Here is part two. Only one more to go. I’m not sure I’ve much to say at this point other than the fact that I kept changing the spelling of Cromwell’s name (Cremuel, Cromuel etc.) but it’s all the same chap. Though truly, it’s not that important. He makes a suggestion for a title for Niccolo and that’s it.

I forget if I mentioned that there have been many liberties taken with history in this story. I don’t really have Cesare leave Imola during the capture of Vitellozo etc. I mean it’s not explicitely stated in the story that he stays in the city, but I don’t make it clear that he left either. Whatever. Doesn’t matter for the plot.

He was with Cicero as he traveled to Imola. With Cicero is spirit, in mind, in body, and soul but not will, not desire, not agreeance. No more than he was in agreeance with Plato and Aristotle and their too other worldly concerns. Concerns of the ends and means and Good and Justice and the End as in the telos, which didn’t have a true meaning in Latin. Frenchmen with Louis said it was a je ne sais quoi and would shrug their shoulders in their vague French way. The English would just say damn if they knew. What use were Greeks anyhow? Did they know how to keep accounts? Did they barter with tight fisted Dutch and Florentines over wool prices? Did they contend with kings and wars within and without and the issue of succession? Did they ever meet the Welsh? The Scotts?

No, Niccolò had answered. No, because they made art and wrote philosophy and searched for meaning in a seemingly meaningless life. Niccolò had thought it profound at the time but he was beginning to doubt it all. Urbino, Froli, Imola, all of Romagna – for what? Pisa, Milan, Venice, Verona – for what? Leonardo da Vinci – for what?
Glory. He could hear that Spanish accented voice hiss it. Not as strong as the would-be-holy-father’s but still very much Spanish despite all his Italian blood. Glory. The only end to a political life. A life well lived. Glory every lasting. Amen.
Telos found.

“So you’ve arrived,” the voice was the would-be-prince’s and Niccolò caught himself smiling something smug. The fact that the younger man felt anything aside from a light passing interest was beginning to dawn on him. A foreign notion and so all the more thrilling.

“That I have, at your summons, of course.”

“My summons and the Signoria’s orders.”

He was wearing black and silver with that too white feather in his cap. There was a word that the English ambassador to Louis had used to describe such a man and it fit better than anything he could have come up with in Italian but he found he couldn’t remember it. It began with an ‘F’ and Cesare was looking puzzled at his sudden pensiveness.

“I was thinking of a word to describe you with,” he explained as the younger man took his arm and pulled him from his chair and books and stories.

“It was flattering, I hope.”

“Always.”

“Never, then.” But the smile he gave was cheery and Niccolò could understand why Urbino and Imola and all the others had gone without a fight. Cesare was youth and eagerness and everything handsome combined into one. Who wouldn’t want such a prince? Even Florence would have fallen to the charm, the je-ne-sais-quoi. Lorenzo il Magnifico had been a Cesare but a more human one. Niccolò wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

“How are you finding our artist?” Niccolò asked as he was guided into a gallery. There were faces and long dead eyes he felt he should know staring down at him. “I hope he is making the deal worth while.”

“He is, certainly. I think you got the raw end.”

“If you insist.”

“Florentines and their freedom,” it was hummed and Cesare was all bubbly happiness. The anger, the hidden cruelness, the everything that was dark in Urbino was suddenly gone under the sun of victory in Imola. “It’ll be gone one day, whether by Milan or Venice or the Medici – it will be gone.”

“Or by you.”

Silence which was consent and Niccolò allowed himself a small smile as he was delivered into an airy room. It was empty save for a large table, a high backed chair and the sight of worn boots propped up and the start of a stained tunic and leggings.

“I thought you would want to see each other, both being Florentines.”

The man in the chair stood, the sound of boots hitting the floor preceded his bow and greeting. Niccolò unlaced his arm from Cesare’s and strode forward, grasping Leonardo’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

“Been a while, Leo! I missed you while you were in Florence, ships passing in the night.”

The older man smiled back and his face was the knotty pine tree that Niccolò knew all too well.

“I was keeping my head low, you were busy anyhow with work, wife, and roaming.”

“That I was,” the grimace was dramatic so Leonardo knew to laugh. Glancing back towards Cesare he gave another bow.

“You’ve brought a devil into your lair,” he said with pat on Niccolò’s back. “He’s a damn sneaky one. I’m convinced he’ll talk his way out of hell and into heaven.”

“Why would I do that? You’ll be in hell, so will Tommaso, and Cesare here, and everyone else we know, it’ll be a grand old time. Besides, I’ve no desire to reside in the same place as our monk Savonarola.”

Leonardo, Niccolò remembered, had a boisterous laugh. A laugh that would fill the whole room and his Moorish eyes were dancing. It was the happiest he had seen him in years.

The duke was eager for a chase. He went on about hounds and horses and bows and men when what he really wanted was to say something about blood spilt on autumn leaves and the screams of dying boors that sounded much like the screams of dying men since the screams of the dying always seem to sound the same. Or that was what Niccolò imagined the duke to think. He often found himself imagining the worst, the most morbid things when it came to his would-be-prince and liked to think himself the precursor to history and posterity.

“They won’t remember you for being a patron of our Leonardo,” he had said it a few nights prior over wine and fresh figs and cheese.

“Then what will I be remembered for? O’ great self appointed fortune teller.”

“Deceit.” A pause, wine was poured. “War mongering.”

“Everyone does that.”

“But not quite so openly. Debauched.”

“Negatives then?”

“The good men do is often buried with their bones.”

“While the evil lives on?”

“Just so.”

They raised glasses to each other and drank. It was the queerest combination of contentedness and unease Niccolò had ever felt.

“You forgot cruelty.”

Niccolò gave a discreet raise of an eyebrow, lips pursed.

“You’ll see,” Cesare said with a wistful-could-be-coy smile. “Drink up.”

And they did. And Niccolò felt that it would be all right.

“Come now, chase the boar with me.” The high spirited younger man whipped his head around, laugh losing itself in the trees. Niccolò gave a non-committal reply and pulled himself back into the present and nudged his horse forward, soon over taking the duke.

“Borgia needs a lesson in pride,” he replied over his shoulder with a wicked grin.

“I thought the Florentine would be humbled by now!”

Niccolò merely laughed and urged his mount on, glancing back to keep an eye on Cesare. The younger man was pure exuberance and glee with green robes that made him think of the forests around Paris and the dark cold of the north. The eyes were what finished that feeling, he decided as he turned to keep an eye on the boar, the eyes were what always finished the feeling when it came to Cesare.

The boar was felled within minutes and Cesare was humming praises and letting out giggles that were much too young and reminded Niccolò that the duke was only twenty-seven so youth was expected.

“Tell me,” he said, catching Cesare by the arm and leading him for a walk as the servants prepared the boar to be taken back to the city. “What are you borrowing our Leonardo for? We’ve a new church door we want done and Piero wants him back for it.”

“Tell me, do you always do as Piero asks?”

“He is my political master.”

“He is your master in all ways, I think.” The smile was amused and Niccolò scowled in return, too tired to be handling the twists of the conversation. “I am using Leonardo for he does best.”

“Art?”

“Hardly, invention, imagination, creation of the impossible since that is what I am trying to do. Create the impossible.”

“He’s making weapons for you?”

“Of a sort.”

Silence. There were birds and insects and Niccolò loved that nature was noisy enough to fill in their conversation. Weapons for a Borgia. And Florence was so close to Imola. So close to Borgia, to Vitellozo, to the condottiero, to the French army, to the everything that was Italian politics.

“We have an agreement,” Niccolò finally said, feeling that something had to be said in that empty, empty space.

“Do we.” A sentence, a question – he wasn’t sure and Cesare wasn’t looking at him so he was fearful.

