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.
"Beautiful, beautiful. Magnificent desolation." -- Buzz Aldrin

"Man shouldn't revel in darkness. One should not court it, woo it, flatter it; take it to bed, or wrap one's naked skin in it. Why?" Cesare gazes into the distance. His eyes are amber sweetness, dead things trapped in them. "For desolation and despair will have their way with you. Once you have fallen in their company, it will be difficult to disentangle yourself."

When he glances at his hands, he notices how hard the right grabs the left.

"But perhaps your Master Aldrin, whoever he is, speaks of a different kind of desolation. Not the wastelands of the soul, but a kind of tabula rasa. The smoking plains of Geenna. I luoghi nascosti; luoghi de fuoco. I have seen such places." There's a smile, slow in creeping up and painful around the edges. "I can see the attraction. But where is the point in becoming a ruler of ashes?"
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.
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.
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.
il_valentino: (Default)
( May. 11th, 2008 11:12 pm)
"You don't mind where you are because you know where you've been..." - Carbon Leaf

"Oh, that's a nicely two-pronged one." Cesare looks up slowly. He gets up slowly, too. Walks over to the windows and opens the curtains. "Look for yourself. Do I mind? Well. Do you? I'll say, it beats lying dead in a ditch. It beats sitting in a moldy prison with only my ulcers and sores to keep me company. But does it hold a candle to where I was before all that?" Fingers twisting into the curtains, he starts to laugh, involuntarily hitting his forehead against the glass. He sheepishly rubs his brow, then laughs some more. "Yes, very funny. Let's not even start though, shall we," he chuckles, wiping away tears. Whether they signal mirth or misery, he doesn't know. "Let me put it like this: Considering the various ups and downs of my fate - its sheer malignant vagaries - from a classical, a humanist's point of view, I think it's rather obvious that there was Lady Fortuna, spinning her Wheel - me - this way and that. Looks like she rather enjoyed it, too."

"But wheels," - now he stops laughing, props himself up on one elbow - "can be used for other things, too. Church history tells us so. And I promise you this: if I ever get hold of the bitch, I'll use her Wheel to smash her bones to a bloody pulp. Saint Catherine of Alexandria could win a fucking beauty pageant next to what I'd leave of Fortune." He closes his eyes, falls back into the same languid inertia as before. "So, do I mind? Like I said. It has its perks."
il_valentino: (Default)
( Apr. 24th, 2008 01:15 pm)
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free


"My love is vengeance..." That's quite the mouthful, isn't it? The divine Aquilano once said my blood was poison... which just goes to show that there are no limits to poetic licence, I suppose. Such hyperbole is the spittle-licking writer's prerogative - after all it earns him his dinner, his velvet caps and his silks and mules. When I think of all the things they've written about me... Déu, what flattery. Aquilano overshot by leagues, of course, but he never understood how close he got to the truth either.

As for my conscience... that is only for the Lord God to know. A worthy subject for the confessional if ever I choose to go.

But I do have this one recurring dream.

The one in which I run away from home after overhearing Father and Juan. It's always sunny, always late spring. Flora is just on the cusp of revealing her splendour, but I have no eyes for it. I'm in the Forum, scrambling past Santa Maria Nuova and via Sacra, already half way up the Palatine. I've left my horse at the foot of the hill and am running up the slope. I cannot see much, and I falter and stumble a lot because I am crying too hard.

Yes, I know. Little Cesare. Isn't it sad. The poor neglected runt, ferried back and forth between mothers and aunts and tutors, given a good thrashing for his every effort to please. Children are really easy to break, aren't they?

So I'm still clambering over mossy marble when I see one of Orso's mercenaries, the one I've sparred with, the one who's defended me against Orso when they... well, when they had me on my back with my hose down. And I run over and cling to him, quite the stubborn little crab rubbing snot all over his doublet, sniffling how they don't want me and don't love me and how they've... gambled away something that wasn't theirs to give. My soul. Such a small matter when the prize is the triple crown of Saint Peter's, don't you think?

