Aut Caesar aut nihil.

voicesinmyhead Prompt #63

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 10:50:46 GMT

What is your biggest mistake?

Is? Or was? As for mistakes of the past, I believe I have already talked about that on these pages. And you must believe me when I say it did not seem a mistake, back then. To me, it didn't. Miquel was of a different opinion. So was Machiavelli. Everybody was convinced I was losing... touch. That making Giuliano pope was my death sentence.

Mistakes are remarkable, aren't they, every step of the way. Before you commit them, you reason hard to convince yourself you're on a good path. While you commit them, you construct ever more elaborate arguments to defend your decision. And for the longest time, you cling to the hope of having been right, after all - right, all this time. See? See? Giuliano's a man of honour. He'll honour his word. He needs an army. He can't - won't lead it himself. He needs me, needs my influence, my experience, needs my money.

I told you how Miquel sat with me. How he wiped my brow and hand-fed me and helped me get up and be dressed. He stood at my back while I received the Spanish cardinals. I was too sick to sense the extent of his despair. And perhaps that, that was my biggest mistake: that I, in clinging to what I thought was my dignity, neglected to see Miquel's street-cat wisdom.

Regarding mistakes of the present... they must be numerous, and quite remarkable in their semblance of perfect reason.

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Cesare Borgia: Topic: Mothers

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 10:49:23 GMT

He expects this will end any time soon. He expects it might as well... go on forever. Nothing in this place is right, and life has been restored to him, so why not youth, too? Because nothing lasts, you idiot. And while he likes his new un-heavyness, the gangly limbs and boundless energy, his elder self already sneers at him for taking such puppyish delight in things that will - will - pass again. How fleeting is youth. Take joy in today, for tomorrow remains... uncertain. Lorenzo de' Medici knew all about that, didn't he. Old before his time, and bent twice as fast.

Nervously, Cesare looks up, cradling the juice-and-something Dora sneaked between his hands. "My mother was a very enterprising woman," he says, half-proud, half-shy. "I hear you can still visit some of the places she owned in Rome. Not all of them, no. But a few. The Vacca - that was a tavern - at the corner of Campo de' Fiori; it's a bakery now. And on the other side of the market, there's the Albergo del Sole. That was hers, too. The walls were all wonky!" he laughs, and elder Cesare chokes with apoplexy that he's using such a stupid word. "Not a single beam at straight edges. That's because they built it into the ruins of Pompei's Theatre. Where Caesar was killed. Not me. I mean, Giulio Cesare. The Imperator. My mamma had an inn there. Funny, no? And she owned other places, too."

Then he falls silent for a moment, rubbing his hands before he has to sit on them to keep them still. The juice is quite. Strong, like. His elder self nearly dies of shame at his caterwauling thoughts - when I was your age I already had my doctorate, he tells himself, and blushes. "Anyway. After my youngest brother Jofré was born, our father took a new mistress, but he made sure mamma was well-appointed and lacked for nothing. He found her a husband of good repute and and. Then I had to move away from her, from her house on piazza Pizzo di Merlo, and live with Aunt Adriana. That wasn't... nice. So I guess I was happy when they sent me to school in Perugia."

"They say she - mamma, I mean - they say Vanozza de' Cattanei survived most of her children." He swallows, blinks, then quickly, hastily empties the glass.

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Cesare Borgia: Event: (De)Ageing

Sat, 16 May 2009 16:01:06 GMT

It's safe. Upon my honour. Miquel peers at the trembling shape under the duvet. Really. Cesare. Come on out.

"No!" Cesare's voice sounds quite, quite young. Unbroken, in fact. "What new travesty is this?" Squealed into the pillows.

I don't pretend to know. Miquel sits and pats the duvet-covered rump. He follows Cesare's spine, feels Cesare claw at something. Finally, a dark head appears at the edge of the bed. It pokes from the mountain of duvets like a sullen mole. Oh come now. Stop crying, mh? Nobody has to see you like this.

"Oh really!" The boy wails and rubs snot all over the linens. His handsome face would resemble Donatello's David... if it weren't so red and pinched. His hair is a shade lighter than Miquel is accustomed to seeing, the hand that snatches the pillow a good deal narrower. A scholar's hand, suited to hold a pen, not a sword. Cesare's shoulders are hitching.

And then the snot-smeared little crab dashes from the bed, dogding Miquel, to run for the bathroom. Doors are banging, followed by more wailing. Miquel follows him through two walls and hovers over the bathtub. So far he's only glimpsed this most recent, unexpected turn of events but... mare de Déu. Oh God's martyrs. This is... something.

Cesare only stares at him with helpless, wounded eyes.

This is how I met you, Miquel says softly, extending a hand. This is what you looked like... at sixteen. The brat prince. The bookworm.

"Oh God I can't deal with this!" Cesare shrieks, again thrashing past Miquel who can only watch... Watch as Cesare dives into an expensive cashmere turtleneck three sizes too big, not to mention the pants that fall off his hips, watch him frantically hack at a pair of jeans that he has to tie around his waist, watch him run out without proper shoes, even.

Hasn't even taken the keys or money or his telefonino, the stupid thing. Miquel sighs. He'd take them for him, but he can't. He follows him at a safe distance, though, and is a little relieved when he sees that Cesare is running-limping-hobbling towards the pub.

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