“How are things proceeding?” Francesco asked, voice low and breath brushing Niccolò’s ear. They were hiding in one of the many shadowy churches that filled the gaps and arches of Imola for the bishop wanted to be there but not actually be there, Cesare was not fond of him, after all. So Niccolò found that Francesco was all breathless anticipation with cassock and riding coat wrapped tight and eyes strained.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Careful, careful. Cesare was bluffing, after all. “I have spoken to Leonardo.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

They went silent, a street boy walked by sans cap and with a serious look on his face. Niccolò had the grace to appear concerned for the boy in front of Francesco. The bishop never had approved of such games and if the boy’s lover was hiding in a church, all the more condemnation for him, then. Niccolò simply thought it oddly appropriate and truly the only place private. Besides, the bishop had little room to maneuver concerning piety and purity and the sanctity of holy ground.

“He says he can’t show me what he’s created, that Cesare would know since Cesare knows everything and in Imola is God since he’s so omnipresent. People don’t fuck without thinking Borgia knows it. Without knowing that Borgia knows it.” He stopped, aware that the speech had run on too long and all but ignored Francesco’s silent fury. “There’s the trinity, Borgia the father, Borgia the son, and Borgia the omnipresent spirit.” Life was too short not to pick on Francesco. “There’s even the Borgia Madonna, though we’re still waiting for the immaculate conception.”

“And who is the Madonna? Lucretia or Borgia-the-father’s little thing?”

“Both. Neither. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Whoever sees Gabriel first.”

That earned a smile from Francesco so Niccolò knew he had done all right.

“You are a demon,” Francesco said at last, taking Niccolò’s arm and pulling him farther into the shadows, if it were at possible to be more in the dark than they were already and Niccolò felt that the poetry of the situation was fitting and they could hardly have done better. “But I see why Piero’s taken to you, filthy minded both of you are.”

“Hardly,” he could feel something like annoyance rising, something like anger and Niccolò Machiavelli rarely ever angered.

“Piero is far more noble and gifted than I. He simply puts up with me from some misguided notion that I have potential.”

The older man brushed aside the comment, the false modesty, face suddenly set in a grim line that reminded the ambassador of gargoyles and French churches and Venetian masks. Florentinian masks were supposed to be gay and lively and bumbling so when they hit you between the ribs with a knife you never would have guessed it. Cunning and coy looks were saved for those that truly had no heart.

Marietta, Marie, Mary, Mariana, Madonna, Marietta,

My Dear Marietta. This is Imola so I cannot write truly and well for Cesare is God and knows all, as I confided in Francesco though he does not believe me. He does not believe me but I know for how else could Cesare know? And Cesare knows everything there is to know except what matters. He knows of Francesca and Piero and you but not of Vitellozo or France or the Signoria. He knows of my heart but not my mind and in the end the former will gladly be sacrificed for the latter. I am a cruel man in that way.

I am writing this letter to you so that I can clear my mind and set my soul at ease for truly it is my soul that matters and not yours for yours will be more ill at ease than ever should you set eyes on this paper. Which you wont since it will have been burnt before even the omnipresent would-be-Prince knows of it. And that is well and good. I am all right with him knowing my heart, but my mind and my soul and my conscience I’d rather him never know. I’d rather him never know because I don’t want to know and what he knows he makes sure I know, makes sure I know damn well. Fuck him and his coy smile that is nothing like Piero so all I can think of is Piero.

There is an English boy here who is called Crumuel, Tommaso being the first of his names. He is a bull dog and fights everything that moves including himself. I think I’d take a liking to him if I could get anything out of him beyond a “how d’you do, sir” in horrid Genoese Italian. I told him to go to Florence to learn to speak. He said he would and to learn a few other things since Italy had much to teach and he had much to learn. He is right, of course. And Florence will teach him about smiles, about fearing shadows, about always looking behind you, about not being able to sleep for too many reasons to count, about life as it is and not as it ought to be. He’s old enough to understand, I think, though he’s still just a boy.

I don’t think his name was actually Crumuel but merely what someone dubbed his English name when he came to us and he was content enough to let it be. Should he go to the English court he will make something of himself. The summer of Cesare Borgia will mark him. He will stare at frescos instead of fists and find an easier way to be.

I am remembering my father and his stiff rule and stiff fist and stiff drink. Wine was never enough for him but he was bright and mostly kind so I think I learned to love him after a fashion. After a very long fashion. It has always taken us Machiavellis a long time to do anything. We’re slow learners and damned stubborn when we want to be. Keep that in mind, my dear Marietta, for you are married to one and bearing one. Your life is owned by the Machiavellis now and we don’t let go too easily. It’s the bastardization of once noble blood, or so I’ve been told.

Stories. I’m sure there are stories to tell. Lots of them. Stories of this foreign court around this foreign prince in this foreign city. But I can’t think of any that would amuse you. Can’t think of any that you would want to hear. Because I can’t imagine that you’d care to know that Cesare looks at me the same way Tommaso looks at Francesca during the Mass. Looks at me because he knows he will have me, after a fashion. The same as he has everyone. After a fashion. And hopefully I will remember to forget everything when the time comes. I don’t think he’d care to be called the wrong name, after all.

You always bore me patiently. Which means you’ve always suffered. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry for marrying you. I am sorry for leaving you. I am sorry for Francesca and the other girls whose names I can’t remember. I am sorry for Cesare. I am sorry for the future. Mea Culpa. I am a sinner. If sinning truly mattered after it all ends, that is.

My dear Marietta. I wish you could read this and know and be at ease for you were going to be my salvation but fell just this much short of being the Mary I needed just as I fell this much short of being your Joseph. The child will never be a Joshua, but perhaps that is all right.

Niccolò who wishes, sometimes, that he wasn’t a Machiavelli.

The girls name was Marie and she looked too much like his own Marie that was Marietta that was his false Madonna for his tastes. Cesare merely smiled that coy, coy, coy, all knowing smile and told him to have fun. That she was a good ride. That she knew what she was doing with a man.

“She was at the French court, lady in waiting to a duchess, but truly attended the duke.”

“A pattern is emerging, I see.” He said it in monotone and Cesare laughed, grabbing his hand in acknowledgment of the hit. One to one. They were even. “And your Angela? Whatever happened to her?”

“Her husband decided that she needed to see Venice, and Verona, and possibly as far as Vienna.”

“Did he now?” He was looking at anything but the demure girl in front of him.

“For her health.”

“How much into her term?”

“I don’t remember.” The younger man paused a delicate pause. “And your Marietta?”

“I remembered to forget,” and he said it roughly while grabbing the girl and running from the room. One to two. He should have left the subject of angels and conceptions well enough alone.

Piero wrote to him. The November cold was beginning to set in and Niccolò was readying himself for a long, cruel winter. Cesare brought the winter here, he was sure. Perhaps that was why he would be remembered as cruel.

He wrote to say that Marietta was in good health and that the baby kicked. Forgive him, but he had to write it. Niccolò, Niccolò, you are a father. He could hear that warm, warm voice murmuring it over the wine same as he had murmured well wishes and soft jokes before he left for the God forsaken world that was Imola. Niccolò, Niccolò, you must accept it, you must embrace it. Never fight it, fight it and they will be bitter and you will be bitter and when you are old and almost gone you will regret it.
He wrote to say that Francesca was well, that Tommaso was well and in one sentence so Niccolò knew they were still whatever it was that they were. He wrote to say that the wine grapes were well, that his estates were reaping a profit, that the Florin was holding steady, that the factions had died down for the moment, that everything was well. But not that Piero Soderini was well and so Niccolò knew that he wasn’t.

It was an early dusk that day and Niccolò felt the need to stretch his legs while the fading light made it easy. The gardens around the palace were something sweet and pleasant and much like the gardens in Florence only less colourful, less vibrant, less fragrant simply based on the fact that they weren’t the gardens in Florence.

Leonardo found him with robes pulled up about his neck and ears and cap shoved forward over his forehead letting all know he was brooding and not to be disturbed on pain of death via verbal evisceration. Leonardo took the sight in, grinned cheerfully, and barged on forward. He would be forgiven by the moody younger man, just as he was always forgiven by the moody younger man. He was, he found, a very forgivable person.

“Things are brewing,” he opened with. Niccolò glared in response. Things were always brewing. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Vitellozo,” muttered darkly and Leonardo gave a sage nod. “Yes, yes, we know.”

