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.Stefano: Il Bello.He began to walk painfully toward his home.It didn’t matter, really.Stefano did not matter, and it was a weakness to long for him, especially now, when at last Nicholas’s own influence and work were of weight in Rome.That was important, not Stefano.He lifted his head up, he was walking along under the trees that lined the street toward the Colosseo, and the dusty air pent under their broad canopies brushed over his face.His arm was tingling to life again, throbbing.His life he owed to Stefano, whom he had cast out.He dragged himself painfully back to his house, where Juan would care for him.Fixed as usual on the recovery of Pisa, the Florentine Signory paid little heed to the rebellion in Arezzo, although Nicholas wrote two letters describing the situation there as needing quick action.Then in the height of the summer, Piero de’ Medici, head of the exiled house, entered Arezzo with Vitellozzo Vitelli, a captain of Valentino’s who owed the Signory a blood debt for the killing of his brother; the Aretines packed the streets to cheer them all the way to the palace.The Signory panicked.A courier rushed orders to the Florentine ambassador with the French king to plead for help, and duly enough King Louis sent orders to his troops in Milan to support the city against Valentino.Talk of this dominated every gathering in Italy through the summer.No one marked it especially when Duke Valentino, with the cannon borrowed from his new ally Guidobaldo da Urbino, marched away across Guidobaldo’s territory to attack Camerino.In the heat of the summer night Nicholas slept in snatches, tormented by dreams.He woke once before midnight and went out to the kitchen for a cool glass of wine to settle his sleep.Juan slept on his cot in the narrow space between the wall and the wooden table.Nicholas slipped past him; the old man turned and broke into a hollow snore.Nicholas drank his wine and returned to his bed.Yet he did not sleep.He lay on his back, thinking of Stefano.Somewhere nearby a dog began to bark.Nicholas rolled over; the sound penetrated his ears like thorns.He rolled over again, trying to stop his ears with the pillow.The light sheet slid off his body and he clutched at it and pulled it up over his shoulders.Under the racket of the dog another sound reached him, much nearer.He sat up in his bed, his ears stretching.Someone was walking about in the garden outside his house.He remembered the time that Stefano had broken into the house, but then he had not been alone.Perhaps it was Stefano.He pulled on his dressing gown and stuffed his feet into house shoes.If it were Stefano—if it were not Stefano—he opened the door enough to put his head out and scan the main room.It was as he had left it; one candle burned in the iron bracket by the front door.Nicholas went across the room to make certain that the door was locked.Just as he reached it the door swung open.He stopped.Miguelito stood there on the step.Nicholas said, “What do you want with me?”Miguelito came by him into the room.He wore a long black traveling coat; his muddy boots left a trail on the floor.He flung his hat off across the room.“I have come from Urbino,” Miguelito said.“Ah,” Nicholas said, and was out of breath.“It worked,” Miguelito said.“Guidobaldo fled, Urbino belongs to Cesare Borgia.Who sends you this, with his respects.”He gave Nicholas a ring.“It worked,” Nicholas said.He closed his fingers over the heavy jewel.A hot delirium welled up in his mind, a triumph almost like sex.He smiled, and Miguelito smiled too, a sudden bright unexpected flash of teeth.“Have a glass of wine with me,” Nicholas said.“We shall drink to the victory.”Juan was in the kitchen doorway, blinking at them.Nicholas waved him away again.Miguelito was smothering down a yawn; he glanced around the darkened room and smiled sleepily at Nicholas again.“Aren’t you going to look at the bauble?” He unfastened the front of his coat and shrugged it off; it fell to the floor.Nicholas opened his hand and looked down at the ring.In the light of the candle he could not make out the color of the stone, which looked black.The massive setting was carved of gold.“Very fine,” he said.Miguelito went to the nearest chair.“He is right.There is something mad about you—who can trust a man who cares nothing of a ruby? My horse is outside.Someone must tend him.” He sank into the chair, swung one filthy boot at a time up onto the plush cushion of the chair opposite, put his head back, and shut his eyes.Within the space of two heartbeats he was asleep.Juan had come back into this room from the kitchen, a ragged gray shawl over his shoulders.Nicholas stood irresolutely.He was frightened of horses.He opened his hand again to look down at the ring.Now he saw that the stone was red, indeed a ruby.“Go to bed,” he said to Juan.He went out to the garden, caught Miguelito’s exhausted horse, and led it by the bridle down the street to the nearest inn with a stable.By morning the news of the fall of Urbino was general talk in Rome.Nicholas reached the Florentine legation half an hour later than usual; the rest of the staff was already in their places, buzzing, not a one of them at work.When Nicholas came in, every scribe and page rushed at him jabbering.He went through the midst of them to the coat rack and hung up his coat.All in one voice, they were shouting at him, repeating over and over again the names of Urbino and Duke Valentino.“Be quiet!” Nicholas shouted.They all fell into a rapt attentive silence.“Go back to your work.Whatever has happened in Urbino, our work must be done
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