He's thrown open the windows, all windows, inviting in the summer air. Graciès a Déu, the house is far enough from the mayhem of beach life, so there's no fried fat or sun lotion or thumping basslines. It's just a good clean breeze, with a hint of linden, salty and sweet.

Idly scratching himself, Cesare roots around the kitchen; not hungry, merely interested, and ends up with a wad of paper-thin mortadella that he rolls up and shoves into his mouth. "What are you reading?" he munches.

Miquel throws him a brief look. And you upbraid me for a lack of manners. Compared to you, I could have eaten at the pope's table.

"Mmmhm." Cesare licks his fingers, then wipes them on his jeans before he sits next to Miquel. "I recall we both did. Eat at the pope's table."

Another of those whatever-looks. It will never cease to amaze me what a perfect filth pig you are in private.

"Ah, but that's why you love me, caro. So." Cesare smacks his lips, dislodging a stray bit of mortadella. "What are you reading?"

They're charging an entrance fee for the Forum now. There. Miquel's index finger points out the article, then jabs deeper, through the Corriere della Sera, digits and knuckles disappearing.

Cesare tries not to notice. "That's preposterous. Completely defies the spirit of forum," he bristles distractedly. Although, upon second thought... he's not quite that scandalised. "Good source of revenue, I suppose. Since they're no longer using it as a cow pasture."

Speaking of cows. There's another food scandal, Miquel mumbles, still scanning the front page. Too much trouble to turn it, apparently. Something about rotten cheese, mixed with mouse shit and worms. Better have a look in your ice box, hm? Now he positively beams at Cesare, the perverse little runt.

"Fatti i cazzi tuoi." Cesare yawns, stretching his legs under the table. "Reminds me, though. Do you remember the time when those oil merchants let those lepers bathe in olive oil to ease their sores, and then went on to sell the stuff on Campo de' Fiori?"

Miquel apes the gesture, stretching as well. Wasn't lepers, and you know it. People had ulcers from the Mal Francese.

"Pffh. No me toquis es collons," Cesare grumbles.

But what if I want to?

"Let's see. Bed?"

Roguish smile. Oh gods, Cesare would kill for that smile.

Bed.
il_valentino: (Default)
( Jun. 28th, 2008 06:44 pm)
"A Simple Question Makes You Look Away..."

"Have you killed him." My sister didn't need to raise her voice.

Twiddling my thumbs, I sat down on a stuffed little bench. I felt oddly heavy and let out a sigh. I turned my head towards the window, then to the ceiling, studying the beautiful, beautiful Sybils Maestro di Betti had painted up there. They gazed back at me, placidly, serenely, no reproach in their eyes.

Lucrezia slapped me then, so agitated that her face turned an unsightly, splotchy red - my lovely sister, displaying the pinched mug of a squalling babe. I found it most unbecoming, I remember, and thus had to look away.
il_valentino: (Default)
( Jun. 17th, 2008 11:50 am)
There's a noise somewhere behind, to the right. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Cesare tilts his head like a blind man, chin up, ear cocked toward the sound. Miquel, rustling through his things.

He must be pissed off. Else he wouldn't choose to be this blunt, this physical.

"Miquel." Cesare places a hand on the bed, vaguely reaching towards- "Michele. Tell me what it is."

Miquel snaps into sight in front of him, brushing Cesare with the whiplash of displaced air. He does look angry. When are we going back?

"Going back where, caro," Cesare says sadly. "Where can we go from here?"

Just... just home.

The funny thing is, he knows better. Miquel knows better, and it's not like him, this childish tantrum. "You are my home," Cesare offers quietly, a bit too meekly for his liking.

Don't try to bullshit me. With a huff that's entirely for show, Miquel disappears, leaving Cesare in the dusk of his apartment. Creakily, slowly, Cesare stands up to turn on some music, but as soon as the first notes of a concerto waft through the room, he turns it off again.

"I'm not," he murmurs, attuning himself to a new sense of stillness.
He blames the scribe, thanks to whose most curious whims and fancies he spent half an hour waiting outside Scala Sancta and had ample time to, oh, pick his teeth, rub his neck, lean back and watch the babes (so scantily dressed, those tourists)... He watched traffic pass by and tried not to glance around the corner or, later, listen to the scribe's whine that her knees might be shot forever. Scusa, he's told her. It'll hurt, he said. You won't believe how much knees can hurt, which she brushed off with a handwave and filed past to laboriously make her way up.