“Do you?”

“Cesare rides the tides of fortune and Vitellozo is breaking those tides, ruining those fortunes. A Pazzi Easter Sunday for the new Medici that will never be a Medici.”

“Nor a Julius or Gaius or Marius, though he wishes he were.”

“No,” Niccolò was firmly shaking his head. His body was rejecting the very notion. “An Augustus, a Trajan, a Nero even. In his own way.”

“In his own fashion,” said with a chuckle and Niccolò allowed it to pass. “But I think he wishes he were a Julius.”

“Julius had potential to be a republican, to be a prince, to be something unheard of yet marvelous but he chose the earthy and mundane. Cesare has potential to be a prince and only that. He is hardly the stuff of Gaius Julius.”

“And Vitellozo hardly the stuff of Brutus?”

“Neither Brutus’ – the king slayer or the tyrant slayer. More a Cassius. More a something I can’t put my finger on but it’s disgusting, regardless. But you have more news?”

“I have news that makes me not able to sleep at night.”

“You have a life that makes you not able to sleep at night.”

Leonardo didn’t respond and Niccolò apologized, making sure his eyes showed that he meant it because he found he did.

“But I can only tell you about Vitellozo because Borgia will be telling you of Vitellozo tonight, after dinner.”

“I will be meeting him after dinner?” A low whistle. “My, my, the things you know my dear Leonardo.”

“The things I wish I didn’t know, actually, my dear Niccolò. Now. I am an old man and must get myself inside where there isn’t a breeze to hurt my joints.”

Niccolò found he had nothing to say but a muttered thank you as he watched grey hair disappearing amongst fragrant, dying flowers in a colourful, dying garden. Cesare Borgia was bringing the winter and he was the reason these flowers would die.

He remembered hearing a story, once. He, Tommaso, Piero and Biagio had been in the countryside and Tommaso was lamenting the loss of yet another True Love. Biagio would interject with “well what did you expect you asshole?” and Niccolò remembered why he both hated and loved them. Piero had been musing on something and had pulled ahead, mind elsewhere else with eyes a dark, dark brown that was almost black.

“Is all well in Casa Soderini?” He had asked, nudging his horse next to the older man’s and giving as affable a smile as he could give. Piero’s spirits could plunge deep and dark but Niccolò had discovered that he had the happy talent of lifting them back out.

“Indeed.” Distracted. So very distracted. And he remained aloof as Niccolò prattled on about Francesca and Francesco and Antonio and Antonia. “Have you ever thought of poison?” He asked suddenly when there was a lull.

“You mean the Eucharist? I think about it every day I don’t take it.” And he had meant it despite the fact that these were still the days of Savonarola and the cult of the Ancients and the cult of antipathy and the cult of cynicism were all long dead and burned and buried. Burned and buried with the beautiful paintings and books that had once held such strong sway.

“I shall ignore that, for your health. And I was thinking of a poison made within a boar’s body that takes months to work and tastes like water. You drink it now and in six months you’ll be dead of it.”

“Ghastly. A Medici product?”

“A Borgia product.”

“A who?”

For Alexander VI wasn’t Alexander VI yet (still an unknown cardinal with an eye for the top job) and Lucretia and Cesare and Giulono were not yet born and Borgia was just an Italian bastardization of a Spanish name that meant nothing.

“Borgia. A cardinal in Rome.”

“Cardinals are always on about poison. Poison and treason and heresy and stakes and oh dear, the Germans are protesting what are we to do? Shall we have an orgy?”

“The Germans are protesting?”

“When are the Germans not protesting?”

“I thought that was the job of the French.”

Niccolò shrugged and had said that if the church knew what was good for her (and she doesn’t) she’d shape up. Yes, yes, Wycliff was gone and Jan Hus was dead, and maybe Bohemia got away and all in all things are as they should be but he was willing to bet his life on the Germans being the first to do something about it. They were too much the stuff of merchants to care for the Church. And Erasmus was very popular there, after all. And where Erasmus is popular and Jan Hus was once preached…the sentence was never finished but Piero could well guess and didn’t care to comment.

“I was just wondering what it would be like, to die of Borgia poisoning. You strangle to death.”

“Like drowning then, but worse.”

The older man nodded and went silent, horse moving ahead of Niccolò’s and the ambassador who was only a secretary then, knew better than to follow.

“You’re having a moment,” Cesare was amiable and smiling and being as charming as he could. Urbino had revolted but he wasn’t concerned for he claimed he remembered how to take it.

“I was reminiscing.” Niccolò offered hoping with a discreet hope that Cesare would ask no more and turn the discussion to Vitellozo and Orsini and Fregaso and all the others who hate him and wished him dead but of whom he had no fear. No visible fear. Niccolò always made sure to remember that Cesare was an actor.

“About –“ The curious look.

“Religion. Of sorts.”

“Ah, I never took you for a religious man.”

“That’s because I’m not.” He paused, picked at the cuffs of his robe. “I’m not but I am. I’m a Florentine and we all were when Savonarola was there and we were all pagans when Lorenzo was there and now we’re republicans and our religion is our state and we worship freedom and Soderini.”

“And does your Piero like the worship?”

“Yes and no.” He turned away so Cesare wouldn’t be able to see the truth he knew was written so clearly on his face. The truth that Piero hated it and wanted nothing more than to be a virtuous Florentine and a good man and help his country but in helping his country as the first citizen meant being everything but virtuous and good. Private values were public evils.

“Have you heard from the Signoria?” The subject change was a kindness. Niccolò found himself thankful for Cesare’s understanding despite the fact that the duke truly didn’t understand. Some things only Florentines could understand.

“Yes and no,” he said it with a smile and Cesare laughed, saying that he was a true civil servant. Straight answers, Niccolò replied, were for the weak and the faint of heart. “They are hesitant, they are unsure of the outcome, they are unsure of your position. In regards to Vitellozo and his allies.”

“My position! They question my position!” The fuse was lit and Cesare railed on.

Francesco bit his lip worriedly as Niccolò finished the letter, face as angry as he had ever seen it. There were crease lines he didn’t remember being on the younger man’s face before, creases that were ten years early.

“He will win in this.” Niccolò growled it out over ink and quills and paper. Francesco merely bobbed his head and frowned. “He has the advantage.”

“Which is?”

“That he is alone,” the younger man looked up. There was an ink smear on his chin and down his left cheek. Eyes were so cold it was horrid. “He can act quickly and decisively. The element of surprise is on his side, not theirs.”

“But they have a greater number.”

Hands flew up in frustration and an ink well was spilled; the floor stained. “Fine! They have more! So does Florence and has that made us strong? Has that made us powerful? We need him and must grab him while he still thinks he needs us.”

Silence. Francesco reached forward and took the letter, ignoring the grey hair that fell in his face, in fact almost thankful for it for it meant he didn’t have to meet Niccolò’s gaze.

“When I was a boy I remember running to my uncle’s house on the feast of St. Michael,” he glanced over to Cesare to see if he was listening. The younger man was brooding and nodding and was there but not there so Niccolò decided to continue. “I was ten, or thereabouts. And there were rioters in the city. Rioters yelling about il popolo and libertas and all the usual nonsense that rioters yell about and I wanted to know why. My father, for all his faults, was a good citizen and so stuck by the Medici. My father said that the rioters were to go to hell; my uncle said that the torture chamber was close enough so my father was right in an essence. I didn’t understand what he had meant at the time.”

“Did you see anyone die?”

“I was five when I first saw death and understood. Or understood as well as any five year could. I knew they were not going to move again and that I would never see them again.”

“Who was it?”

“An aunt. She died of something my uncle couldn’t afford the medicine for. Or perhaps she died of something there wasn’t any medicine for. Either way I was there when she was given last unction and watched her gurgle and spew bile until she lay still and my uncle’s face went even more so.” He eyed the wine, still remembering stories told by Piero. Stories of poison, of dark nights, of Spanish blood being hotter than Italian, of ruthless smiles and drowning deaths. “And you?”

“I was eleven. A cardinal died.”

“That old? I would have thought younger.”

