City of God Read Free Page A

hand. He regretted letting this talk happen.
    â€œStill, as I told you,” Stefano said, “I will do anything for money.”
    Nicholas smiled, relaxing. He stirred in his chair, one hand on the arm. He wondered why Stefano had changed his mind, or if he had: perhaps he had only been defending his honor.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œOne hundred crowns.”
    â€œPer Baccho,” Nicholas said. “This is Rome, after all. For ten crowns I could buy a red hat. Twenty crowns, which is generous.”
    â€œWhat am I—a whore? Besides, I am a virgin.”
    â€œThat is no advantage to me.”
    â€œForty crowns.”
    â€œThirty.”
    Stefano looked away, casual, his attention going to the painted wall again. “Very well.”
    Nicholas stroked his fingertips lightly over the oiled wood of the chair. “We’ll have some more wine,” he said, and rose.
    At nine the next morning Nicholas went into the Leonine City, across the river from the center of Rome, to attend Pope Alexander.
    His walking stick tucked under his arm, he waited in a corridor of the Vatican Palace for his ambassador to arrive. The walls of the corridor were hung with indifferent paintings on mythological themes. Through an open window Nicholas looked out on a brick courtyard, half in sun, half in the shade of a tall stone pine; at the foot of the slender trunk there were piled several empty terra cotta wine jars. Nicholas stood admiring the accident of art in this scene through the window. He compared the sun-warmed colors of the brick and the pine with the lifeless painting of the Minotaur on the wall beside the window.
    Bruni came, the Florentine legate to the Curia, a tall, solid man, smiling. “I am late,” he said, as if that pleased him. “As usual. What happened last night at your tryst?”
    Nicholas cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
    â€œNo one came?” Bruni said sharply.
    â€œThey came. It was a trap, for the money.”
    â€œDid they get it?”
    Nicholas aimed his gaze out the window, unable to meet Bruni’s eyes. “Yes.” The money had come out of Bruni’s pocket.
    â€œFifty crowns!” said Bruni, in a rising voice.
    â€œI could have refused to give it up,” Nicholas said, “and had my throat cut. And lost the money anyway.”
    Bruni made a sound in his chest. Planting one fist on his hip, he glanced around them to see who might overhear. “How many were there?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œOnly two? You couldn’t have escaped? I knew this was a mistake from the beginning. Well, never mind, it can’t be avoided, I suppose, in our position. Let’s go in. Maybe there’s something to be learned here.”
    Nicholas went after him down the corridor to the door at the end. They passed into a crowded, noisy room. Bruni sniffed. As his custom was in crowds, he thrust his head up and his chin into the air. “Get us through this mob,” he said. He maneuvered his way to the nearest window, took a handkerchief from his coat, and stood looking out and fluffing the handkerchief before his nose. Nicholas went toward the head of the room.
    This was only the antechamber; the Pope would keep his informal audience in the next room. At the door between the two, several pages were loitering, some wearing the livery of the Borgias, some in other colors, and Nicholas moved in among them to the doorway.
    This room was dark, but the next room was full of a golden light: its windows faced the sun. The walls were painted with murals, court scenes and crowds, like the court scene and crowd moving around the room. Nicholas could not see the Pope for the milling men and women, but he knew everyone there, and before half a minute had passed he had caught the attention of three or four people. Turning away from the door, he moved off a few steps along the wall.
    Bruni’s remarks about the fifty crowns still ruffled him; he wished