The Throne, page 24
“Niccolò!”
“You were extraordinary,” he says going to greet her. He feels the other actors’ eyes on him and realizes how eager they are to receive praise, too. “All of you! You were all wonderful.”
“Thank you,” the head of the troupe replies. “And you are . . . ?”
“A Florentine. I had the privilege of seeing you perform in my city some time ago; you were a superb Creon.”
Upon hearing these words, the head actor nods with pleasure. “This evening’s performance was particularly difficult for all of us . . . Performing in front of Valentino, dressed in his colors . . . ”
“Afraid that the horse would take a shit on stage,” Tullia says, laughing.
“No, actually that was not one of my concerns,” the head actor says defensively. “I made sure it got a good enema beforehand. We couldn’t risk that in front of Cesare Borgia!”
“Well, you never know, it could’ve gotten diarrhea!” the boy—or girl—with the curly blond hair says. Even up close, it’s hard to tell Psyche’s gender. The actor goes on to recount how two months earlier they had a sudden attack of the runs on stage but managed to make it look like it was part of the performance. Everyone claps and cheers at the anecdote, and when the actor laughs, Niccolò realizes that she is indeed a woman.
Tullia puts on a shirt, goes up to Niccolò, and takes both his hands. “What a wonderful surprise. It’s such a pleasure to see you! What brings you to Imola?”
“I’m here as an envoy for the Republic. How long are you staying?”
“We leave tomorrow.”
He looks at her with a warm smile and invites her to dine with him.
Tullia casts a furtive glance at the head of the troupe. “I’m not sure . . . ”
Niccolò understands. “Tell me how you are; you’re more beautiful than ever. Are you well?”
“Things are good. Finally! I’ve actually made something of a name for myself, you know . . . ”
“I’m pleased. You deserve it. But that final song . . . Were the lyrics written by Anteo Nuffi?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Oh, I just guessed.”
“It’s a silly song that the poet overheard when he got here. We wanted to use something else, but the lyrics came to him quickly. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Working for Borgia has been good, he’s been generous with us. He even gave us a whole floor of rooms at the inn on the main piazza.”
“The Locanda del Sole?”
“You know it?”
“I know where it is but I can’t afford to stay there myself.”
There’s a rustling sound behind Niccolò as someone comes up behind him.
It’s don Miguel. He looks ponderously at Tullia. “Milady, I offer you my deepest homage. A knight from Spain, who also appreciated your art, requests the pleasure of your company.”
“And who might you be?” Tullia asks, looking at him skeptically.
“A servant for His Excellency Duke Valentino.”
“Are you the knight in question?”
“No, I am not. My Lordship is.”
“I’m very honored to receive this invitation,” the singer replies. “May I extend it to my fellow actors, too?”
“No, it is for you alone.”
What Corella does not mention remains unspoken, suspended in the air. Tullia blinks. Niccolò looks away.
“Please be so kind as to wait for me,” Tullia says. She then walks over to the head actor and whispers in his ear. He looks at Corella with a mixture of jealousy and greed, calculating how much he might earn from sending his lover to Valentino. Indulging a powerful figure can lead to many things; making the sacrifice will be worthwhile. He nods, then mumbles a few words of encouragement to Tullia, who goes back to Corella.
She says goodbye to everyone and follows don Miguel out of the theater. Niccolò sighs. Will Valentino be satisfied only with Tullia? Or will he force Dianora to join them, and punish her for turning down the bouquet of roses?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
. . . I entrust this missive to your Lordships and beseech you to allow me to return. As previously communicated, based on what I have heard, it is no longer necessary to tarry any further. To bring the agreement to its conclusion, an official with a higher level of authority is needed. With regards to my own personal situation, I am compelled to inform you that my expenses are in a state of disarray and I can no longer afford to stay on without receiving additional monies.
Imola, 7 December, 1502
Your Servant
Before signing the letter for the Dieci—a request that I-have-faith will also see—Niccolò takes a breath and smooths down the piece of paper with his fingertips. He wrote impulsively, upon returning from the theater. First he summarized the bits of news he had picked up here and there during the day, essentially providing a reason for the letter, and then closed with that supplication. Will they allow him to return? He doubts it. He knows how the lords and Soderini operate. He’s been through this all before. Having him there benefits them: he’s the one who’s exposed to all the risks. Even so, he must try. It’s pointless for him to stay on: he can do nothing further to help Dianora and would truly rather not continue to see her suffer.
He’ll ask Baccino to take it the following morning, to do him the favor of leaving Gemma for as long as it takes to deliver the letter personally to Florence. When he gets to the Palazzo della Signoria, he’ll know how to describe the conditions in which they find themselves to the Dieci. Maybe he’ll be able to convince them. If he can’t, no one will.
He signs the letter quickly but then immediately regrets it and tears it up.
He can’t abandon Dianora. She needs him.
He’s ashamed of what he’s just written and quickly brings the piece of paper to the candle flame. Watching it burn makes him feel better.
He knows he will stay on, going against all logic and his personal needs, just to remain by her side, come what may, whatever humiliating experiences he will be forced to undergo.