It earned an interested look from the duke and Niccolò answered it with the shrug he had learned in France and the smile from Venice.

“My father had invited him to dinner. It was during the first course, died of heart failure.”

“Did he now?”

Cesare grinned and patted Niccolò’s arm, “come, come, I believed your stories. It’s only fair you believe mine.”

“But mine were true,” a pointed look.

“Some of them were true. The rioters didn’t happen, you don’t mention the Medici unless you have to or unless your Piero is involved. Then you will expound for hours.”

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting.” He tried to play coy, to make it lighter, to make it what it wasn’t. Tried but Cesare wasn’t having any of it and merely shook his head. No, no, that would not do, he was saying, that would not do at all. Tell me of Louis and Il Magnifico and Boticelli and the Monk. Tell me of Florence, Cesare asked. Tell me of France, of Venice, of Milan – so that I may better understand you. Tell me stories that are true, that happened, that are earthy and full of you and no one else. Maybe your Piero, if you insist. Though, Cesare said with a laugh, I’m not fond of him, for obvious reasons.

There was a paper jammed into Ovid when he returned from one of the too many meetings with Cesare and council. There were rumblings in Urbino. More rumblings, that is, apart from the usual and always-have-been rumblings. And Rome. Rome after Cesare’s father may not be as congenial as it is now and the would-be-prince would have to contend with that. And Florence? Florence just smiled and murmured consent and said “I’m so very sorry, we cannot make any firm promises at the moment, perhaps within the week…” and Cesare let it be though not happily.

It was a sketch of a machine. A machine with a man inside with a gun attached to the front and would be able to withstand fire power. Metal and wheels and flintlock and Niccolò thought it madness but since he was a good Florentine citizen he embraced it anyhow.

“This is what he wants?” He found the artist, who was more inventor than anything, in what had been termed “the lair” and served as Leonardo’s study, workshop, art room and more. Niccolò was under the impression that the man only left when Cesare summoned him and when he was hungry to sniff out food at odd hours of the morning.

“One of the many,” a cheerful smile and an erratic wave of his hands. “I’ve more. I think I could possibly manage to get humans to fly.”

“Madness,” whispered, but with amusement and kindness. He knew Leonardo was used to the proclamations but becoming inured to something doesn’t mean it hurts less. “And I am assuming that the duke will be showing me drawings of this tonight? After supper perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” the grey head was bowed over more paper. A woman was slowly emerging. “Do you want anything? I’m taking offers. Your charming wife perhaps?”

“No. Thank you.” He carefully placed the sketch of the strange contraption away as Leonardo looked up with something like understanding in his gaze. Niccolò detested it so made sure to laugh and be gay. So long as he was witty, so long as he was happy, charming, no one would ask, no one would understand.

“How about yourself? Would you like a portrait done?”

Eyes were appearing on the page, a square jaw, thin lips, crooked nose – he turned away before Leonardo could finish.

“No. Thank you. I was here to ask your advice on a matter.”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“You will regret it, everyone regrets it I’ve noticed.”

“Regrets what?”

Another fluttery wave of the hand and the older man turned away, rummaging about for something. Niccolò watched with a patient look, content to let the artist be as eccentric as he’d like.

“Borgia. Everyone regrets Borgia.” Those eyes turned to him and were far too old, far too knowing for the ambassador to be comfortable. He suddenly wished himself back in Florence, back even with Marietta, with Francesca, watching Tommaso woo his former mistress, things were easier in Florence. There were rules and people followed them and even when broken they were still understandable. Still comprehensible. Imola was a different beast and he was finding it all distasteful. Spanish blood, he decided, was the reason.

“I was thinking of Florence and forming an alliance with him. My political masters are worried about Urbino and the recent rebellion and Vitellozo and his allies. Do you think Borgia will come out well?”

“I do not think anything. But as you said to the Bishop Francesco, Cesare Borgia is alone and has everything to loose. That is quite the motivator I have come to find. For those that care, that is. Don’t be daft and hope they will all kill each other. They wont. Now, I think the duke wants to see you. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he glanced down at the paper jutting out from between the pages of his book. “And thank you.”

“You should have your portrait done, something for the world to remember you by.”

“My memory, I think, will be best captured in another way.”

“If you mean your writing I think you’d best choose a different course. All philosophers regret writing anything down after they see the way people butcher their meaning. Look at Plato, Aristotle, Cicero – you’re a learned man, you understand.”

And Niccolò did but found he had more pressing matters to worry about than his legacy post-mortem. It was not his place in the world to worry about it for he was not a prince, not a duke, not a first citizen and so the telos of his life was not the telos of Cesare’s or Piero’s or Piero di Lorenzo di Piero di Cosimo’s. His was something else, though what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Cesare wanted to tell him a story. Have you heard of Prestor Jon? He asked with a bland smile and glittering eyes. Niccolò nodded and wrapped his cloak about him, the winter chill was beginning to arrive and he suspected that Cesare felt all the more at home in it despite his cold bloodedness.

“Everyone has heard of the illusive Prestor Jon,” he said with a supple shrug. “Are you thinking of searching for him?”

“Perhaps,” the younger slid his arm through Niccolò’s and led him deeper into the garden, away from the eyes in the walls that were windows through which people who knew too little watched them. “Leonardo said that Prestor Jon was inside us all so perhaps searching for him wont be as difficult as venturing to the east.”

“Or much harder,” but he refrained from saying more for Cesare was not a man to concern himself with himself. Or the Himself that was spiritual, that was deeper than the latest pretty face and quick run at power and glory.

“I met a man once, who said he had been to Prestor Jon’s court.”

“Was his name Baudolino?”

“No, why?”

“So he had no gift for prophesy, do continue.”

“His name was Niklaus. Niklaus Makaricheva. I suppose what he said may have been false, he was a story teller after all. He told me that he had been to see Prestor Jon and the court was on a mountain surrounded by a sea that was full of emerald fish and dolphins of sapphires. He is a goodly prince who is kind to all and through his kindness and perfect Christian brotherhood has managed to convert the infidel who surround him.”

“Master Makaricheva needs a new story.”

“And there are maidens whose hair is gold like the sun and whose voices are beautiful and would sing of the east and the wind and the colours of the world though they had never seen it. They had the gift of sight without seeing.”

“Yet no observation if they sang of a beautiful and perfect world.”

“Leonardo said that they had the gift of hope.”

Niccolò opened his mouth to reply but found he couldn’t. Some things weren’t worth the time to contradict, others were worth too much to contradict. He wasn’t sure which one the gift of hope was.

“I would like to meet this story teller of yours, this Niklaus Makaricheva.” It was said with a coy smile and irony but Cesare either didn’t notice or chose not to notice and simply smiled and nodded and smiled some more and said that Niccolò had already met him, he was sure of it. He was the patron saint of Florence though the Florentines didn’t know it.

“Mars is our patron saint,” Niccolò muttered as they parted. “I am reminded of it every day that I live.”

Niccolò found Francesco in his rooms reading Livy. The well worn pages slipped through the bishop’s fingers as easily as the well worn thighs of the woman he had been with the night before.

“There was a Roman emperor, once,” Francesco began as Niccolò poured them wine. “Who had the world but wanted the moon as well and in reaching for it he fell. He fell sixty or so times and the last blow was the worst for it came from a friend.” He looked up to meet Niccolò’s steady, steady, I-know-this-story, gaze. “Is Cesare in good health?”

“Yes, though I think time is up for Cassius. Come back in two weeks, there ought to be a show.”

“I hate it when you’re dispassionate, it reminds me of Cosimo.”

“I can’t say that I’m sorry.”

My dear Piero,

I should not be writing this to you so I am not. I spend my days thinking of you as something else. As something you are not. As a Templar before the king of France and His Holiness slaughtered them, as a Hospitlar, as a warrior on horseback or some blithe youth with ruddy cheeks and hair dark brown as it once was. But you are too much flesh and bones for me to think of these fantasies for long so I find myself pondering the mysteries of Florence and of your house with its fine wooden floors and beautiful frescoes in the chapel and your handsome face with that smile that is so very much you and your poor wife who wished for children but God, in his glory and cruelty, saw fit to deny her.

