The Malice of Fortune by Michael Ennis Read Free Book Online Page A

on it.
    Several of the gentlemen seated around that table, most of them garbed in high-collared black tunics, were familiar to me. Agapito da Amelia, the duke’s personal secretary, talked behind his hand to Michele de Coreglia, whom everyone called Michelotto. The latter had the vague features of a shopkeeper; a moment after you turn away you can scarcely recall him, which was perhaps why Valentino was said totrust him with his most “delicate” errands. Ramiro da Lorca was an intimate of the pope as well as of Valentino; though hardly a young man, his dusky, proud satrap’s face did not betray his age. Of the several men present who were not among Valentino’s circle, one of those I recognized was the Duke of Ferrara’s ambassador, Pandolfo Collenuccio, a noted scholar, weary-eyed and hoary-headed; I could presume that a few of the most important envoys had been summoned to this supper, though to what end I could not guess.
    The room was warm enough for a dozen ladies to dress as if it were St. John’s Day, each one a radiant blossom next to her grave, monochrome gentleman: lips deeply red, bosoms and bare shoulders blushing like dawn, here and there a rouged nipple peeking out amid ruffles, lace, and glistening damask. I was at a loss to find one who was not what we call a “Venetian blonde,” with hair that outshone spun gold, a match for smiles more perfect and brilliant than the pearl necklaces that adorned their elegant necks. There is a name for such women, which had just entered the vernacular when I left the business: cortigiane oneste , or “honest courtesans,” although less charitable lexicographers will say “honest whores.”
    At the head of this splendid table, seated alone, was Duke Valentino, master of the Romagna, idol of all Italy, the instrument of ambitions his father—our Holy Father—had only imagined when he made poor Juan their fragile vessel. The duke gave a curt little nod, whereupon a page showed me to my chair.
    Contrary to his brother Juan, Valentino displayed a preference for sober attire, the tight collar of his black velvet jacket exposing only a thin band of white shirt. The candles glazed his milky complexion; his auburn hair fell straight to his shoulders, framing the lean, saintly face that God had set upon a wrestler’s neck. His mustache and sparse beard were closely groomed, so that the latter more resembled rust upon his jaw—which was as solid as iron plate. However, many of Valentino’s most striking features were feminine, the soft pendant of his lower lip and a nose so finely sculpted that a woman would envy it. His hawk-wing eyebrows rested closely over piercing eyes, the pupils and dark green coronas surrounded by uncommonly clear whites.
    At the far end of the table an alta band played and a sweet-voicedyoung woman sang the sorrowful “O mia cieca e dura sorte.” Yet hardly had I perched upon my cushion, when Valentino lifted his finger and halted the music.
    All eyes came to their duke—who had nearly closed his own, his eyelids slightly fluttering. “I am certain you are all familiar with the revelation of Saint John of Patmos, as he watched the new city of Jerusalem descend from Heaven. A city built of jasper and gold.” Valentino’s voice was thin, almost frail.
    It seemed he would not go on, when all at once his eyes shot open, his next words so sharp that everyone sat straight up. “His Holiness and I do not intend to wait for great cities to fall from the heavens. I have been speaking with my architect and engineer general—you all know Maestro Leonardo, from Vinci. Our esteemed maestro has authored his own revelations, visions of cities where plagues cannot be spread, where smoke and fetor cannot foul the atmosphere, where the streets are not clogged with whores, charlatans, and ruffians but instead are spacious and open to the most useful forms of commerce. Cities where mills and geared machines will perform the labor of men and beasts. Cities