Read City of God Online

Authors: Cecelia Holland

City of God (23 page)

BOOK: City of God
9.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Thick with soldiers, the cramped open spaces of the ancient building were threaded through a bulk of solid stone. Nicholas imagined that an anthill must be as crowded and as cold. A guard took his credentials and letter of introduction and led him to the gallery where he was to meet Astorre.

The gallery, pierced with windows, was as bleak as the rest of the fortress. Not even a woven hanging covered the raw stone wall. The oval windows were barred with a grille-work of wrought metal, coiled like rose vines, and studded with iron thorns. Astorre appeared at the far end, among the shadows, and stood hesitantly until a guard came forward to direct him to Nicholas.

Nicholas bowed, knelt, and kissed the young man's proffered hand. The guard read off his name, mispronounced as only a Romagnol could mispronounce it, and his station. Folding the letter, the man propped himself against the wall to watch.

“You are gracious to come, Ser—Doo—”

“Messer Nicholas Dawson, Magnificence.”

Astorre smiled. He was a handsome boy, his hair soft and pale, hanging in curls over his ears like a carved Cupids, and his innocent eyes wide-set. The smooth lips smiled too easily. The dungeon had not corrupted him yet. He listened to Nicholas's speech of friendship and concern with his head inclined a little to one side.

“You of Florence are ever kind to me. There was no need of this visit to assure me that you will not desert me now.”

Nicholas said something about ransom and asked what amenities the prince might need to soften his prison stay. At the word “prison” Astorre moved, his hands rising from his sides, his eyes shifting away.

“Prison. I am not in prison here.”

He turned toward the window, through which he and Nicholas could see the Tiber.

“I am a guest here. He—my Lord Cesare—he has never used me as a prisoner. Only as a guest. He has said it often.”

“Magnificence, the Duke Valentino enjoys the power of soft words—”

“He would not deceive me.”

The boy put his hand on the grille, his fingers curling through the open work, among the iron thorns.

“I can leave whenever I wish.”

Without moving his head, Nicholas glanced at the guard, listening to every word. Was the boy saying all this for the guard's sake? Or for his own?

“Nevertheless, Magnificence, I beg you, do not attempt to leave before we have arranged the formalities.”

“Oh, you diplomats.” Astorre, smiling again, looked over his shoulder at Nicholas. “He is right—without your little rules you are lost.”

“Then, Magnificence, for our comfort, allow us to believe that our little rules are of some value.”

“As you wish.”

The guard was coming toward them. The interview was over. Nicholas knelt again. Again he paid the prince the usual compliments and assurances. He touched the pale fingers to his lips. He hoped that Astorre's trust in Valentino went no deeper than that. He hardly dared look into the boy's beautiful, trusting face.

The guard took away the prisoner. Nicholas went as swiftly as he could make his way down the cramped driveway to the courtyard.

There Miguel da Corella was dismounting from his horse. Nicholas paused, uncertain whether to greet him, Miguelito's moods being utterly beyond prediction. To his surprise the soldier saw him, burst into wreaths of smiles, and hailed him over to his side.

“Messer Nicholas. What do you here?”

“In fact, I am going out,” Nicholas said. “This place haunts me.”

Miguelito pulled off his heavy riding gloves. “You are a fantast.”

“No, never, for God's love. I have no such imaginative fever, I assure you.”

A smirk crossed Miguelito's face. He stuffed his gloves into his belt. The buckle of the belt was in the figure of a Gorgon's head. “Maybe so. Whom did you come here to see?”

“Don't you know?” Nicholas said, certain of it; as if Miguelito had told him outright, that question warned him that the soldier was here to plumb what he knew of Astorre.

The other man worked one shoulder up and down. His olive complexion was darker by a film of dirt. Nicholas put on a polite face of waiting for an answer.

At last Miguelito said, “What do you think of him?”

“Of whom?”

“Ah—you wiggler—Astorre! The pretty boy.”

Nicholas glanced at the gate, longing to go. “He is certainly that.”

“You find him attractive.”

“That I never said. He is—soft. What do you intend for him?”

