City of God by Cecelia Holland Read Free Book Online Page B

logical point to start from. So he had read it.
    He rubbed his hands against his face, wondering how, or even if, he could pay Bruni back. He longed to pay Bruni back.
    It was night and his chamber was completely dark. A chill draft crept in under the edge of the shutter. His coat was hanging in the workroom. He shivered in his shirt.
    He wondered who had received the key to his house at the Aragonese convent, the afternoon of that meeting in his house. He wondered why he could not stand against Bruni’s ranting. For a long hour he sat there in the dark until at last the cold drove him home.
    Two weeks later, in the sun of early May, Nicholas and the ambassador were summoned to the Leonine City. Pope Alexander received them in the garden behind the palace, where the old man was overseeing the work of a gardener. After the heavy rains of the winter, the grass and shrubbery were swarming upward in forests of new shoots; huge white and yellow blooms weighted the stems of the exotic plants. In this opulence of nature, framed by the green fountains of the palms, Pope Alexander in his gold brocade and white ermine strolled from flower to flower, directing the gardener which bloom to cut.
    Nicholas followed a step behind Bruni, who followed a step behind the Pope; his hands tucked behind his back, Nicholas listened to them argue.
    â€œThe agreement was honorably concluded,” Alexander said. He looked hot, and slightly out of breath, although he did no more than walk and talk.
    Bruni bowed in the elegant Roman fashion, his hands out, his knee flexed. “Your Holiness, I am devastated that circumstances force me into disagreement with you. Let me bring to the attention of Your Holiness that the contract to which you refer was wrung from Florence by threats and brutality—”
    The Pope pointed with one large hand to a magnificent trumpet-shaped bloom; the gardener cut its long stem with his shears. “Are you accusing our dear son, the Gonfalonier of Holy Mother Church, of such base usages? Tread carefully, Monsignor Bruni.”
    He smiled at Bruni. Alexander enjoyed these dramas. The ermine around his neck was damp with sweat. Bruni, bowing again, missed the smile, which passed instead to Nicholas. The Pope turned back to the flowers.
    â€œYour Holiness, His Excellency the Duke Cesare has led his troops into Florentine territory, threatened to sack a Florentine town—”
    The Pope inspected the scentless yellow blossom. “Our dear son needed fresh foraging for his troops. He is a captain of your Republic, is he not, and has a certain right to march in Tuscany.”
    â€œBecause he has extorted a contract from the Signory.”
    â€œWhich the Signory now refuses to honor.” Alexander glanced around again at Bruni. The coarse skin of his cheek was pocked with large pores like scars, and a pattern of red veins showed on either side of his bold Spanish nose. Jewish nose, said unkind rumor. He held the yellow ruffle of the flower against his cheek again. Its inner surface was flecked lightly with brown.
    â€œCertainly we desire only to serve Your Holiness,” Bruni said, in the uncomfortable silence. “However, the cold truth is that we simply cannot— cannot pay so much—not at once.”
    Alexander gave the bloom to the gardener. “The work of the shepherd is costly and unending, night and day. We are saddened that our errant children of Florence pursue their devilish interests to the detriment of the entire Christian Republic.”
    â€œWe are utterly committed to the preservation of the honor of Res Publica Cristiana.”
    Nicholas had heard this all from his childhood on. Next they would summon up the ghastly specter of the Turk. He looked behind them, across the strip of green grass, to the palace. In a second-story window was a woman’s face, watching them.
    â€œYet the Republic of Christendom is sore beset,” Alexander said. “From