City of God (34 page)

He said, “I am going. I may very well never come back again. If I don't, the house is yours. It may be sold for a good amount—Amadeo will buy it. You could live on that money. Go back to Spain.”

“Where are you going?” Juan asked.

“To Cardinal Corneto's,” Nicholas said. He took his hat from the stool by the door and went out.

Behind him Juan gave a long canine wail and lapsed again into prayer.

“You are lying,” Corneto said. He swiveled his body in his chair, turning his knees away from Nicholas, and crossed one leg over the other. “Rodrigo Borgia and I have been friends since the eighties. What are you telling me—that he would suffer harm come to me?”

“Not Alexander,” Nicholas said. “Valentino. He needs money. You are a Cardinal; when you die he can seize your wealth for the Church.”

“Why do you tell me this? For my sake, or for revenge? I know the Borgias have cast you off.”

“I cannot see that the motive matters very much. The end is the same.”

Corneto's broad pale face was furrowed with lines, and his white hair rose in a shock above his forehead. His eyes were shielded behind his hooded lids. His expression was set, completely unreadable. Abruptly he folded his arm across his chest.

“Valentino does nothing without Alexander's agreement. I say you are lying. They cannot mean to harm me.”

Nicholas saw how he had knotted himself up: obviously Corneto did believe it. Had he not believed it he would have thrown Nicholas out already. There was more evidence to give him.

“Your house was broken into, a night or two ago,” Nicholas said.

“Yes.”

“It was Stefano Baglione who did that. Do you know why?”

Corneto glared at him. “The Pope sent him away. Caught him cheating at cards. He thought he could get some revenge.”

“Stefano told me Valentino meant something to be done to you.”

“Then bring Stefano here, to answer for what he says.”

“Stefano was dragged out of the Tiber this morning.”

For a moment, glassy-eyed, Corneto did nothing. Suddenly he burst up from his chair and struck at Nicholas. Nicholas saw the blow coming; he ducked, and Corneto's fist struck him glancing on the cheek. Nicholas staggered and fell.

Over him, Corneto boomed, “By God, this is the foulest kind of lie! Every question answered, ah? By God, I don't believe you!”

Nicholas sat up. His cheekbone hurt. Corneto paced around him, shouting down at him.

“Don't you know that this has been tried before—how many times before people like you, schemers, lying scum, have come here and told me scandals, trying to separate me from my old friend? No! I will not believe this. You will come out to the country with me today, and say this to Alexander's face.”

There was a virtue in that. Content with it, Nicholas touched his cheek with his hand. Corneto's servants came to take him away.

He walked out of Rome with the rest of Corneto's party, following the Cardinal's litter. They left Rome by a gate overgrown with flowering vines; the road led them away over a rolling hill and down to skirt the edge of the swamp, buzzing with mosquitoes. Just behind Nicholas walked the man set to guard him, a big man with a head so narrow it seemed no wider than his neck, who now and then poked Nicholas in the back with his walking stick.

Corneto's vineyard grew on a hillside high enough to overlook the sea. Elm trees grew around the cave where the wine was stored to age. When the Cardinal arrived, Nicholas in his train, some others of his people were making a table ready in the meadow nearby. Nicholas was taken into the cave full of barrels and told to sit beside the wall. He sat down, glad of the dank cool of the cave after walking through the heat of August.

Brisk young men in Corneto's red livery dashed in and out of the cave, bringing in the banquet which Corneto had transported out from Rome in hampers. In the cave there was a large table, where Corneto's cook opened the hampers, arranged the food on platters, and sent it off to the table in the meadow. Nicholas sat by the wall watching. He was hungry, and his nerve was weakening: he dreaded facing Valentino. Finally he rose and strolled over to the table.

The cook was slicing carrots and radishes into flowers to set about a platter of cold chickens. When he saw Nicholas, he paused long enough to hone the edge of his knife on his leather apron.

“What do you want?”

“I'm hungry,” Nicholas said. Directly before him on the table was a jellied soup, kept cold in a basin of snow. Packed down from the Alps, he supposed, in huge barrels or boxes so that there was still some left unmelted when it arrived in Rome in the heat of August. That was the power of a Pope. Next to the basin of snow, in fact, was a cask of wine with the Pope's seal on it.

