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

where all men can enjoy justice and libertas , regardless of rank or wealth.”
    Valentino swept his eyes about the table, as if challenging any of us to deny this vision. “Tonight I propose the first step toward such a city, because like Jacob, we must begin to climb the ladder to Heaven, rather than wait for the last trumpet.” He lifted his cup. “We have completed the articles of agreement that will restore peace to the Romagna. Only when this treaty is signed can we begin to build our New Jerusalem here on Earth.”
    All the blood might have drained from my head. Everything I had heard, whether from the lips of His Holiness or from the streets of Imola, had led me to believe that the Romagna would soon become Armageddon, as Valentino was forced to defend his conquests against the very condottieri who had helped him achieve them. But this “treaty” could only mean that these soldiers for hire, having declared war against their patron, were to be welcomed back with kisses and embraces. And if peace between Valentino and the condottieri was now imminent, every assumption I had made regarding the pope’s errand would haveto be discarded. It would hardly remain in His Holiness’s interest to discover an association between the murdered woman, Juan’s amulet, and his former and now future allies.
    I heard the rest of Valentino’s address as if I had a pillow over my head: “For that beginning I am grateful to our most honored guests.” Valentino tilted his cup slightly toward the opposite end of the table. “My esteemed brothers-in-arms, Signor Paolo Orsini and Signor Oliverotto da Fermo, who comes to us on behalf of the most excellent Vitellozzo Vitelli.”
    The two men seated at the far end of the table nodded and raised their cups; upon entering the dining room I had given this pair only the most careless examination. Now my mind nearly screamed at me: Juan’s murderers are here. At this table . And those same bloody hands had just been invited to sign a treaty with the father who still mourned their victim and the brother who alone possessed the skill and courage to avenge him.
    Paolo Orsini displayed the excesses of his station, his face bloated and sagging; only the arrogant thrust of his jaw and the great hump of his nose gave any suggestion that his lifelong profession had been that of arms. But his companion, this Signor Oliverotto da Fermo, quite resembled a lord of the battlefield. He was perhaps Valentino’s age, his features resembling a bust of a Greek athlete; even beneath his velvet jacket, one could distinguish the shoulders of a discus hurler, though they were draped with languorous curls the color and sheen of polished bronze. His pale, wide-set eyes drifted around the table, pausing slightly at each face.
    Over the next several hours, I merely pecked at the various courses, the liveried servers parading platter after platter of melon, gelatins, candied fruits, liver sausage, pork loin, ravioli in broth, and sugared pine nuts; the Trebbiano and Frascati wines poured like the waters at Petriolo. The conversation flowed just as liberally, with many citations of the ancients—among them Plato, Horace, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius.
    Yet Valentino sat silent throughout, eating little more than I, careful to avoid catching my eye. I found this studied indifference no less disconcerting than his announcement regarding the condottieri . If thistreaty was all but sealed, Valentino, who had clearly attached his hopes to it, would have even less interest than his father in allowing me to investigate Juan’s murder. But perhaps I would yet provide him a useful scapegoat, my forced “confession” twisted to absolve the condottieri of any guilt in Juan’s murder—and spare the pope and Valentino accusations that they had bartered the peace of Juan’s soul for peace with the Devil.
    At last Valentino pushed back his chair and slipped out, absent a word to anyone. But the woodwinds and the trombone