They made you gonfaloniere for life because of that. Because you have no children and because you have a kind smile and a sad wife. All men who lead Florence must have kind smiles and sad wives. It’s the Medici precedent and yet I find that I am of no mind to jest about the past. Instead, I find myself wishing I was home and wishing I could send all the things I write. The Signoria complain of my lack of letters and Biagio, in his wisdom, tells me to be less blunt. Yet, I can follow no instructions. It’s not in my nature, you see.

I write letters. I write stories and fairy tales and spin parables and find adjectives and adverbs for things I wish I had and use the wrong pronoun for elle should be il but to use il is to be burned and fuck I hate this. I am not a man who enjoys trifles like love. I’d rather make a grand thing of it. You know me well enough to know that. I haven’t written sonnets yet but that is because I haven’t found a friend who will read them and understand that was is written is a code for everything I have just explained.

Cesare Borgia has broken a part of me through knowing me in that he knows about you and so knows me. And damnit, he knew me before I knew myself. It hurts a man, to be known before he himself has figured it all out. He guessed after our first meeting when I said that I had come from the Signoria but truly Piero Soderini sent me. I must have smiled as I said your name. I must have had something in my eyes. My face must have betrayed me. My ever smiling, never changing, thin lipped, hawked nosed, cropped haired, square jawed face. My face that betrays nothing betrayed me. It broke me. I will write about this in years to come and men will think that I am cruel and so be it. Cesare Borgia taught me to be cruel.

I wrote to Marietta about a boy named Crumuel and that the summer of Cesare Borgia would mark him and that he would find an easier way to be. I should have written that to you for you would have understood that Crumuel might have been me and that I will never be Niccolò Machiavelli as I once was. I am Niccolò Machiavelli who no longer laughs unless it’s a cruel joke, who no longer smiles unless there’s something of the winter in it, who no longer believes in the ideal of Florence. The republic will fall. It will not be to our Borgia Prince. But it will fall. Cesare will die some inglorious death and you will – dear God in your hell forgive me – you too will fall and I will fall because of this letter and everything meant by it. And Florence will fall. There will be nights and no days and we will be enslaved as we once were. I have just broken a promise I made to myself and to my father.

So be it.

I am cruel for writing this and burning it. Piero Soderini, please forgive me, I am an unlikely Prince in my cruelty. Piero Soderini, please, on the night you fall, on the night you die, say a prayer for me. It will be the only prayer that has ever truly mattered.

When he comes for me I will think of you.

He burned the letter and drank wine and wrote a new one. It was to the Signoria and the contents were brutal in their bluntness but he was too far gone to care.

The signoria were holding out and Piero was begging them to accept Niccolò’s propositions. He knew the situation better than anyone. Francesco even put in a good word. Said something about two weeks being all they had to decide. But old men don’t like change, don’t like listening to one who is twenty or so years younger than them, don’t like the swift merciless actions of the child who was given too much power, don’t like how close those camp fires of the army are, don’t like how quickly Urbino falls and falls and falls, don’t like much and Piero is tired of pushing them.

“You will have to make do. Can you say that we are for him but without putting it on paper?” Francesco asks. It has been two weeks and Vitellozo and his men are coming for a state visit. They have been forgiven by the would-be-prince and are to be taken back into the fold. Cesare said that one must show humility and mercy upon occasions. Leonardo simply gave a grim bark of a laugh and said he would be in his work shop should anyone need him. He was too old for this.

“I’ve been saying that but he wants firm proof. He wants a treaty signed and ready. Vitellozo is without arms, for the love of God and his son and the blasted holy spirit what more does Piero want?”

Francesco was about to say “you. Home and safe because Cesare is a wild boar and is friendly one moment only to maul you the next and sometimes diplomatic immunity doesn’t matter”. But instead he says that Piero wants what Niccolò wants which is a treaty but it’s the other members, don’t you understand? He is not a Cosimo, not a Lorenzo – he will not bend them against their will and the will of the people.

“Times when I miss the Medicis,” Niccolò replied with some amount of impatience and disgust. Francesco’s missive to Florence simply said that the ambassador would do what he could for the greater glory of his city etc. etc. etc.

Cast of Characters

Niccolo Machiavelli – a civil servant-turned-philosopher. Diplomat for the Florentine Republic.
Piero Soderini – defacto head of the Florentine Republic. Head of the Signoria.
Francesco Soderini – Bishop of Volterra, diplomat, brother of Piero Soderini.
Cesare Borgia – Former cardinal, turned general. Son of Pope Alexander VI. Attempting to carve out a Borgia state from the current Italian territories.
Leonardo da Vinci – Artist, inventor, dispenser of useful advise.
Marietta Machiavelli – Long suffering wife of Niccolo. Nee Mariette Corsini.
Lorenzo il Magnifico – (aka Lorenzo di Piero di Cosimo, Lorenzo de Medici, il Magnifico, the magnificent etc.) former head of the Florentine Republic. Grandson of Cosimo de Medici. Patron of the arts.
Piero de Medici (di Lorenzo) – Son of Lorenzo il Magnifico. Former head of the Florentine Republic. He was exiled when Savonarola came to power. His son, Lorenzo, is who the Prince is dedicated to in 1512.
Savonarola – Monk turned political leader. Lead a coup d’etat against the Medicis. Ruled Florence for four years before being declared a heritic by the Catholic Church and burned. Succeeded by Piero Soderini and a proper Florentine Republic.
Vitelli Vitellozo – General of Cesare Borgia. Eventually captures Urbino from his former master and forms a coalition against Borgia.
Angelo Polizianno -  Poet and close friend of Lorenzo il Magnifico.
Tommaso – Friend of Piero Soderini and Niccolo. Civil servant in the Republic.

Brief list of relevant de-facto rulers of  Florence: (in order from oldest to most “recent”)
Cosimo de Medici
Piero de Medici (the first)
Lorenzo de Medici (il Magnifico)
Piero de Medici (the second)
Savonarola
Piero Soderini
Lorenzo de Medici (the second)

“Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me?”

1513

His quill was poised above the page, ink budding at the nub so he knew it would blot. Outside a goat bleated and the sun climbed higher in the sky but his mind ignored the blue stretch. Instead there was ink on pale skin and stained sheets spread under him. The walls had been red when they should have been white and the sheets were black with Indian ink.

A knock and a servant looked warily in, saying something about super, about family, about duties, about letters that needed to be answered, about tasks that needed to be seen to, about things he  needed to deal with tomorrow. So he waved a hand and said later. Always later. A voice he thought he had forgotten was laughing at him, chiding him for remembering a heart faced girl with sweet lips and sweeter thighs. The voice called Piero Soderini, the Gonfaloniere who was supposed to last a lifetime but who was now gone from Florence and from his side and from him. Gone so long ago yet so recently. He wasn’t sure which hurt more.
And then there was Cesare Borgia. Borgia the would-be-everything laughing at him for remembering Piero though he had abandoned Piero at the end. Cesare was all cruel smiles and animated humor that reminded him of empty harvesting fields. Butcher’s work done with a sickle and a hand with a talent for growth.

Your Excellency.

They were dotted on dirty paper. The room was empty and he wondered who exactly he was writing to.

“Favors from on high are always timely, never late.”

Cesare was laughing that boyish laugh again and Niccolò wished that his memory of the man had died with the man.
I say this because –

Because, because all he could remember was brown hair and black eyes and candles and vestries and aching knees from worshiping three Gods and smiling in too bright sun on a dusty road with sweetmeat sticky fingers.

Francesco Vettori. Your excellency, Francesco Vettori. He had such things to tell. Things the other man would hardly believe and so would never truly know but must be told lest they break him harder and faster than anything the Medici’s had ever done. They could drop him from the highest roof in Florence and it would be nothing to the way Cesare and Piero could break him, had broken him.

Dear Francesco, there was a boy with a black bird on his shoulder, a sword in hand, and the glint of power in his eye. He dominated by looking as he didn’t look so much as consume. God would have cowered before him, yet he lies miserable beneath the filthy earth that now holds him tighter than any lover.

