The Malice of Fortune (49 page)

Then I went next door and bought a number of candles from the proprietor of the bathhouse. I intended to study the
Parallel Lives
throughout the night, if necessary, knowing I might well be in Sinigaglia before the next day ended, and in sore need of whatever wisdom I might acquire beforehand.

Although Plutarch’s method of comparison differs greatly from Suetonius’s biographies, he, too, enabled me to distinguish the many tyrants whose cruelties were expedient from those few who took delight in the death and suffering they inflicted. In fact Plutarch draws this contrast directly in his parallel studies of Marcus Antonius, an example of the former, and Demetrius, whom Plutarch found remarkable in that even his sensual pleasures were pursued with such violence and viciousness.

Thus both Suetonius and Plutarch supported my theory that these rare men had a peculiar and unchanging nature, an affliction with which they were born. Yet having established this first principle, I became all the more perplexed as to how these monsters had survived to achieve high office, when any sensible man who observed them as children would have assiduously kept them from the avenues of power, even if that prudence required strangling a Caligula while he was still playing with wooden swords. Evil men might well wish to see such a star rise, much as Vitellozzo Vitelli had schooled Oliverotto da Fermo, however reluctant the latter had been to receive this instruction. But why had good and just men not taken stern—and, if necessary, severe—measures against a child such as Caligula?

I had burned through half a dozen candles before I came to my revelation: all these cursed men had, while still quite young, become maestri of the art of deception. The Roman dictator Sulla, like Caligula, “was submissive to those who might be of service to him, yet severe to those who sought services from him, so that it was hard to say if he was more insolent or servile in his nature.” The execrable Philip of Macedon so fooled his mentor, predecessor, and protector, Aratus, an admirable man and “implacable enemy of tyrants,” that Aratus did not fully understand the evil he had harbored until he was spitting up blood, Philip having slowly poisoned him. And these rare men did not simply lie when necessary, or even lie often; they seemed to deceive always, as if deception were the very blood in their veins.

This explained to me—and I suppose, forgave me—my inability to see the face of this man, because whoever must deceive us in order to live will by necessity far exceed the skill of ordinary men, who are as much tempted by the desire to be honest as they are plagued by guilt and shame when they have broken faith.

But I remained at a loss to describe how these men acquired their skills of deception while still boys. Some painters are born with this gift, modern maestri who put it to admirable use, deceiving our eyes so that we believe nature has been rivaled if not re-created. And there are many others—diplomats, leaders of political factions, and in particular merchants and bankers—who less admirably promise one thing and do another, often fooling the same man by night that they duped
during the day. Nevertheless even the painter or statesman must serve his apprenticeship; a child cannot execute a portrait like Leonardo’s
La Gioconda
. How then, contrary to all other vocations, does this man perfect the art of deception at such a precocious age?

In the flickering light of my candle, I put the question directly to him:
How did you learn? What was your course of study, your school, this quadrivium of deception?

I heard only a spitting wick.

I know why you don’t want to tell me
, I continued.
This is your deepest secret, isn’t it? The most jealously guarded. That is why I must wait until you turn your back. Only then will your mask become nothing but a lucid glass
.

And then we will behold the face of evil
.

CHAPTER
22

T
his more than all else casts down the highest throne: the powerful with their power are never sated
.

I was able to lease a horse in Pesaro and left there early on 31 December, arriving at Fano in midmorning—only to find that Valentino’s army had departed for Sinigaglia at daybreak. I continued riding south along an extension of the Via Emilia that hews the coast, so that it is never more than a bowshot from the sea; in certain locations the hills appear to rise directly above the waves.

The day, which had begun with a glimpse of sunshine, had become gray, with showers of both rain and snow. I passed many of Valentino’s camp followers straggling south, yet encountered no traffic in the opposite direction. I could only conclude that Sinigaglia had already been sealed off, with no one permitted to leave.

I was still miles away from Sinigaglia when I first saw smoke plumes rising from the city, as dark against the ashen sky as the ravens pecking in the snow around me. It appeared that the bombardment of the city had begun.

And here the brilliance of the scheme the
condottieri
had concocted began to glimmer on the horizon. As I had previously suspected, their intention was to lure Valentino and his much diminished army into Sinigaglia, then surround the city with the troops they had hidden in the countryside.

But this breach of good faith would quickly draw the disapprobation
of all Europe; the pope would have little difficulty summoning his French allies to assist him in rescuing his son.

Unless, of course, it could be demonstrated that Valentino was guilty of crimes that justified the treachery: the
condottieri
would quickly demonstrate that the duke was a fratricide, driven by jealousy and ambition to murder the pope’s most beloved son. And the proof of his guilt was to be found not only in the
mappa
drawn by Valentino’s engineer general but also in a page sliced from a schoolboy’s geometry, although the latter would almost certainly have more value as mere rumor, while remaining secreted in the hands of the
condottieri
who had cut it out.

