that he had spoken up more for himself. He steered his thoughts away from the uses he had made of Stefano Baglione, who now had Bruniâs money. Bruni was standing framed against the window. He wore a splendid coat of Milanese stuff, green with an intricate pattern woven through it in silver thread. The Florentine Signory would frown at that. They wanted a sober, mercantile appearance in their orators. Someone tugged on Nicholasâs sleeve.
It was a page in the Borgia colors, little bulls embroidered on his fluffed-up velvet cap. He said, âHis Holiness will receive the legate from Florence.â
Nicholas went to tell Bruni. The ambassador, putting on his smile, strode toward the door, Nicholas in his wake.
At this hour Pope Alexander saw only a few people outside his court. In fact he was not even in the golden room beyond the antechamber. The page led them through the scattering of people there; the chatter of voices made a complex music, and because of the painted courtiers on the walls they seemed many more than they were. Going out the far door, the page turned a corner and went through another door. Bruni and Nicholas waited in the tiny empty room where the page had left them. Nicholas could still hear the muffled voices in the sala grande.
âAre you coming in?â Bruni asked, between his teeth.
âExcellency, perhaps I could accomplish more without going in with you.â
âVery good.â Bruni waved at him, a vague salute, half blessing. The page returned and Bruni followed him away through the narrow door that led to the Pope.
Nicholas remained there, listening. Through the door he heard the patter of the pageâs announcement, and then the round jovial boom of Pope Alexander.
âThere you are, Monsignor Bruni. What a shame you do not play tarocco, we might make a better game of it.â
Nicholas wondered whom the Pope was playing cards with and guessed it was his mistress, Giulia. The Popeâs favorite partner, his daughter Lucrezia, was not in Rome. There was a screen across the door and he could hear very little of Bruniâs peroration to the Pope. For months now the Florentine legation had been trying to persuade the Pope to release a prisoner from the dungeons of Santâ Angelo and this audience today was supposed to deal with that, not with the threat Valentinoâs army posed to Florence herself.
Nicholas wandered away from the door. He did not go back to the golden room full of courtiers; he went on deeper into the private apartments of the Borgias.
In the next room, which overlooked from another angle the pretty little courtyard he had admired from the corridor, kitchen servants in white scarves were setting out plates and glasses on a table. He turned toward the next room; he could hear music ahead of him, and a woman laughed. But before he could go on, a little page in pink satin ran out the door and all but collided with him.
The page blinked at him, round-eyed. âMesser Dawson!â
âGood morning, Piccolo.â
The page shrugged, still looking surprised, but of course he would not expect to find Nicholas here. He said, âCome with me, please.â
âI am looking forââ
âMy mistress urgently wishes to see you.â
Nicholas raised his eyebrows. He followed Piccolo into the next room. That explained the little boyâs look of surprise, that he had found Nicholas already on his way. They crossed the next room, where a man in work clothes was scrubbing off the wall; the Pope intended to paint every room of his apartments, but the work was hardly well begun yet. The page took him toward the music.
It came from a narrow sunlit room, the music of flutes and a little harpsichord. Nicholas paused just inside the threshold. The floor was of black and white tiles, like a chessboard. Two people were dancing across it like errant chessmen. The page went off to the musicians, and Nicholas stood there waiting to be
Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins