City of God by Cecelia Holland Page A

his ears. He raised his eyes to the carved woodwork on the walls.
    Behind him, satin rustled. He turned to see Madonna Lucrezia Borgia come into the room.
    Nicholas bowed, and still bent over he hurried back out of the way. In waves down the room, the other revelers turned to stare at her. She laid one hand on the arm of the young man who escorted her. She laughed, and in the sudden hush her laughter carried down the room. A band of filigree gold held her blond hair back from her forehead; long filigree earrings hung from her ears and a filigree necklace covered the fields of white skin lying between her throat and the top of her dress, cut low over the breast.
    Nicholas watched her pass. This was her first appearance at a public gathering since her second husband’s death almost a year before. Rumor said that it was Miguelito da Corelia who had widowed her, on her brother’s orders. Of course anyone who died in Rome was generally reckoned a victim of the Borgias. Still, he knew it to be true that the Pope had sent her off in exile to the country when she mourned her husband too loudly. Now she laughed, a sweet high laugh, and flung herself forward into the bright loud crowded room.
    He watched her go, his interest rubbed. She had the Pope’s ear. Things impossible to attain before might be available to him, if he courted her.
    The French king’s lackeys surrounded her now. Nicholas watched them fight over the opportunity to kiss her hand and bow and praise her beauties. A stream of Lucrezia’s attendants and friends flowed through the doorway on Nicholas’s left toward the swelling crowd on his right. The air grew warm, and the laughter and the talk mingled.
    A page pulled on Nicholas’s sleeve. “Come with me, Messer.”
    â€œI ask your pardon.”
    The page tipped his face up. Nicholas had taken him for a boy at first, but the broad meaty face belonged to a man in middle age; he was a dwarf.
    â€œMy master wants to see you, Messer.”
    Nicholas raised his arm away from the crooked fingers. “Who is your master?”
    The dwarf’s head bobbed. “Valentino.”
    â€œI will go,” Nicholas said.
    The dwarf spread his lips in a broad leer. He made a mocking little bow. “At your convenience, Messer.” He led Nicholas away through the crowd, going along the edge of the room, past the roast pigs and chickens.
    Nicholas made himself walk calmly, his expression bland, as if Valentino summoned him every hour. There was no use in wondering why this was happening. The dwarf led him out a side door and up a flight of steps. It was Bruni who had suggested Nicholas come here tonight. Had the suggestion come from someone beyond the ambassador? The dwarf led him into a place where there was no party.
    Nicholas followed the little man through a succession of empty rooms, half-furnished, with a chair in one room, a table in another, candles in sconces on the walls, and a smell of must in the air. The windows were open over the courtyard. The sound of the horn and the drum drifted in from below. The dwarf let Nicholas into a corner room.
    Miguelito da Corella was there, alone, with no guitar. Disappointed, Nicholas let his shoulders down an inch. He said, “Your Excellency, I am at your service.” The dwarf was gone, shutting the door behind him.
    â€œSit,” Miguelito said.
    Besides a carved chest reaching to the ceiling, there were two chairs in the room, of which Miguelito was using one. Nicholas sat down in the other. There was dust on the arms of the chair and the cushion under him gave off a scent of mildew.
    â€œYou approached me before,” Miguelito said. “Why?”
    â€œI was curious. I heard you playing music from Navarre.”
    Through the open window came a roar of merry drunken noise. Miguelito bolted up out of his chair and pushed the window shut. Nicholas was still mastering his disappointment; he chided himself that he had