But that is the end of it all. And it is always wise to start at the beginning yet this story has no beginning; no middle – only an end, and for that he begged forgiveness.

Please bear with me, my dear Francesco, though your eyes will never set themselves upon these pages. You will receive a treatise and a plea, but never myself. I have grown tired of giving myself.

They had always said that he had been born with a gift for words. A gift for spinning tales that wound their way around people’s heads and put forth foolish notions into their minds. A gift for lies, his father had insisted with the firm rule of a firm hand and firm Latin grammar. A gift for tall tales and utter nonsense that would do nothing but get the boy into trouble should he say the wrong thing, write the wrong thing. Write the wrong thing in that elegant, prosy, way of his. Write the wrong thing so beautifully that it hurt and so he would hurt and all who knew him would hurt with him.

But he told his father that he was wrong, that he’d be a good citizen, a respectful citizen, a noble citizen and keep his noble mouth shut about his noble city and its noble, noble people. Florence would be dead, gone, and utterly ruined before he lifted quill against her. She would have to be as dead as the Romans, deader in fact, before he could find it in himself to hurt her. She was his everything, after all. She and everything she stood for; for he was a good republican, an honest citizen, and he would always conduct himself as such.

He was sixteen when he took the hand of Maria, the first of many Marias, and led her to the fields outside Florence. They stretched themselves out under cork trees and giggled as fingers fumbled along, hurting more than pleasuring till they finally figured it all out. The coil of heat that had been resting in his stomach dispelled, sinking into the very marrow of his bones. He sighed with her and they ate figs and counted clouds for the rest of the afternoon as he did his best to tell her that he didn’t love her and she did her best to tell him she understood.

His father had insisted that he learn the classics, that he be granted the best humanist education possible sans Greek for Bernardo Machiavelli never took to the language and so Niccolò suffered the consequences. But, as he had that one fault in common with Petrarch, he felt that it was possibly not the worst. His fingers would trace the ancient script and he wished for comprehension but never found the time, nor the true inclination, apart from a vague longing, to learn. The vague longing was that of a poet who had seen a pretty thing across the street but couldn’t bring himself to rise out of the languid contentedness of habit to pursue – sextets would be composed instead and the form and absent fondness would forever be remembered even when desire had fled. He felt that Petrarch and Dante would understand.

And so he found himself coming to age in a world of Plato and Cicero and anti-Aristotle-when-Aristotle-was-anti-common-sense. A world where he wondered if there was more to Greek philosophy than he first thought. He remembered the angel Polizianno laughing at his youthful boasts about Maria, and Lorenzo de Medici looking at his favorite with affection and saying that Niccolò was young and would understand one day. They read Plato to him after that and told him to reread Catullus, that it was the Magnificent’s favorite.

I asked if you were sure about this, one night. If you knew what you were doing. And all you said was that you wanted to contrast me with everything that was good and holy, with everything that our fathers were, our nation was, and our world pretended to be. And so you stretched me out on white cotton sheets so you could dirty them as you profaned my body with detestable acts I never truly tried to stop. So you could watch the white bloom as red as my pale, perfect, inbred skin bloomed. And as you watched you hoped that the stars, discontent in their heaves, were watching, wanting, and all the more shamed for it.

I asked if you were sure about this, one night with my hands tied above my head and you were glorious in your darkness that was actually your light. Your eyes were forest dark and forest green and reminded me of the silence in church halls and at the dinner table. There was that look in them, when I asked, that look that said I had made this choice and so I ought to be silent. I ought to be thankful that it was me and not some whore that truly wasn’t a whore because you only fucked and killed virgins. But that look was one that was all too hungry, and tired, and needful and someone is going to be in some sort of pain tonight and like hell was it going to be Henry Blackwood so it was up to me to make the choice.
Creative anatomy lessons had become a bore as they were all blood, blood, blood, and marble, and hair spilling over shoulders, and oh this bone jutting out in broken shambles was the clavicle, this one back here was the scapula – lovely isn’t it? Smooth to the touch when properly cleaned. You’ve seen the one in my desk? And yes, yes I’ve seen the one in your desk just as I’ve seen the one moving under your skin and felt mine as I arched my shoulders to your disgusting, achingly beautiful touch.
But those games with those girls, they were tiring. Tiring, so it was me that night. Me with your knife on my back curving with the lumbar and back up as you itched to jut your fingers into the notches of my spine, whore that you are and that I am. You were counting vertebrae and whispering Scapula, spinal cord, twenty three, twenty four, on the other side the clavicle – your favorite Daniel, and now your ribs – amazing how fragile, how strong. You were pressing down so my breath was all short gasps and barely-there moans.

I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you answered with a question that I would never be able to answer for all its implications were more numerous than knots in pine. Would you have me stop? There had been sucking, biting, too many teeth, kisses on the back of my neck as my trousers were undone and my prick aching in that obnoxious way it has. Your dead, dead, dead too green eyes were staring into me, were terrifying me, were arousing me, were amazing me, were everything-ing me and I knew that they were dead, dead, dead, too green eyes that I had to keep on me, me alone, and never let them stray.
I rasped out an answer of no, never. But stopped there since air was failing to reach my lungs and my mind and my blood. So you never heard me whisper that it was no, never because I hated the way you looked at the dying virgin whores, hated how you caressed them with smooth bastard hands that belonged to me, hated how you wooed them with their own mortality, hated how possessive you were and no, no, I could never touch them, but I could watch. Oh yes, I could always watch. And Christ’s Glorious Almighty Blood did I hate the way you fucked me after every death. Fucked me liked you fucked them with eyes closed and lips parted so your face was the closest thing to bliss it could ever reach.
My answer – no, never – earned a nod that evening so I knew I had answered justly, answered correctly, answered as was right and proper, as I ought to, as you had taught me to. You have always liked your dogs well trained.

I asked if you were sure about this, one night when you bent me over my desk so my back was bruising long and hard. You simply asked if you had told me to spread my legs. My damned legs, actually. It was a question spat into my ear. It was cold water down a canyon. It was a slap on my face that left no mark.
No, I replied. No, and you pulled away with something akin to a sneering smile on a face that was beautiful in its blankness and grotesque in its beauty. You hauled me fully onto the oak and sat, straddling my hips. A finger dragged down my bruised chest, from throat to naval so my muscles were quivering and I was all that was fear and arousal wrapped up into one.
There was a question you wanted me to ask, that evening. I remember just-there pursed lips, a barely-registered push of hips so I managed a rasped – Will I Be Punished? A question you seemed to like so much, though I could never understand why. You had your power and any more obvious demonstrations would be overkill.
There was a drawled yes then a drawled no and it reminded me of the civil servant in you that was anything but civil and servile. You slapped my ass and called me a slut, I think I might have grinned and bit out a reply. I don’t remember and don’t care to.

I asked if you were sure about this, one night. I asked if you knew what you were doing, one night. I asked if you knew what dying felt like because that’s what happened to me every time you strung me up from my pretty, pretty, Boleyn thin, neck. You liked to watch me dangle, prick jutting straight out. You liked to watch me strangle with my own weight killing me and would chuckle for the next week at my hoarse voice.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you asked if I would be sharing your bed if I thought you weren’t. I didn’t answer then because there was sun coming in through curtains and smoke drifting up from the tray and it was beautiful and I don’t count myself a cruel man, so I left the moment as it was. You took the silence as consent. And maybe it was. It was your perogative to, anyhow.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you said yes, yes you were. You were as sure as the sun rising in the east, as sure as the moon revolving around the earth, as sure as the night turning into day and so I knew you were lying and that you were scared and terrified by it all and just wanted the world to disappear. So I smiled, and said that’s good, because I’m sure about it this too, because I knew what I was doing, and held your hand because someone had to.

He always reminded him of the Caribbean. Of dark swirls of the ocean he’d never seen, of darker eyes of people he’d never met, or dark whispers and longings of a world he’d never been to. Parris had brown eyes that were brown enough to make Putnam ache. Had brown eyes brown enough to make him long for that world, for that life, that one before this.