Damiata would be sent to Rome to reinforce the suspicions the pope himself had long held; certainly she had been promised her son’s freedom—that would be easy enough for the
condottieri
to arrange, once Valentino’s defeat had rendered the pope impotent—in exchange for condemning Valentino, who had already accused her. And I was probably one of several players who might have a brief moment in this drama, called upon to witness those facts that pointed to Valentino’s guilt. The French in particular would value the testimony of a Florentine envoy.

Within weeks the man who had conceived this entire scheme, concealing not only this carefully laid snare but also a secret so dreadful that none of us could see his true face and still live, would become the master of all Italy.

I reached Sinigaglia at the end of the day. The city sits on the edge of the sea, with the Misa River wrapped like a snake around both the west and north sides. This loop creates a natural moat, hence Sinigaglia is an island of sorts, most of it surrounded by a wall of pale, sand-colored stone, with a
rocca
of modern design overlooking the Adriatic Sea on the eastern side.

As soon as I had crossed the river I could hear the shouting from inside the city. Even before I reached the gate I had to pass a half-dozen looted corpses. Most likely soldiers, they lay beside the road with stiff arms flung out, their naked bodies covered with only a thin rime of snow, some with gutted bellies and blank, staring eyes. I recalled too
well Signor Oliverotto’s words, informing me of the horrors I might see, if I could “get to Sinigaglia quickly enough.”

The gate itself had not been closed. Instead a wall of horseflesh, as it were, had been constructed by some twenty cavalrymen, mounted and in full armor; they were Italian mercenaries who might have been in the employ of either Valentino or the
condottieri
. From within the city I heard a distant scream against the lower, antiphonal shouts, yet the guards at the gate seemed to be waiting only for a joust to begin—or for someone as heedless of his peril as I.

When I rode up, several of the horsemen turned on me, one drawing his sword with a great sweep of his arm. “Venetian?” he called out.

If I was to die for my answer, I intended to do so as a citizen of my republic. I shouted back, “Florentine!”

A captain came forward and spoke to the swordsman; I recognized him as one of Valentino’s officers, who had once arranged an escort for some of our merchants on my behalf. He motioned me on. When we had exchanged greetings, I asked, “What is the situation?”

“We have secured the city for His Excellency.” Beads of frozen rain speckled the captain’s helmet like pearls on a lady’s hairnet. “Vitellozzo’s infantry and artillery are out there.” Here he pushed out with his hand to indicate the countryside, now almost entirely veiled in darkness.

This situation did not, to my eyes, appear secure; instead it differed little from the circumstances I had envisioned on the road to Sinigaglia. Valentino had been lured inside the walls, while the
condottieri
marshaled most of their vastly superior forces outside. The duke was in fact trapped.

I rode through the gate and entered a small piazza covered with icy clods. A narrow street exiting the little square was illuminated by the glow of a fire. As I peered down it, a half-dozen Swiss infantry—these also being mercenaries who might be employed by either or both armies—ran through a crossroads, their long pikes bristling like quills, one of them spitted with a swollen, livid head.

Keeping to the alleys, I ventured toward the center of the city; the entire area within the walls was not more than a dozen streets in length and width. Soon I reached a modest piazza surrounded by several
large palazzi of fairly recent construction. In the middle of the frozen square sat a single canopied carriage attended by at least a dozen men on horse and foot. Among the former were several of Valentino’s intimates, most wearing breastplates.

“Messer Agapito!” I called out as I rode toward them.

Valentino’s secretary wheeled his horse. “Secretary! His Excellency has been looking for you!”

Without further explanation, Agapito and his companions rode off, leaving me with the several footmen and their carriage. The occupant of this vehicle stuck his head through the curtained window. “Messer Niccolò! What do you make of this?”

I recognized the long greyhound face of Messer Gabriello da Bergamo, a grain trader of my acquaintance and a citizen of Venice. “I see the city unsettled,” I said directly, “and Vitellozzo Vitelli’s army waiting outside.”

Messer Gabriello pointed to the largest palazzo on the piazza, a great edifice of multicolored stone. “They tell me that Vitellozzo is in there. Along with Oliverotto da Fermo and Paolo Orsini.”

“Do the duke’s people say they are holding them as hostages?”

“They say nothing. I myself saw them all go in just after midday. A handsome parade. But we have seen only Valentino’s people leave. And we hear only the most confounding rumors. On one hand we are told that Vitellozzo has surrounded the city and is preparing a bombardment, on the other that the
condottieri
will be displayed in the piazza tomorrow morning, much as Ramiro da Lorca was presented to the people of Cesena.”

In truth, neither did I know what to make of this. The three
condottieri
might possibly be prisoners. Or given the evident superiority of their forces, they might still be negotiating with Valentino over the terms of his surrender.

Messer Gabriello nodded toward one of the fires, several streets distant. The flames, as vivid as Ezekiel’s vision, were haloed with an orange glow that hovered over the rooftops; sparks and embers swarmed like countless fireflies in the column of smoke. “We hear rumors that the duke’s own Swiss mercenaries are putting the city to sack!”

“Perhaps to deny the victor his spoils,” I said. “Regardless of whose soldiers they are—or to whom they may transfer their allegiance before this night is over—Sinigaglia is in danger of becoming another Capua.”