Again Miguelito's lips parted in a leer. “Yes, that, very soft. You are right.” He began to walk, going to the gate, walking Nicholas to the gate. “He yields too readily. I love strength in a man—something I can test my own power against. Otherwise one might as well love women. Isn't that so?”

Nicholas lowered his eyes to look at the rough paving stones. “What do you intend for him?”

“I don't decide such things. Ask someone else. Have you learned any more about those coded messages?”

“I know whom they were to be sent to,” Nicholas said.

Miguelito's eyes widened. “Who?”

“I should tell Valentino.”

The soldier flung a sharp look to either side of him to see if anyone watched, and stepped closer, his head thrust forward. “Tell me. You know I am my master's right hand and right eye and right ear.”

He stank. Nicholas moved backward, away from him, smiling. “Not close enough to him, though, to know what fate he intends for Astorre.”

Miguelito grunted, and his lips curled down; that angered him. “Well,” he said, “come tonight to the palace. Attend on him at supper.”

On the last word he wheeled and strode away. Nicholas began to call after him but there were too many strangers in the courtyard. Half of Rome would know with their breakfast if he waited on Valentino at his private supper. He wondered how the Signory would construe that. Miguelito had gone. Nicholas went back to his legation.

On his way to the Vatican that evening he fell in with another servant of Valentino's, a Spaniard named des Troches, who was buoyant with speculations. “The Pope is to dine tonight with Valentino. We shall all have to look smart.”

“Why?” Nicholas asked.

“Well, I for one have hopes of a certain office in the Pope's household that I happen to know will soon come vacant. A very nice pension.”

Nicholas glanced sharply across at the other man. Paste jewels sparkled in the Spaniard's sleeves. His beard was oiled to a point. They came to the doorway and Nicholas stood aside to let des Troches go ahead of him. There at the threshold to the dining chamber, where already a dozen courtiers hummed and buzzed, des Troches paused a moment, his face intense. His hands darted over his costume, touching his clothes into place, as if he were putting himself together. He walked forward with a new strut in his gait. Nicholas followed, half-amused, feeling drab.

They entered a room full of noise. No one sat at the table near the window, and Nicholas could not make out how many places had been made ready. It was commonly known that Valentino preferred to dine by himself. A number of other men were already talking and moving around the room when Nicholas and des Troches came in, and des Troches was greeting them, some casually, some with the intensity of a lover. Nicholas went off along the edge of the room.

There were four sets of gold dinner plate waiting on the table. He wandered away, reluctant to be so much in the eye of the room.

“Messer Dawson.” A man in a red coat put himself forward into Nicholas's path. “We met at the Cardinal of Siena's Christmas, some years ago, you must remember.” He put out his hand and said his name, which Nicholas recognized vaguely. He shook the hand fluttering at him.

“I have never spent Christmas with Piccolomini.”

“Never mind. It doesn't matter, actually—everyone knows who you are.” The man in the red coat smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth. He leaned forward a little to smile into Nicholas's face. “You will know me better soon enough.”

Nicholas's face went hot; he hoped he was not blushing. He said, “I am sure of that. Your leave, sir.”

He started around the man, but before he could get away Valentino's pages came in announcing him.

All around the room the court bowed, and a few moments later they were all kneeling while the Pope came in. With Alexander were his son Joffre and Joffre's wife Sancia, a princess of Naples, who was wearing shoes so steeply heeled that she teetered along on her boyish husband's arm.

Miguelito strolled across the room toward Nicholas. “Good evening, Nicholas,”

“And to you,” Nicholas said.

The soldier lowered his voice. “Now tell me what you would not tell me at Sant' Angelo.”

They were standing almost within one another's arm. Nicholas saw des Troches watching them from a short distance away and stared at him until des Troches turned his head and walked off.

“Gianpaolo had the notes written to send to Oliverotto and two of the Orsini, but he met them in person before they could be sent. I understand they agreed to a secret meeting at La Magione. That is all I know.”

Miguelito said, “You are sure?” He spoke a broad Navarrese oath. “Those devils.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. Miguelito's passion was interesting to him; there was something religious in this outrage. Miguelito nudged him with his elbow.

“How did you find this out?”

Nicholas shrugged, not answering. Miguelito glared at him. “Wait here.”

