City of God Read Free

the wine is always watered. Why should the Trastevere interest Florence? No one lives there—no one great. Only whores and thieves and working folk.”
    â€œCesare Borgia has a palace in the Trastevere,” said Nicholas. “Sit down, if you please. We’ll have some wine. Unwatered.”
    They sat in two facing chairs near the middle of the room. The old servant came silently in with wine in glasses.
    Stefano sat perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. His gaze traveled over the painted walls. He held the wine a while in his hand before he drank it; then he drank it without tasting it, as if it were well water. He had no manner of a prince, for all his looks and name. His coloring was not that of a peasant. Wide-spaced, his eyes, above a large straight nose and a jaw that flared back from the chin into a belligerent wedge. Nicholas enjoyed this beauty. He let the wine lie on his tongue before swallowing.
    â€œOh.” The big man rose out of his chair, staring across the room. “That’s clever—I never saw that until now.”
    He meant the Roman temple painted in among the olive trees on the west wall. Nicholas said, “I’m pleased it amuses you.”
    Stefano sat down again heavily in the chair. Something had put him on edge, perhaps Nicholas’s tone of voice. He still held his empty glass and he set it down on the floor by his foot.
    â€œI told you, I know nothing of Valentino.”
    â€œWhat is your opinion of him?”
    The pale eyes opened wider. “Valentino? He is a man, that one.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œA few years ago, what was he? The bastard son of a Spanish Cardinal. Now—Gonfalonier of the Church, conqueror of the Romagna—”
    â€œNor is his father a mere Cardinal, now, but the Pope. There have been men before who shone like stars while their relatives were Pope, and went out like candles when their patrons died. Girolamo Riario, for instance.”
    Stefano shrugged. His clothes were badly cut of cheap fabric and did not suit him. “That is in the future,” he said. “Now Valentino is the greatest man in Italy.”
    Nicholas propped his chin up on his fist, his elbow on the arm of the chair. “I want to know the gossip of the Trastevere. As much to know what folk believe as to learn what is true.”
    â€œI’ll do anything I’m paid for.”
    Stefano put one hand on his coat, where the purse bulged. The door into the kitchen squealed and Juan returned, collected their glasses, and went out again.
    â€œWhen you want to see me, leave word at the Fox and Grapes,” Stefano said. “That’s a taverna, near Santa Maria—do you know it?”
    â€œI am somewhat acquainted with the Trastevere.”
    Juan returned with the glasses filled. Stefano’s eyes turned to the old man as he crossed the room toward them. Nicholas touched his fingers to his cheek, softly, stroking his own skin. He wondered how Stefano would answer another proposal.
    The old man brought his glass. Nicholas gave him a quick, weighted look and Juan left them. He would not come in again.
    â€œI’m pleased you like my house,” Nicholas said.
    â€œYes,” Stefano said. He was sitting back in the chair, now, with the glass in his hand. “You must have a lot of money, to have a house like this.”
    â€œWould that were true. I would enjoy showing you the rest of it.”
    â€œOh? Are there other rooms like this one?”
    â€œOnly the bedroom.”
    The younger man’s head snapped back. His shocked stare met Nicholas’s and the color rushed into his cheeks.
    â€œSo. You are that kind. I thought so, when first I saw you. Well, I am not!”
    â€œVery well,” Nicholas said.
    â€œI enjoy women. Many women. I am very good with them, too—they adore me.”
    â€œI dislike women,” Nicholas murmured.
    â€œYes, your kind does.”
    Nicholas muttered behind his