His Excellency does not pretend to have an idea whom or what she prayed to while creeping up the stairs, caught in the sweating and wincing throng (look, you don't just stand up in the middle and say, dude, I've had it, where's the elevator, let me out; you're in it for the life of your knees), but he did catch a few glances of a supremely pained face. Exquisite pain, really. And there were tears, too, he thinks, although when pressed the scribe couldn't say why.

Yes, that was that. [insanejournal.com profile] liriaen shuffling up the Scala Sancta.

Then she limped to the scenes of horrific torture and mutilation in San Stefano Rotondo, walking very funny, he thought. Later, His Excellency was a bit peeved there was no mention of him in the IL '400 A ROMA exhibit, but... there was notable mention of His Holiness his father:

"Despite the very negative literature that describes him and his unquestionable political responsibilites, the Spanish Rodrigo Borgia was an enlightened guide, who promoted art and the humanist aspect of the papacy. Indeed, he surrounded himself with artists and men of letters, and commissioned to Pintoricchio and to his workshop the famous frescoes decorating the papal apartment in some of the rooms that had belonged to Nicholas V."

As to the experts' notion that underneath Raffael's daubings in what used to be Cesare's suites lie veritable Piero della Francesca frescoes... he keeps oddly silent. He suggest the scribe and he go to Santa Maria in Aracoeli now and see some more of Pintoricchio's work.

(Oh, and last night the scribe dragged him to a Literature Festival held inside the ruins of the Basilica di Massenzio, and he'll hate her forever for the boredom that Stefan Merrill Block put him through. Hate her.)
She's cold today. Received me with a cold shoulder. I don't know what to do with her yet, so I bought a bottle of Vernacchia di San Gimignano (I miss the ease with which one could get a local, no-export-rubbish wine in all the small towns before), five big fat olives à la Ascoli (stuffed and fried), cheese, and a packet of strawberries to celebrate all by my lonesome, and I swear it's the first time I've physically had cold feet while in Rome.

The motion detector in the hallway makes me jump up and wave every five minutes, so I don't sit in the dark. Must look like a dolt. :)

So the scribe visited the Rocca of Spoleto twice because she just is that kind of idiot, and today she could enter what would have been Cesare's and Lucrezia's apartments while they stayed here, at various times.

Now she is happily on her way to a late afternoon buzz and unnerves His Excellency by reading stuff to him. Like this here.

"Roma, it would seem, is humid tonight. There is water in the air, or vice versa; indoors and out, promiscuously co-mingled in the troughs and sloughs of the city's contours. In the damp folds of the Velabrum, the wet crease of the Suburra, rank vapours and steaminess imply spatterings, localised downpours, shortlived but drastic squalls. Heavy dust-laden fogs lumber into town. Roma drips tears, and oozes sweat, secretes and releases drool. Lips pucker or slaver, tongues loll and stiffen. The Caput Mundi grows hydra-headed and thirsty, these mouth-to-mouth exchanges marking junctions, short-lived intersections in the commerce that the city carries on with it itself, a new and fluid topography. Its creatures seek each other out in damp-ridden bedchambers and musty attics, in doorways, against the walls of lightless alleys, blind grindings and gropings, mouths crammed with spit, throats gagging on innards, swilling and swallowing and gasping and grunting..."
Lawrence Norfolk, The Pope's Rhinoceros

Followed by, of course, a catalogue raisonné of acts and positions, exchanges and personnel, such as: "Vich is a muscled darting fish feeding on the water-bleached carrion of his mistress" (and His Excellency suspects it's his Fiammetta), "a consumptive shoemaker hacks mid-kiss and coughs a gobbet of grey phlegm down the throat of his perfectly lovely wife... three dogs fellating themselves in Pescheria, inspiring a baker's boy who will later try the same in Ponte and find he cannot reach. Think supple, he thinks... Then again, a stone's throw away, the Albergo dell'Orso" - of which the scribe has photos, oh yes - "top-floor, east-facing window: an ex-functionary of the Apostolic Camera stands motionless, his bronzed body muscled and naked as a god, eyes searching the anterior darkness while minions tongue him from below, all three waiting for sunrise and ejaculation. Dawn is hours off."

His Excellency is giving me the evil eye for this, especially since he is missing his regular... well, conversations with They-Know-Who-They-Are. Okay. Roma. Welcome to Rome. The frigid bitch. I'll head out and walk a bit.