Nicholas looked toward the table where the Pope sat with his family. The most favored of Valentino's court were serving their supper to them. “Let me go with you,” he said.

“Isn't that careless?” Miguelito said. “What if the Florentines hear you are so friendly with us?”

Two hours ago Nicholas had worried over the same matter, but now he longed to put himself within hearing of whatever was said at that table. “I am accredited to the Pope's Court,” he said to Miguelito. “It's my work to be friendly with you.” So he could argue it to the Florentines. Miguelito grunted.

“Come, then.”

Nicholas could not withhold his smile. His hands clasped casually behind his back, he went after Miguelito across the room. He knew all the court watched, envious. It was important to look as if he did this at his will.

Miguelito went to stand behind Valentino's chair, and for a moment Nicholas stood there alone, out in front of everyone, but unnoticed by the Borgias. He circled around hastily to the wall. The Pope was telling his daughter-in-law Sancia a ribald story about the Cardinal d'Este. Valentino was eating fish.

The Pope exploded with thunderous laughter. Sancia gave a mocking shriek. Clutching his arm she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Valentino picked a small bone like a needle from the tip of his tongue.

“Telling someone else's secrets, pretty sister?”

Sancia whipped her head around. “Only yours.”

“Peace, my children,” said the Pope. A servant offered him sauce for his fish and he turned to regard it.

Sancia was still staring at Valentino, her head thrown back. “What do you think I told him, Cesare?”

“My children,” the Pope said, smiling, “peace.”

Valentino cut his fish with a leaf-bladed knife. Sancia lowered her head.

Nicholas stood by the wall, his hands behind him, and his gaze pinned to the family around the table. He wondered how many others of their court understood them, since the Borgias were speaking Spanish. Probably many others. Valentino would recognize him, sooner or later—he told himself that several times, as the servants took dishes away and brought new ones, and the Borgias ate of the rich food. Miguelito stepped forward once, to sip from Valentino's glass. They feared poison. Or were only being careful.

The Pope spoke of Lucrezia, from whom he had received a letter announcing that she would bear him a grandchild in the spring. He delighted in this news, rubbing his hands together, and again and again saying his daughter's name.

“Well, Sancia,” Valentino said, “now it's your turn.”

“He is intolerable,” Sancia said.

“Cesare,” Alexander said. “Become tolerable.”

“I've been,” Valentino said, “eminently. But that didn't work either.”

Miguelito hooted with amusement. At the other side of the table, Joffre lifted his eyes a moment from his dinner, his face blank, and returned to eating. By the wall, Nicholas wondered if Valentino had intended the pun—while he was a Cardinal, he had been Sancia's lover—and decided that he had.

The Pope said mildly, “You are insulting nearly everybody, Cesare.”

“Although of course he's only made a daughter,” Sancia said loudly. Her strong drawling accent made her speech comical; in the Roman shadow-puppet show, the whores were always Neapolitan. “And knowing the bride to be French, I suspect it was a virgin birth anyway.”

“I decline the obvious retort,” Valentino said, “in view of the defenselessness of the target.”

His glass was empty; a servant filled it up again, and again Miguelito came forward to sip from it. Nicholas let his eyes leave Valentino to follow his dark henchman. The tasting was ceremonial. Valentino would never risk losing Miguelito. As he watched, Miguelito took his place against the wall again.

Sancia was saying, “What you mean is, Cesare, that you won't risk angering me to the point where I might say something.”

The Pope said, “I will not hear any more of this quarreling!” He looked from Sancia to Valentino.

“This is my table,” Valentino said, “if Your Holiness will recall that.”

The Pope was no longer smiling. Vast in his rich robes, he sat between Valentino and Sancia with his head settled on his shoulders like a Spanish bull's. To Sancia, he said, “Keep your place, woman.” His head swiveled toward his son's. “Would you be here, save for me?”

BOOK: City of God
9.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Rocky Mountain Match by Pamela Nissen
Divide & Conquer by Abigail Roux
The Bighead by Edward Lee
Body of Lies by Iris Johansen
Courting Miss Amsel by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Bent Creek by Marlene Mitchell
The Vanishing Throne by Elizabeth May