“You speak in riddles,” Parris had said as Putnam grabbed his wrist, imploring him to stay for just a moment longer. Imploring him to tell him one more story.

“What was it like, there, in Barbados?” He affected the accent for the island’s name, letting it roll off his tongue as he let Parris’ name roll in his mind when it was too late to sleep but too early to be up.

“Hot, Putnam I must go,” a pleading look at the door and Putnam’s grip tightened. The reverend had never seemed so small.

“It was more than hot, what was it like? What did it smell like? Feel like? Taste like?”

“Death.”

There eyes met and Putnam looked away first, towards the fire, the ashes, the simmering stew.

“Death?” He managed in a whisper.

Silence and Parris’ face was ice, brown eyes flecked with grey and Putnam’s grip loosened. The older man watched him, silent, before standing.

“Nothing,” he finally said to Putnam’s silence. “It was like nothing.”

In other news, I want to write a Yes P/Minister fic but need some inspiration. Ideas?

Walk with me on the equinox. I had asked it with an outstretched hand and he had regarded me, unblinking. Fingers were tapping on unfinished letters, tapping on half replied words, ink drying on skin.

Yes m’lord.

And I smiled. I was a young man, little more than a boy, and so much the wiser for it, or so says Mercer. My lips had curved up in a too thin bow string, old stories lingering in the back of my mind. Stories weaved on long winter nights, my grandmother’s gypsy eyes sparkling, hands working in fire light. My sister and I captive on the floor before her. Whispers filling our ears, whispers tickling our senses, about others, about ageless creatures of the fair folk, fae folk, whose eyes are as dark as the history of the forest, silent as a summer’s eve, deadly as only nature could be.

And Mercer’s presence was suddenly too much. The quiet gaze, the watching eyes – oh those watching, watching eyes. I sped up, slowed down, paused, lingered, moved forward, stopped – at the edge of the forest. The path was shadowed and Mercer’s eyes were questioning, reminding me of how foolish I could be.

“Speak,” I found the silence oppressive. I’ve always hated what he relished. I took his arm, ignored his look, and crossed the threshold. The forest demanded silence, I could practically hear him hissing it into my hear. Breath warm on my neck, warm as the nights I spent with sheets kicked off and night shift pulled up. But humanity demanded noise. I had made sure to forget my roots long ago.

“No man is an island, entire of itself,” the northern accent was harsh. Reminding me that I sometimes forgot. Sometimes forgot just what Mercer was, who he was, and, and, made up child’s play instead.

“I said speak, not quote.”

A supple shrug. It was so much darker than I ever remembered it being.

“I’ve nothing to say.”

“Yes you have.”

“I assure you not, m’lord.”

He said it amiably but his eyes were suddenly black, blacker than the shadows around and I knew he was lying. His jaw clenched to that degree only when he was lying.

“Tell me a story, give me a once-upon-a-time.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

Oh were those dark eyes dark, and oh was that gaze stormy. A shiver worked its way down my spine. I only ever feel young around Mercer. His soul is older than mine. My grandmother had said it was because Mercer was old. Older than his supposed two and thirty years. That gaze was the first time I ever considered that my grandmother may have been right.

“Tell me about the fae.”

“The fae.”

Statement. So he did have stories. And I needed them that night, needed them as I needed air, as I needed that stormy gaze of his, as I needed his rough dock accent in my ear.

“Yes, the fae. What stories have you heard?” I tried so hard to be nonchalant, Mercer only snorted so I gave up.

“They were all much the same.”

“In that?”

“In that they wanted to be well left along,” he stopped. I could feel how warm his was, heat seeping through my body from out linked arms. “Some things, m’lord, are best left as they were.”

I played coy. “So she was right, my grandmother.”

Dark eyes met mine, eyebrow elegantly lifted in an air of tolerant amusement. But his jaw was still clenched and so I knew I was right.

I must say, if Peter and Toby were ever in any sort of relationship (which really, the run in they had on fifth floor in TTSS speaks of -something- happening) it would be very angry and bitter. I’m sure of it. They would have angry sex in several langauges over someone’s desk and Toby would complain about bruised hips. Saying something about Mara noticing and Peter would reply “since when have you cared about Mara noticing?” to which Toby would tsk and say something along the lines of “this is different, Peter, you know what I mean?”. And then they would vow to never let it happen again which means they’ll be meeting up next Tuesday at three.

Peter was quite sure that Toby was going to suddenly push him back, pull up his trousers and dismiss him with half a sentence in that stilted accent of his, with black eyes over his left shoulder.

But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled him closer, legs clamping around his waist as he pushed into him, shirt tails up and tie dangling between their bodies. Toby was biting his lip, forcing himself into silence, face pinching, reminding Peter of everything he didn’t like about the man. Ned’s words, there are times when I wouldn’t entertain Toby in a wood shack jarring out in his mind.
A gasp, a stifled whimper, and their kisses were wet, messy, missing half the time and leaving saliva on the cheek, neck, chin. Hands were carefully cleaning and fixing clothes, not in hair, or under shirts, or down thighs – Toby frowned, pushing the thoughts from his mind.

“Good day, Peter,” he muttered as he turned around, studiously tidying his desk. The books were fixed three times.

“Good day, Toby.” Peter waited for a second before slipping from the room as Toby raised the blinds, missing the bitten fist and shaking shoulders once the door had closed.

A short-short with Peter and Toby discussing George. May I just say, “give my love to Ann”.
Toby said that George reminded him of Prufock, a broken attempt at “how his hair has grown thin”. And Peter laughed, Prufock never made it to the woman’s house – George has.

“Has he?” A tilt of the head and Peter frowned, suddenly aware of the weight in the room. It was heavy, laced with the sleeplessness of summer nights.

“Of course he has,” muttered brusquely, defending the honor of a man who never bothered with honor. “Ann.”

Toby opened his mouth only to shut it, downing the sherry instead. A sneer, tilt of the glass, “Give my love to Ann.”

In any case, I’ve decided to play with the idea of Toby being in Budapest during the 1956 revolution (which is the revolution that Peter mention’s in the earlier story when he says that Toby reminds him of sitting in front of the radio and listening as he had been taught to listen). So, here goes nothing.

Part I

Peter watched him cross the room. It was small, twelve feet across at most, and his desk was talking up most of it, sitting there jammed under the window. The dirty window that afforded a view of – a view of – well, nothing. A shame, the man deserved better. A closet for a lamplighter, for some reason it made sense to him, for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. But the confusion didn’t destroy the poetics of it.

“Where you in Budapest in ’56?” Peter asked as Toby crossed back, files in hand. His expression didn’t change, still looking like a dead fish as Connie described it.

“Here are your files,” he replied in a flat voice. The one he used when he was sober and trying to be something he wasn’t. Peter was of a mind, on occasion, to bash the smaller man over the head and yell at him that no, he would never be British, it didn’t matter how hard he tried, he would never be British, so stop trying. It made him sick, actually.

“Thanks, and were you?” He took out a cigarette, Toby fixed the books on his desk. “Did you march with them?”

“You have your files.” He said, dead fish turning into stuffed frog as lips pursed.

“Come on,” he laughed, “were you?”

“Peter.”

“Yes?”

“I’m busy.” And he sat down with such conviction Peter knew better than to say anything more. He left with another murmur of thanks and a lingering look.

–

Part II (Matches to Burn Feet)

A bottle of wine and Peter thought perhaps Toby might loosen up. The man’s back never curved, his jaw was unrelenting. It was an oddity, so different than all the other Hungarians he had met.

“So what were you doing before Smiley found you in Vienna?” He asked, the other day still on his mind.

“Work,” another glass poured and Peter secreted a smile away behind his drink. “And you? What were you doing before the circus?”

“School,” he replied, trying to sound as smooth as Toby.

There was silence and Peter sighed, downing the glass, the familiar warmth around his collar already settling in. Toby’s cheeks weren’t even flushed and the bottle was empty.

“Work, eh?”

A curt nod, a sip of the wine, a face made. Peter scowled.

“What kind of work?” He asked, trudging on into the mire of an unwanted conversation which was bound to go no where good.