But not before I point you towards [insanejournal.com profile] michalyn's entry to [insanejournal.com profile] yaoi_challenge: "Giovanni's Monkey" (Cesare + Michelotto, Cesare + Giovanni de Medici), in which there occur debauchery, dubious consent, abuse of power and a monkey. Yes.

(PS: What am I missing in lj- and ij-land? Please DO leave me pointers, okay?)
A real city, living breathing eating farting shitting snoring and scratching its butt, a real city again, which feels very healthy after Assisi's pious freak show. Make no mistake, the churches are nice, but the museal feel mixed with the tackiest of souvenirs and the grossest type of tourists was a little much. Ngk.

Although... perks, apart from the grand, grand churches: Climbing up to the Rocca at sundown and watching the local youth practise their banner-throwing skills (bare-chested, if I may add) for the next festival... being graced with late sun, and finding what might be the world's oddest fence - completely covered in chewing gum.

Now. Spoleto! I look up at your hills in awe.
MAGIONE, people. Magione.

His Excellency would like to state, in lieu of a preamble, that he'll have to vomit quite unceremoniously if he has to see another busload of morbidly obese mouthbreathers in bermuda shorts, sandals, and socks, being disgorged unto Assisi, and his scribe keeps muttering something about "Drosselgasse", which he doesn't quite understand, but her face is as a thundercloud so the meaning is clear.

Let the gaudy, the bored, the sated and the gelato-dripping not distract you from the beauty of Giotto's and Cimabue's frescoes, though - from the sheer serenity of stone. Let it be winter, too - that seems to be a good time to visit Assisi, if only to avoid the puffing, lobster-faced masses.

Be that as it may. The scribe perched her glasses on her nose and sniffled her way past the Giottos, while His Excellency buffed his nails on his farsetto and thought of Magione. How he would have loved to be a mouse at the condottieri's dieta. His scribe managed to flee from her Lago Trasimeno island refuge on Monday (he's eyed her with all due scepticism, telling her there was a reason the Olivetan monks, fishermen, peasants, and even the castellan had abandoned Isola Polvese for good (malaria anyone?) and looked on amused while she tried to rent a bicycle in tiny San Feliciano, managing only a rickety mountain bike desparately in need of repair. Only when she huffed and puffed up the mountain separating Monte del Lago from Magione did he fathom the extent of her plan, which was sadly thwarted, since the Castello was closed to visitors on Mondays... BUT there was an electrician repairing the electrical gates and she snuck into the courtyard, stole a few pics and dashed out before the automated gates closed again. (Automatic gates. Closing and opening by ghostly hands. His Excellency is impressed.) Of course the scribe decided that wasn't good enough and had to go back when the Cava was open, at least. There's a plaque quoting Machiavelli's description of the meeting, by the way... Plaques!

Bringing us to today: on which the scribe rode back from the isle on a little racy motorboat, bought two bottles of wine from the Cavalieri, luckily dodged a 30 euro fine because the stupid bint in the bar had told her she could buy tickets on the train (there's no biglietteria in Magione...) and then lugged her bicycle-tormented (pain! 30 km up and down Lago Trasimeno!) carcass to Assisi. Where she has a little patio with table and chair on a set of stairs under a 13th century archway and is as happy as a little gurl. Because of Giotto and Cimabue and the Florentine frescoes, because of the lucky stint at Magione and well,

because.

His Excellency is well entertained by her antics, he must say. Especially by her atrocious Italian (spell: complete lack thereof).
Italy continues to bless me with good things!! Viz: the fact that Perugia's Palazzo dei Priori currently hosts a huge Pinturicchio exhibition! I nearly cried when I saw that, winding my way up into town by bus. Because omg. PINTURICCHIO. He of Appartamenti Borgia fame. Next to Perugino possibly my favourite Renaissance artist. *dies*

So, what am I doing online again!? The hostel opens at 16:00, I've already had coffee somewhere, I scoped out the opening hours of the exhibition (daily until 20:00), as well as of the postal office round the corner to mail home the catalogue (...) and, well, my backpack was getting nkhhhhhgh heavy.

