall wine casks, Nicholas accomplished his pleasure. He gave the boy a crown.

“Go buy yourself some wine. Elsewhere than here.”

The boy laughed. He pulled his clothes together and walked away down the alley without another word. When Nicholas came out to the street again, the boy had taken up his former station along the front wall of the taverna.

Nicholas went down the hillside to another taverna; where he knew the wine was good, although all the whores were women.

He stopped in the doorway, surprised at the crowd that filled every bench and overflowed across the floor. A knot of men diced on a table under the lamp. Nicholas slipped by them to the rear of the common room, where the wine was sold, and bought a glass from a drunken slattern.

He drew away to one side. The wine was pleasantly sharp. The sex had left him clean and exhilarated. Stefano had told him once that he pitied any man who had to buy sex. Yet it was so orderly that way. Already he had forgotten the young man's face. The act was pure; nothing remained after the fire was out.

With a start he let himself hear what his ears had attended to for many moments. Guitar music sounded on the other side of the room. He did not know the song but he recognized the style of play. He walked through the press of drinkers and gamesters.

Miguelito da Corella sat in the corner, playing the guitar. Nicholas paused. He thought of going away. The slender hands, on the instrument gripped his attention. At their last meeting, Miguelito had told him in gestures as clear as words not to bother him.

The music stopped abruptly. Miguelito said, in Spanish, “Well, hail, Nicholas.”

“Hello,” Nicholas said.

He took a step nearer the other man, who was sitting on a stool against the wall.

“What are you doing out so late?” Miguelito played an idle chord and broke it into separate notes.

“What's done in the dark.” Nicholas raised his glass and drank. “And looking for my supper. Come share bread with me.”

Miguelito shook his head. “I am not free.”

With his chin he pointed across the room.

Nicholas's head turned. There, in the middle of the gamblers, was Valentino. He wore a black velvet mask that covered his face from hair to chin, yet there was no doubt that it was Valentino.

As Nicholas watched, the prince won his cast, and with a roar he clapped the men beside him across the shoulders; he snatched up the dice and brandished them. The men who flanked him swung around him like puppets, their eyes fixed on him.

Miguelito was playing music again. Nicholas turned back to him.

“Does he do this often?”

The other man shrugged. His coat hung over the edge of his stool, and his shirt was open at the throat; his oiled hair hung dankly beside his ears and over his shoulder. He plucked quick dance music from his guitar.

“Well,” Nicholas said, “one learns. I'm off to find my supper.”

“Stay here.” Miguelito silenced the guitar strings with a slap. “He's seen you—he'll want to talk to you.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Wait.”

Miguelito returned to his music. Nicholas Thung at his elbow, uncertain. If he left, what might Valentino do? Nothing. He turned his gaze toward the dicers again, and saw the Borgia prince standing with his hands on his hips, looking down at the gaming table; he had lost the dice. His hat was off. The strings of his mask dented his lustrous red-brown hair. Even idle, he seemed full of force and coiled strength, ready for any challenge. Nicholas drank the last of his wine. He knew he would wait on Valentino's whim.

Much later Miguelito stood up suddenly and put his guitar against the wall. “Come with me,” he said to Nicholas, and went away across the room.

Nicholas followed him through the mob. The hour was very late: past midnight. Valentino was still presiding over the game of dice, now with a fat whore giggling on his arm.

Following Miguelito, Nicholas went up the rickety wooden stairs to the taverna's second story, divided into a honeycomb of little rooms. In one room was a table, laid with a white cloth, a plate, a selection of forks and knives, and a wine glass. When the two men entered the room it was quite dark, and Miguelito struck a light in his tinderbox and lit the candle in the middle of the table.

A moment later Valentino came into the room. The whore still clung to his arm, shrieking with drunken laughter. Nicholas withdrew into a corner. He loathed drunkenness. The woman's hennaed hair and face smeared with rouge horrified him. Valentino tucked money into the front of the whore's dress and pushed her away.

“Oh, honey, let me stay. I'll give you service—” she burst into uncontrollable giggles, her hand across her mouth, and lunged at Valentino and fell into his arms.

He shoved her savagely away from him. Without a word or signal, Miguelito jumped on her. She had fallen to her knees; when she began to rise, Miguelito gripped her hair and dragged her to the door. She screamed once. Miguelito put his foot on her backside and kicked her out of the room.

Nicholas watched from the corner. He thought, That might befall me, if I am careless.

Valentino sat at his table. He reached behind his head to unfasten his mask and laid it beside his plate. Miguelito left, shutting the door behind him; Valentino smiled at Nicholas.