Aut Caesar aut nihil.

"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?"

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.

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.