Suddenly, he notices how quiet it has become.
He goes to the window, opens it, and sees that snow is falling in the dark night. Heavy, thick snow. The cobblestones are already white.
At dawn, he looks out again. The snow is still coming down. Powder, half-an-arm deep, has already accumulated. Up in the Apennines, it will have fallen even heavier. Florence is safe, at least for a few days: the snow will turn to ice and for as long as that lasts not even Valentino’s army will be able to attack. He imagines horses slipping on the whitened cobblestones, riders falling. The poor conditions will also make it difficult to move the cannons, which would have to advance through other means. He visualizes the gun carriages sliding backward, crushing the men who struggle to push them forward.
Two merchants outside hurry across the street, seeking cover under the portico of the house across the way. He hears them talking: there’s already a lot of snow up in the mountains. Just as he thought.
He goes out, crosses the road, his feet sinking deep into the whiteness. He reaches the portico where the two men stood, leaving their muddy footprints behind.
Walking under the cover of the portico for as long as he can, and in the snow only when he can’t avoid it, he makes his way to the Locanda del Sole. He’s covered in white, his shoes are soaking wet, and the cold travels quickly up his legs. If he can, he wants to speak to Tullia, to find out what happened the night before, to both her and Dianora.
In the piazza near the inn, he sees a few kids throwing snowballs at each other. A man and two young women, elegantly dressed in grey and green, join the antics. In front of the entrance to the inn, the actors are hurriedly piling their luggage into a large, covered wooden carriage with tall wheels. Tullia is nowhere to be seen.
He asks after her and they tell him she hasn’t returned yet but that they can’t wait any longer. They have to set out on their journey toward the coast, after which they will head north toward Venice, where people are expecting them. They need to leave soon, while the snow is still falling, before the roads turn to slush or ice. They’re hoping that the temperatures on the coast will be milder.
But you have to wait for Tullia, he says forcefully to the head actor. The man doesn’t reply and continues to issue orders to the others, who keep piling their clothes, costumes, and sets into the carriage. It’s like a vast cave, and it swallows everything up. It will be their bedroom and storage room for the coming days.
I’ll go look for her, Niccolò offers. The main actor raises his voice in reply: stay out of it, we don’t want to bother the duke. At least she’s somewhere warm, he says, while we’re out here in the cold streets.
Suddenly, there are loud voices from upstairs: Anteo Nuffi and his retinue appear. The two servants drag down their baggage and head toward the stalls. The poet laureate and his assistants look tense; they seem to be bickering about which road to take.
In his anger, Nuffi doesn’t even notice Niccolò.
In public, Nuffi never speaks badly about anyone, unless he’s referring to some powerless fool who’s the butt of his jokes. Even now, surrounded by his close companions, he doesn’t mention any names, but clearly the duke has banished him from Imola. The group discusses whether they should head to Bologna or Rimini, and which roads will be passable. The innkeeper graciously offers them all the information they might need.
Niccolò hides his pleasure, wondering what conspired to convince Valentino to change his opinion so quickly about the poet laureate. While he knows that Borgia often makes rapid-fire decisions, and that he enjoys building people up and then tearing them down, Nuffi must have especially offended him. Thinking back on the evening, Niccolò recalls how, as soon as the performance was over, the prince’s attitude had already changed. Perhaps someone criticized the work of the illustrious writer, the same way that Nuffi had torn into his own writing, in a kind of retaliation.
Will another literary figure arrive soon? Perhaps someone even more important? Will that person be able to reach the city before the roads become obstructed?
Niccolò stands to one side and watches with pleasure as the group, shivering with cold in their tabards, gets on their horses—Nuffi is particularly fidgety—and sets off. He watches the horses’ legs sink into the snow, their hooves kicking up flecks of white, and, for a few long minutes, he feels deeply content.
The theater troupe is ready to leave. The head actor, assisted by one of the younger ones, climbs up the steps behind the carriage, nervously eyeing the falling snow. The others clamber onto their mules and wrap themselves up in their cloaks.
“But you can’t leave without Tullia!” Niccolò exclaims.
“She’ll catch up,” the man says firmly.
A feeble moan makes them all turn around. It’s Tullia, she’s frozen stiff, wearing the same light clothes she had on the night before. Her hair is mussed up, she’s covered in snow, she’s pale, distraught, and can barely move.
Niccolò rushes over and puts his arm around her so she can lean on him for support, just as she collapses with exhaustion. Her hair is soaking wet, she has deep circles under her eyes, and she’s trembling hard.
“It beggars belief, Niccolò . . . The poor woman . . . He truly is a devil,” she says in a whisper.
She doesn’t have the strength to continue and he doesn’t have the courage to ask anymore.
The head actor strides over to her. “Ah, my dear Tullia, we were waiting for you,” he says to her in a paternal and authoritarian way, seeming pleased with the sound of his booming voice.
She looks at Niccolò with glassy eyes and a lost gaze. A snowflake lands on her face, but a teardrop rolls down her cheek and melts it away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It snows for three days non-stop. The messengers cannot make their way across the mountain passes. A heavy white light hangs over Imola.