Would you believe that I nearly lost last night's sleep due to memorial-plaque-disappointment, trying to work out a way around sketchy train connections? Seriously. Goes without saying that I... stopped in Senigallia again. I started out super-early to YESSS!!!! take a picture of the damn thing. From all possible angles. As well as going back to the Della Rovere residence that has been put forth as a second possible location. *headdesks* For all my fretting... it went so beautifully that I'm still stunned & happy. Because, well, remember the big signs on Highway 66 all around Northern Arizona? You've come too far not to see it, they say.

And now, ladies and gentlemen... Perugia! Allow me to quote Bradford here,

"By 1489 Cesare's Roman boyhood was over; he was fourteen, and for the next three years he would complete his formal education at the universities of Perugia and Pisa. In the autumn of 1489 he was sent to Perugia to study at the Sapienza... Cesare must have been frequently in company with Gian Paolo Baglioni and his brothers, whose houses in the Baglioni quarter of the town near Porta Marzia were within a stone's throw of the Sapienza building, and he probably went hunting with them on their estates of bastia and Spello in the contado of Perugia."

Let's not forget Perugia is also the site of the Baglioni Blood Wedding of 1500, a most memorable -ahem- event during which one half of the family messily butchered the other.
And on Saturday there's a free concert by Roy Paci & Aretuska in front of Palazzo dei Priori, yay!

People, people. ♥
okay, they DO have plaques on virtually every house, plaques for this and that, plaques that crow triumphantly if a visiting dignitary so much as farted there, so was it too much to ask for a plaque saying "In this house on the last night of December 1502, il Valentino had Oliverotto da Fermo and Vitellozzo Vitelli killed, their corpses thrown into the square, and personally stopped his soldiery from looting the town"? No, right? *g*

Yeah, fine, laugh at me. It would have been nice though, wouldn't it? Problem is, this town is a) fiercely proud of its Della Rovere heritage and b) also brought forth Pope Pius IX, so it's all about those. BUT! I found an old etching that shows the location of the bridge and gate Machiavelli mentions, clearly labelling them as the entrances il Valentino used, outlining it as a drawbridge, and found the corresponding streets on today's map. Cue more complete shit photos. Hah!

That, and clambering around the Rocca Roveresca (held then by Andrea Doria) was labyrinthine fun - it's exquisitely restored. Surprising and enjoyable, especially after Fano's weird Malatesta jumble. Make no mistake about it, Fano was worth stopping at - one Cesare location spotted, definitely, and another suspected. And well... Senigallia: I bear you no ill will, you're still pretty. ;) Ngk, I have a sunburn. Time for aperitivo, I swear.

And His Excellency the Duke of Valence would like to add... that he is very sorry for owing replies - the scribe jostles for elbow space, wasting valuable "internet" time on these inane updates; he is mortified and asks for your patience.

ETA The scribe is officially an idiot. There is a plaque. Only the arseholes in the tourism office could or would not tell me. I found that in a book that was hidden away in a book store. Reading about it, of course, just as I was running to catch my train, on the platform, and had already validated my ticket... I might have to stop there again tomorrow, en route to Perugia... The plaque says,

"Nella Casa di Bernardino Quartari di Parma che sorgeva qui presso ebbe luogo per ordine di Cesare Borgia Duca Valentino l'eccidio di Oliverotto Uffreducci da Fermo e Vitellozzo Vitelli da Citta di Castello suoi condottieri il giorno 31 Dicembre 1502."

It's a primary school now. However, one essay in the booklet defies that traditional locale and promotes the idea it was a house closer to the old gate, which I did photograph. Oh teeth gnash! God,knowing myself I'll have to go back tomorrow and stress around like whoa. Baka me.

Here's the link, the keyboard I'm on is wonky so I can't code properly...
http://www.chieracostui.com/costui/docs/search/schedaoltre.asp?ID=3754
which the scribe deems a good thing; and much more appropriate than tourist hands, like Gradara. But His Excellency bides the scribe go slow and start at the beginning (instead of eyeing the drinks, the stupid twat!)

His Excellency winced when the scribe forced him to forego stops in Romagna proper, passing Imola, Faenza, Forlì, Cesena and Rimini in one fell swoop, her reasoning being that his fortresses had become Della Rovere's and were in disrepair no matter what, there were no other sights, the few Manfredi and Sforza things in Faenza and Forlì superceded by layers of a history that'd mean nothing to him, with no place to leave luggage at the tiny stations, so he made her take photos of the train stations, at least.

He's also telling her to stop gnawing her piercing and poke her tongue out when in thought; it's unseemly and brutta.