The cook said, “Here,” and gave him a slice of the chicken.

“Thank you.” Nicholas did not take his attention from the cask. He ate the chicken without noticing the taste. “The Pope brought his own wine? Isn't that unusual?”

“Duke Valentino brought it,” the cook said. “A gift to my master the Cardinal. What are you here for?”

“The entertainment,” Nicholas said, staring at the cask. It was not Valentino's seal. There was an adage about new wine in old casks, but it hardly fit this situation. There was another about Greeks bearing gifts that did. Nicholas swallowed the chicken.

“Excellent,” he said. “Excellent indeed.”

The cook shrugged. “I did not roast it.”

A few minutes later the narrow-headed man with the walking stick came to bring Nicholas out to the party. He went willingly but the narrow-headed man could not resist pushing him and cursing him as if he resisted. It was hot outside the cave. When Nicholas rounded the hillside and walked out across the meadow, the cold wind off the sea stroked over him and cooled him.

At the end of the meadow, the Pope sat red as a poppy behind the table. On his right was Valentino, all in black, and on his left was Corneto. Nicholas's heart jumped up in his chest, and he walked toward them with a long stride.

Miguelito stood behind Valentino, his hands folded over his Gorgon-headed beltbuckle. His coat was dirty. His face was bruised. Nicholas sucked in his breath, his blood racing, his mind rushing back to the memory of Stefano's battered hands.

Alexander said, “What do you mean, Messer Dawson, to disturb my dinner in this unpleasant way?”

Nicholas licked his lips. Valentino lolled in his chair, his head cocked to one side. The sea wind ruffled his hair. Nicholas said, “Your Holiness, do you remember Stefano, with whom you played cards?”

“What is this?” Corneto said sharply. “Come to your charges, Messer Liar.”

“What charges?” the Pope said.

“Duke Valentino,” Nicholas cried, “murdered Stefano Baglione, for no reason at all.”

A grunt erupted from the Pope like a puff of smoke from a volcano. He faced his son. “What have you to say to that?”

Valentino put his head to one side. “My father, my lord, I have never done anything that I have regretted. What I do, I must do to achieve my purpose. Let that purpose be the justification for my actions. I mean nothing less than to bring all Italy under one king, and by my great ambition to give Christendom its head again. As for this—” he pointed his finger at Nicholas before him—“what is that but the most wretched of men? What right has he to charge me with anything? He is a misfit, an outcast, like any Jew or Moor. I serve the holy order, while he abhors it, and perverts even the gentle game of love into a stinking sin. What he did with Stefano Baglione is the crime, for which he ought to suffer as the law decrees.”

Miguelito said, “Also he has plotted with Gonsalvo.”

The Pope was sitting back, his hands on his stomach, and his lower lip thrust out. “We took you in, and you served us thus. You are an evil man.”

Nicholas cried out, “Your Holiness! Let me speak for myself. I know what I am. I ask no pardon for what I am, low and ruined.”

Miguelito was coming around the table toward him, to take him. The three men facing him over the table were unmoved. Nicholas gathered his breath.

He said, “But what is Valentino? That we know, do we not, all of us? And knowing him, I dare him to drink the wine he gave today to Cardinal Corneto.”

Miguelito reached him in a jump and grabbed him by the arm. With a twist of his body Nicholas pulled free. He faced Valentino again, and saw the prince turn white as candle wax.

There was a little silence. At last Corneto said, “Bring the wine.”

The Pope sprang from his chair, his mountainous flesh quaking. “No. I will not tolerate this. You, my friend, dare believe this calumny?”

“Let him prove the lie a lie,” Corneto said.

“Papa,” Valentino said. He rose to his feet beside his father. Corneto was staring at them both, his grooved face frowning. A servant came up with the little cask of wine. Nicholas swallowed down the excitement in his throat. Beside him Miguelito made no effort to take hold of him again, but only stood, silent, and waited.

“Bring me the cup, by God,” the Pope cried. “I will show these liars and scandalmongers that no one can taint my fatherly love!”

“Papa,” Valentino said, louder than before, and laid his hand on his father's arm. A servant broached the cask, and Corneto himself stood forward to pour the wine.