Niccolò wraps himself in his mantle, covers his head with the hood, and goes out. The cold rushes into his nose and mouth, cutting off his breath.
He heads to the Rocca with no other goal than to be closer to Dianora, as if walking around her prison might bring him relief. He knows it’s senseless but he goes all the same.
He can barely see the houses on either side of the street. They appear and disappear as the storm blusters and blows, filling all cracks and muffling all sounds. A small cart approaches very slowly, a light grey shadow in the white haze. The driver calls out every so often, warning people of his approach. Niccolò seeks protection under a portico to let him pass.
He moves up the street slowly, like a ghost. When he reaches the open area in front of the Rocca, he dives into it. The vast whiteness is like the infinite ocean he has heard so much about, the one that leads to Western India, from which galleons return laden with gold.
His eyes hurt from the blinding light and he feels confused.
As soon as he sees the fortress through the gusting wind and snow, he stops. He can’t go any further.
He stands without moving, losing all sense of time. His clothes are soaked through, his bones are icy cold, he’s filled with despair and powerless rage.
The wet cold stings like needles. He yells into the void. A dog howls in response.
Why did he yell? Now someone might come out of the Rocca to see what’s going on. He hurries off as fast as he can, running back through the snow drifts, ending up in a street he doesn’t recognize. He turns right, then left, at random. He has lost all sense of orientation.
He curses, but softly, worried that someone will hear him.
Then he hears the muffled bells of San Michele off to his right. Another mass, more money for Brother Timoteo. Now that he knows where the monastery is, he understands how to get back to the inn. It stops snowing.
He’s on the privy when Baccino knocks on the door.
“Sorry, but one of the duke’s guards is asking for you.”
When he goes downstairs, he sees Rodriguez dressed in a heavy cloak. Niccolò tries to read his expression, but it’s impossible to decipher. He’s serious and inscrutable.
Has Valentino decided to chase him out of Imola, too? It stopped snowing a day ago, there’s ice on the sides of the roads and muddy trenches in their middle. It’s practically impossible to venture out into the countryside. Only the main thoroughfares are viable, and even there, carts sink deep into the slush, feet become clods of wet, sticky earth. Despite all that, will Valentino send him away?
“His Excellency would like to see you,” Rodriguez says drily.
“Do you know why?”
The guard shakes his head, no.
It’s late afternoon and the sky is clear. They follow a path that’s been formed by garrison soldiers, coming and going through the slush and ice. They slip this way and that and are forced to lean on each other for support.
The large dome of the theater is entirely covered in white. Now it really does look like a mountain, one with rounded sides.
Rodriguez leads him into the armory on the ground floor, which is spacious and cold. Only a few torches have been lit. Borgia, wearing a white shirt, and an instructor are practicing with longswords, using training weapons. Sweat drips off them, they’re red in the face. Their swords clash and sparks fly. Nearby, carrying a real sword, is Corella. Leaning against a wall is Torrella, the master physician.
When Niccolò sees Valentino, he feels a knot form in his stomach. He can’t express the disgust he feels, but a simple envoy is not permitted to say as much.
The duke has a bruise on his cheekbone where the instructor must have hit him. He fights with some hesitation, retreats, and then raises his sword for a pause. The instructor stops immediately. Cesare sneezes, then presses his left nostril shut with his left index finger, and blows hard. Mucus sprays out his nose. He then throws down his sword, which the teacher immediately picks up, and does the same thing with the right hand and nostril. He sees Niccolò, reaches for a linen cloth, wipes his sweaty brow, and walks over to him.
The duke’s eyes are feverish but he wears a cordial expression, as if he had never offended Niccolò.
“Today is a grand day for me. Have you heard the news?” the prince asks in a hoarse, practically unrecognizable voice.
It’s not the first time that Niccolò has seen a powerful person suddenly change mood, and he’s not terribly surprised.
“No, what happened?” he asks as coldly as he can.
Valentino takes note of Niccolò’s distant tone and sighs as though it’s inconceivable that someone might be angry with him. Instead he smiles. Niccolò doesn’t return the smile, but nor does that upset the duke. On the contrary, he continues to seem cheerful. “Guidobaldo da Montefeltro has fled Urbino. Once again, the city is mine.” He blows his nose on the linen cloth then tosses it onto the floor. “I said as much at our first meeting, do you remember? If they take Urbino away from me, it won’t be hard to get it back.”
Niccolò rapidly calculates the consequences of this news: Borgia is now even stronger; he summoned me to let me know.
Don Miguel hands his Lordship a leather doublet. Valentino slips his arms into the sleeves and fastens it up. He gestures for Niccolò to follow him and he turns down a corridor. It takes Niccolò a great deal of effort to acquiesce.
“Last night I reread what you wrote. I confirm its substance.”
It takes Niccolò a second to realize that the duke had addressed him with the informal tu. Surely, it was a mistake. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be very well. He probably has a fever. He didn’t offer an apology—Niccolò knows that’s unthinkable and nor does he care to receive one. He’s completely indifferent to Valentino’s words of praise. The duke realizes this and tries to smooth things over.