Anyway. Finally having made it Pesaro with terrific delays which the scribe fruitfully spent drinking wine and eating KinderPingoui, His Excellency shook his head at the sad state Rocca Costanza is in, but then that was to be expected. No chance to have a look at Lucrezia's lavishly decorated bathrooms in Palazzo Ducale either, since it currently houses the City Magistrate.

His scribe was about to go slackjawed and drooling on him, rifling through some 100 photos (of the Anatomical Theatre and Ferrarese mosquito pits and whatnot), ready to fall asleep on her feet when he ordered her up and about again to take a "bus" to Gradara, the place of choice for villeggiatura during Giovanni & Lucrezia's short-lived matrimony. It was a little over-decorated, over-restored, and he wonders why it is that people think of castles as romantic dwellings. When even Gradara didn't have a proper loo. How come they always forget about rancid woolfat, stale sweat, woodsmoke, and piss? In matters comfort and luxury, neither Pesaro nor Gradara were what Lucrezia was used to, so His Excellency is still miffed she would have delayed her return to Rome after he, and then even their father His Holiness called her back. Must have been a much better fuck than expected, that Giovanni. Or it was pure obstinacy on Lucrezia's part. The wayward chit.

Now the scribe barges in, wanting to add that, much like Christopher Moltisanti's heroin-thwarted efforts at seeing the Vesuvio, the scribe's attempts at passeggiata and aperitivo tend to be thwarted by swollen feet and one wine too many, so that by the time she could go out, she really can't. (His Excellency has no idea what on God's earth she's on about. Must be the dry Emilian Lambrusco.)

So it is 11:15 at Urbino, and the xerox machines are besieged, like in every good uni town, by the great throng of not-so-early-risers, smokers, and wearers of stylish glasses.

Cue back some 506 years...

So here we have His Excellency, at twenty-six, standing alone in the vast, rich halls of Urbino's Ducal Palace, paintings and statues looming, leering at him, telling him his reign will be short-lived; the Montefeltro is nothing like Romagna, no wide plains allowing easy troop movements, but a rugged country of hills and valleys, ideal for ambushs and guerrilla warfare, and that just might eat his troups alive. And while he limps around the place (the ulcer in his groin giving him a hell of a time, goddamn mal francese), he already makes plans and second plans, scenarios of ifs. For one, he'll pretty much start shipping Federigo & son's treasures to Cesena and Forlì, best starting tomorrow. Trains of 180 mules each, daily going back and forth. Da Vinci has already looked at the library and pointed out what he wants, slavering all the while. Isabella d'Este has written; she wants the small cupid she's seen during her last visit, and while his Excellency deems it crass of the cunt - for all her talk of bella figura - to rob her own relative, he readily and swiftly obliges, adding that the cupid is one of Michelangelo's.

Anyway. What does he see, His Excellency, when he closes his eyes at night, in old man Federigo's panelled bed, what does he think? That Urbino is rightfully his? He tells Machiavelli so. The Florentines come the next day, and he upbraids them and doesn't mince words and, well, rips them a new arsehole, verbally, biting his lip now and then because damn his ulcer hurts, and Montefeltro's ancients are gazing down from the gallery, and Guidabaldo has fled up north, in nothing but a shirt to his name.

It's only a matter of time before His Excellency will lose Urbino again. (Don't tell him he'll cry onto Guidobaldo's feet and promise restitution; that might produce a major sulkfest... And I'm off to roam the crooked lanes of Urbino. Shame the guards in the Palazzo are so freakishly anti-photo, there's absolutely no chance to take pics. At all. Grr.)

(ETA by the scribe): Oh man do they ever hate him still. The official guidebook says, "We know from antique sources that Federico's palace was a treasure chest of paintings and sculptures, antiques, bronzes, silverware, paintings on panels and canvases, tapestries, painted leather hangings and inlaid furniture. Unfortunately in 1502 it was plundered by Duke Valentino (Cesare Borgia, son of Pope Alessandro VI), and in 1631 following the extinction of this branch of the della Rovere family and the devolution of the duchy to the Papal State, many of the remaining movables went to Vittoria de' Medici."