Valentino tugged on his father's arm, and Alexander thrust him away.

“I drink.”

He took the cup and drank deep from it. In the whole glade no other man moved. Alexander lowered the cup and sighed.

“An excellent Pramnian. Is it from your own vineyard, Cesare?”

Valentino was impassive. Only the pallor of his face betrayed him. He said, “It is, sir. Do you like it?”

“It is hardy and demanding,” the Pope said, “but I am not intimidated easily.” He held out the cup. “Will you drink with me?”

Valentino put his head back, his eyes half closed. If he refused it, he condemned himself. Amazed, Nicholas saw him smile.

“Aut Caesar aut nullus,” he said, and took the cup, and drank what his father had left.

“Now,” the Pope said, “we turn again to this traitor.”

His men moved in around Nicholas, bound his hands behind his back, and thrust him to his knees. Nicholas bowed his head. His heart was hammering in his side. Now again he grew frightened.

“Let Miguelito deal with him,” Valentino said.

The lesser men began to call for Nicholas's death. Corneto rose in his place at the table.

“Not here. I have every hope still of enjoying our now-delayed dinner.”

“Let me have him,” Miguelito said.

Nicholas raised his head. The Pope and Valentino looked down on him from the height of their chairs. He had misjudged; there was no poison, or else none strong enough to matter to a Borgia.

“Here,” someone shouted. “Let him suffer here, now, for what he's done.”

Corneto was frowning. He fingered the lace at his throat. “Let's get it done, anyhow.”

The Pope stood up.

“Take him,” Valentino said to Miguelito.

The Navarrese soldier stooped over Nicholas, who saw the garrotte slide out of Miguelito's coat like a serpent from his breast. He sucked in his breath. He felt the weight of the crowd's look on him.

The Pope gave a low cry. He fell forward over the table.

A yell went up from the underlings. The Pope struggled to push himself up and slumped forward across the table again. His men crowded around him, supporting him as he thrashed and shoved at the table, the front of his red robe plastered with bits of food.

“It is the heat.” Alexander gasped at the air; his eyes bulged. “The heat—” he fell forward again, plunging down through the arms of his servants.

Corneto roared, “Quickly! Bring the litter—” half the servants bolted away across the grass.

Valentino still sat in his place, his face like steel. Now Nicholas saw that he was clutching the table. He saw the sweat gathering on the Borgia's forehead. Miguelito had gone to him again. The Pope's litter was hurrying down the green slope toward them; its curtains fluttered. Miguelito bent to speak to Valentino, slid one hand under Valentino's arm, and helped him rise.

The Pope's servants carried him to the litter. Alexander was still aware; Nicholas heard him say, “It is the heat.” His face was gray. He was surely dying. Leaning on Miguelito, Valentino dragged himself step by step toward the litter. They would have to share it, father and son; Valentino clearly, could not ride.

Someone kicked Nicholas. “What about this one?”

At the table Corneto still sat, his mouth screwed up. He shook his head.

“Let him go. He did nothing.”

Nicholas pushed himself onto his feet. The Pope and Valentino had disappeared into the litter. Surrounded by their crowds of servants, the little room swayed away across the slope toward the gate. Someone cut Nicholas's bonds. He put out his hands in front of him. Corneto was watching him, pensive.

“You did not do that to save me,” he said to Nicholas. “I see no duty to reward you.”

Nicholas said, “If you would do me one favor, I would be rewarded beyond my dreams.”

Corneto's head rose, his eyes sharp beneath the steep pale brow. “What?”

“Recommend me to the Medici. The Signory of Florence has dismissed me. I am in need of employment. The Medici shall find me a valuable servant.”

“That I shall be glad to do.” Corneto nodded.

Nicholas forgot to bow, to ask for leave. He felt light with new life. He wanted to laugh, and he could not laugh here. He strode away from the elm grove, to the road.

When he reached the highway, the fitter was far ahead of him, climbing a hill on its way to Rome. Swarms of bright-coated courtiers surrounded it and trailed after it. At this distance they looked tiny, and their tiny lamenting voices were no louder than the crickets in the grass. Soon they would be over the top of the hill and out of his sight.