“Factory work, made pencils.”

There was no twitch of the lips, no light to the dark eyes and Peter sighed, wishing he had left the subject alone. Bill’s admonishments were in his head, leave the Hungarian alone, there are enough secrets here without his.

“Anything else?”

“Sure, I worked at a night club, sold tickets.”

“Oh.”

Toby was watching him, face unreadable as usual. And Peter had to remind himself that information was blood for Toby, it was worth more than life itself, he rarely gave it up for free.

“I was a secretary at a law firm,” Peter said with a smile that barely made his lips move. “Before I was recruited.”

“How…quaint.”

Peter sighed, wanting to hit the man. There was silence and he began to think that the night was over when Toby suddenly set the glass down, dragging his fingers down the stem to the base.

“’56.” He muttered before stopping as Peter leaned forward. There eyes met, Toby glanced away first. He began shifting in his seat. “Too many -” and he stood, hands jammed in his pockets. Peter didn’t move, simply watched with a curious look. “Peter why are you asking me this? Does George want you to?” He turned to face the younger man, eyes full of fire than Peter hadn’t seen in years. “I know he’s after a mole, and good luck to him, but I’m not the man he wants, you know what I mean?”
Peter didn’t answer at first, watching Toby, willing himself to be calm.

“No,” he said slowly. “George didn’t send me, I merely – I merely wanted to know.”

“No,” Toby growled, turning around. “No.”

And he left, wine glass half empty on the table.

It was after the show when Bernard first became aware of it. Of the darted looks the older man gave him, hands on the door, holding it open.

The darted looks that soon turned peering, introspective even, and he knew that it was never a safe thing when Sir Humphrey was introspective, when he peered, when he gave one darted looks while playing gentlemen (a game Sir humphrey had perfected).

The ride was silent, the space between them wide enough to be impossible to cross. And part of him knew it would come to this. That it would always come to this, so long as they knew each other. So long as looks continued to be darted and the game continued to be played.

It was his turn now, after all. It had been his turn since the garden and Sir Humphrey had said he knew, he knew. Bernard had then understood what it took to make a Judas.

Sir Humphrey’s office had changed little since he had last been in it. Six months ago. Maybe more. Maybe less. He couldn’t remember. And the smell of herbal tea diffused through the house reminded him of Lady Appleby’s smile as she put the kettle on. He had been in the kitchen, two weeks or so ago though now it may have been a lifetime for what it was worth. Sorry, Sir Humphrey’s out, she had said. But she would tell him he had called. It was nice to see Humphrey making new friends. He had assured her that they had been friends for a while (though his tongue had wanted to stick at the word ‘friend’). She laugh an, “I’m sure” and offered him some coffee cake. It had been the best coffee cake he had ever had and he realized why they hadn’t divorced.

There was brandy again, not sherry. Bernard’s gaze caught Sir Humphrey’s and he was at a loss as to what to say. He wasn’t sure if he had ever known what to say. Words never were his forte, though he had tried to make them so. He had spent years hiding in them, using their history, their grammar, their details to ward off something. He wasn’t sure what, yet. But he reasoned that the something to do with Sir Humphrey’s eyes when they met his, had to do with Sir Humphrey’s hands when they brushed his fingers, cheek, thigh, lips, had to do with the setting sun and the rising moon, had to do with the rotation of the earth and that he had long forgotten how to sleep at night.

The silence was weighing in and words needed to be spoken, needed to be spoken like the two men needed to breath. The silence hurt, made every bone in him ache. Or was it the older man’s gaze? He couldn’t tell, didn’t want to be able to tell. To be able to tell would be to know and that would hurt entirely too much. He had long since envied ministers. At least their refuge was insured.

He felt his lips move as he said words, words that meant nothing to either of them. He mentioned the beautiful weather, the beautiful sun, the beautiful parlor, or was it a sitting room? The beautiful way that the dancers had moved, the beautiful evening, everything was beautiful, it didn’t matter in the specifics. Sir Humphrey had replied, demurely, coyly, curiously. Their eyes were no longer meeting. The coffee table between them would do.

A childhood memory floated by, they were in a hotel in Brussels, and they were siting up late, watching the world cup. Sir Humphrey had said something about enjoying sports but not understanding them and Bernard had replied that it was much the same with humans. And there had been that silence. That silence that was there now, even though they were speaking. Speaking in a foreign tongue that Bernard wished to erase. Weren’t they capable of speech?

A clink of glass as Sir Humphrey leaned forward, snifter neglected on the table, a warm hand was cupping his face, finger stroking just under his ear. Sir Humphrey’s eyes were dark with that thing Bernard couldn’t name, that thing he didn’t want to name.

“I think,” came the whisper against his skin. “Bernard,” a kiss followed the purr, just along his jaw. “That it will be all right.” Their lips met, softly.

“In the end,” he murmured.

“In the end.”

Yet another Yes P/Minister short. There will be potentially one to two more after this as I transfer things over. Or maybe not, depends on how I feel.
This one, I believe, focuses primarily on Sir Humphrey, his musings on life, love, and laundry detergent. But mainly Bernard. I’m not as pleased as I could be with it, I find it very hard to get Sir Humphrey’s voice. He’s a strange mix of Mercer, Beckett, Prince Humperdink, and William of Baskerville. Trust me, it’s a hard combination to write. Oh with some of Humbert’s flare. No one reads Classics at Oxford without some of Humbert’s flare.

Humphrey did not like the situation one bit. It didn’t go along with how things were supposed to work. Everything in the world organized to a degree of amazing precision. From the sun rising in the east and setting in the west to the categorical imperative to the difference between the active and passive voices in the present indicative mood. Portō, portor, petitis, portābam . But this, this, did not compute. It did not add up, it did not work. And that was what he didn’t approve of.

Emotions only existed to do his mind’s bidding. If he wanted to feel sad he would tell himself to do so, happy, joyful, angry, sardonic and the like. All were arranged into boxes in his mind so he could open them when the situation called for it and promptly put them away afterwards. It saved him from those nasty emotional entanglements and dilemmas. Emotional entanglements and dilemmas were for lay people, not Cabinet Secretaries.

And yet a part of him wondered, perhaps there was something to be said for forming emotional attachments without weighing the pros and cons. Perhaps there was something to be said for this whirlwind approach. People seemed to be rather fond of it, if his wife’s yellow backed novels were anything to judge by. But, he reminded himself, the common people were hardly fully functioning and practical. Though thoughts of perhaps taking Bernard out to dinner, maybe a show, lingered. Wouldn’t hurt, would it?

No. This wouldn’t do. Even entertaining the idea was ludicrous. And the idea itself? Wasn’t so much an idea as a feeling, and he really hated when those got in the way of rational thought. Bernard would be a perfect civil service agent, one of the best, if only he controlled his feelings more. But then, that was why he liked him, wasn’t it? Not that he liked him. Liked him. A friend, or well, an associate he could share a civil word with. He certainly didn’t like him. Not like that. He was married after all. A bit silly to be going after chaps when one has a wife. Wasn’t it? And he did care for his wife, Humphrey reasoned. He felt the appropriate sort of attachment one should feel towards a person one cohabitates with on a regular basis with no prolonged dues of absence. But nothing more, really. Not that anything more was expected of course.

But he didn’t want to pull her into his lap like he did Bernard. He didn’t want to kiss her in the same way, wrap arms around her waist or push her over his desk– well, this was getting lewd. Yet he found he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. They were pleasing, the thoughts, the feelings, they were addicting almost. And yet, and yet he shouldn’t be thinking these things at all, or entertaining them in the slightest. So, he decided, he wouldn’t. He would rid himself of such desires, would rid himself of the emotions that conflicted with rational thought whenever the other man was around. He would work harder than before, distract himself with needless applications, reviews, queries, forms – anything to keep his mind focused and reasonable. And if it came down to it, he would remove himself somewhere. York, Leeds, Northern Ireland, Brussels even. Anything. Because this was not how things were supposed to work, this was not how the world was supposed to turn. Sir Arnold was wrong, he was not the least bit sound.