Dude. As if the family ties with the Della Rovere hadn't fucked Urbino no matter what, sooner or later. Maybe falling into sleepy oblivion and becoming a backwater at the Pope's arse end was Urbino's saving grace. Having said that, I'm currently tucking into "The Pope's Rhinoceros" again, with freshly added zest. The story of the conclave that sent Giovanni de' Medici's fiery boil suppurating all over the Sistine Chapel... the glimpses of Tordesillas (revisited), Spanish/Portuguese bitchfights, and Pope Leo's feverish (spell: nightmarish) recollections of the Borgia are just priceless. *___* And as always, the Graces mean well with me: the Ducal Palace currently hosts an exhibit with the most amazing illuminated manuscripts and books from Federigo & son's library (again, lots of stabs at evil Cesare who stole it all) - the choicest pieces on loan from the Vatican. Nom.
il_valentino: (Default)
( Jun. 2nd, 2008 12:51 pm)
Il Valentino would like you to know that he is pleased the Ferrarese haven't forgotten his sister and are honouring her memory, at least, when his own has all but fallen prey to damnatio memoriae; His Excellency would have liked to pay his respects at her grave but Corpus Domini convent was closed due to restoration work (what are they getting off on, "restoration"? Why don't they look to God? He'll keep a roof over their heads, won't he? Well. As long as they place fresh flowers on her tomb.) but at least His Excellency could visit Casa Romei where Lucrezia spent much of her time in Ferrara. Since the Castle was such a moldy dump back then.
His Excellency does not blame Lucrezia for her initial revulsion and discomfort at the prospect of moving into Castello Estense, seeing what a malarial shithole it would have been in summer, any summer, what with no baths nor toilets. And Isabella d'Este can well go fuck herself if she believed Lucrezia's immediate lobbying for a decent bit of bathroom to be the whinging of some spoiled Roman tart.
So, finding Lucrezia still revered and well-loved... made His Excellency content. As did happening to stop by just in time for the annual Palio, as well as seeing the dungeon in which Don Giulio was kept for most of life (although we believe he was in the right, seeing as he was the injured party, the first to suffer grave harm at the hands of Cardinal Ippolito and never having received compensation nor restitution for the loss of his good looks and the use of his eyes). Also, given half a chance, His Excellency would have liked to pay a visit to his daughter's convent, although he is not very happy about her becoming abbess of San Bernardino. When he asked Lucrezia to take care of the girl, he didn't mean buy her a convent and make her abbess, but who knows, Carmilla seems to have been content. Sadly, San Bernardino was demolished in the 1870s, so His Excellency can't wander the cloister, converse with her ghost, ask her about her brother Girolamo (who seems to have been a proper rake).

As for Bologna, His Excellency would like to state that he's never seem so many leaning buildings in one place. Tomorrow his scribe will trot off to Pesaro then. But she's already vowed she won't be leaving before she hasn't seen the Anatomy Theatre. (His Excellency also would like to mention that she dragged him to a very strange first evening of Saint Saens' "Samson et Delilah" in the Teatro Comunale and was so stingy that he had to sit in the nosebleed section. He is a bit bemused that his scribe is gladdened by the city's obviously political affiliations which are so obviously Left it hurts. The Mondadori bookstore the scribe dubbed "very sexy", only because it's got a swanky cafe and is half built into a dank mediaeval tower.)

His Excellency will try to get the scribe to report in, now and then.
--- geez, cut it, will you? - the scribe, having way too much fun already! :D
"What's he on about, the duke was found full of fear at Imola?" Cesare looks up, frowning.

Miquel has been watching him intently from across the table, chin propped on the heels of his hands. Well, you were a bit...

Cesare snarls, "I was what?"

Apprehensive.

"Apprehensive?"

Yes. Miquel beams like a five-year-old given a sweetmeat.

"Fuck you, too," Cesare grumbles, then smoothes the crumpled wad of print-outs.

Description of the Methods Adopted by the Duke Valentino When Murdering Vitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da Fermo, the Signor Pagolo, and the Duke di Gravina Orsini. )

Sounds so cut and dried. Miquel yawns fastidiously, holding up a hand as if he were tired, and actually had some manners.

"It was pretty inspired, if I say so myself."

Mhh.
You will appreciate that, speaking of a time in which few things were private and even the most intimate dealings were considered a matter of public record, I shall refrain from discoursing on such things at length. Suffice it to mention one, then. One happy moment, for your edification and entertainment, since we are among friends, yes?