And I just never see the sword. In some of the dreams I see a gleam, the sun sparking off something, but I never realise it's a blade until I feel it in my gut. And then... then it's not even Marlone anymore, not the mercenary, no. It's Chiaro.

The first thing I see, really see, is his hand. He's got one arm wrapped around my shoulder, but his other hand is still on the hilt. He isn't wearing gloves. I always notice that because there is blood spilling over his fingers, a warm stinking rush of it that floods over his hand.

Does it hurt? Yes. Yes, it does. The wound doesn't close, not like it did then, and it hurts beyond belief. But Chiaro doesn't let go. He pulls the blade up, a handspan perhaps, up against ripping cloth and flesh, which at this point I can hear more than feel. When he finally lowers me into the grass I sometimes think I can hear the bees buzzing, but it's probably only the loss of blood.

In those dreams, it... it all ends there and then. We could have been free, you know.

As for the rest of your quote? I don't know what to make of it. Whoever wrote it, I wouldn't have given him a single soldo. Poets should write to please.
What a difference a day makes. 24 little hours. I heard that the other day. I can't say the tune was worthy of remembrance, and the words were utter drivel. But one thing is a fact: 24 hours can be a long time. Think twice before you squander them.

We counted days differently, you know. The first hour of night being seven p.m., and twelve hours later, in the small and peachy light, the first hour of day. What things we can achieve during that span... it can be much. A world, a catalogue raisonné of Herculean feats. It can be nothing, too; a drab succession of hours, hanging heavily over our heads like the sword of Damocles. I've had both, known both ad nauseam.

Ecco. What would I do if given 24 hours of my choice? They wouldn't be enough to reinstate what I've lost, wouldn't suffice to put me back to where I was when at my loftiest, so...

So I'd use that day to make an example of those who have sought to harm me. And in the remaining twenty minutes I'd take a nice hot bath.

"Oh." He laughs, more in self-deprecation than anything else. "Take a seat. An encyclopedic list of such claims might take a while. But why bore you with a string of ifs? I can't complain, at present: Signora Pellegrini sent me a case of fine Rosso di Montalcino. You are welcome to partake. I realise it's not quite a Brunello, but we can't all have good years, eh?"

It is a good wine, and he's almost loath to share it. Taking the plate of antipasti he's fixed for himself in the kitchen - it's still so spotless; da Vinci would mess it up in no time - Cesare moves over to the window and sits. "Prego, join me. Some artichoke capolini, perhaps? The small, violet ones are good. They only grow on the island of Sant'Erasmo, in the Venice Lagoon. A shame Madonna Isabella won't have any; I fear I'll grow fat if I have to eat them all by myself."

He's careful not to leave greasy fingerprints on the glass as he swirls the content. "Now, how could my life be better? Really... let's not get started. I would have to take you back to a time when I wasn't even born."

"I would have to tell you about the crooked deals my father made to get his hands on the Papacy. I could say, my life would have been better without Juan, and I could have done without Della Rovere, too. My life would have been better without the Mal Francese, and without the Tertian Fever, and if I had a chance to cast my own lot, I'd happily forego my acquaintance with the prisons of Castel dell'Ovo and La Mota. We wish for many things, no? That's only human." Cesare shrugs, torn between genuine amusement at the vagaries of fate and his own sense of entitlement - for entitled he is, and it goes hard, this acceptance of his diminished state. Gazing out at sea, he softly starts to declaim,

"Així com celi qui desija vianda
per apagar sa perillosa fam,
e veu dos poms de fruit en un bell ram
e son desig egualment los demanda...


"I am like a man whom hunger has brought close to death, and who must eat or perish, but then sees a tree on one of whose branches hang two splendid fruits which he desires equally. So, what do I want? Do I wish to return home, and start this litany of ifs again? Or would I stay, and accept the smaller fruit in my hand, not quite kallisti, but a good fruit nonetheless, provided Messer Krycek gets his arse into gear, and the Vatican Bank finds an inexplicable hole in their accounts?"

Tapping his index finger against pursed lips, he reaches for the wine bottle again.
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