Well. Being rid of Juan, and all that the mournful loss of my beloved brother entailed. Burying Juan allowed me to shed the Purple - the one thing that had kept me from my rightful position as gonfaloniere of the Church. So it was a most gladsome moment when father bestowed upon me the insignia, finally, finally, sending me along with his blessings, and I accepted with my heart singing and my eyes piously cast down.

I was free then. He'd set me free. He would come to see that, just like everybody else: that in making me the Pope's standard bearer he had given me something which, to this day, I deem better than all of his gold and silver keys, all his power to bind and loosen.

Father's power was symbolic. Mine was to become real.

And if there was something lacking, a tiny thing that wasn't the Pope's to grant, why, then so be it. What could have weighed more than a kingdom?

A tiny thing. The devil dwells in details, of course. He dwells in the very image of me falling asleep with my head propped against Miquel's shoulder, Miquel's fingers twirling my hair. Perpaps I was happiest then, for a fleeting moment somewhere under a tree in Campagna, late in Spring. The year could have been 1497. I forget.

It doesn't matter anymore.
il_valentino: (Default)
( May. 26th, 2008 01:53 pm)
"Look who's here," Cesare says, already extending a hand. It'll meet thin air if he pushes things, so he reaches out softly, so soft. Miguel isn't solid - nothing about him is - but he can be solid enough if he chooses.

Cesare's eyes are stinging, and his head is ringing with a tune, impossibly jagged to his ears.

Itene o miei sospiri...

Let my sighs go, let them fly to him who is the cause of my martyrdom.
Tell him to have pity on my suffering; let him be as good to me as he is lovely,
so that my bitter plaint may be happily exchanged for a love-song.


Not that it sounds like a love song. More like the accompaniment to ghastly murder.
May I suggest you kneel
I suggest you kneel and-

Kneel.


He rifles through the words, frantically looking for the right expression and tone. He's trying them on like gloves, pushing his fingers inside; silently lets them roll off his tongue. They make him queasy. He's not meant to say them. Not he.

(Turns out he doesn't even have to open his mouth until later, and oh, what things he'll say.)
My theory is that if you look confident you can pull off anything - even if you have no clue what you're doing.

Oh. Who's "my", by the way? But, yes, I agree. In general. Although I'd like to add - and you may trust me on this - that things tend to work out better if you do know what you're doing. Then you can even look like a complete idiot while you're doing it - be my guest, I won't hold it against you.

As for me... I think I've used both: ostensible stupidity, and supreme confidence in the face of certain defeat.

I meekly bent my knee and bowed my head when that gormless French village idiot with a crown wanted to drag Cem and me to Naples, didn't I? The curia, the barons - everybody was convinced father would fight Charles VIII teeth and nails. That I wouldn't have to go. Ecco, I went. With father's blessings. I even said so myself then: oh come now, flighty young Cesare, the Pope's nephew? He's expendable.
What a tedious, tedious journey. Cem's incessant whining. The French with their uncouth, revolting ways; boorish clowns all of them, down to their king. The promise of loot and plunder drew them from Rome; what would spell doom for Naples gave father room to breathe, so yes, I did my best to lure them away. Departed with the choicest bits of my household, strapped to the backs of eighteen mules. Mother of God, I would have loved to see Charles's face when he discovered that the trunks held only stones and straw! No doubt Michelotto and I were almost back in Rome by that time. Shame we had to lie low for a while; it would have been a good public laugh. So you can look like a dimwit and still win, see. Provided you know what you're doing.

Or you can have a tenth - a third, at best - of the forces conspiring against you, can have one or three trusted condottieri versus the twenty or more who have turned traitors and schemers... you may already see everything come tumbling down, your secret heart of hearts may despair every time you open a missive, receive a messenger, write a letter, hear somebody out, but if you keep your wits about you... chances are, you'll live. And win.
I'm referring to Senigallia, of course. Things had looked dismal for a while there. Losing Urbino was a low blow, and Urbino could very well have toppled everything. An avalanche. Bon déu, I already saw it coming. Daily, I expected it. But I kept my head, nevermind that meanwhile at La Magione, they were fantasizing about who'd get to fuck me first, whose cock I'd have to suck, and who'd get to finish me, knife in hand. Take a look around - Oliverotto, Vitellozzo, the Varano, Paolo Orsini, the Baglioni, Petrucci, Bentivoglio, where are they now?

It's still true; sprezzatura goes a long way. A word of advice, though: don't confuse feigned haplessness with real ignorance.
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