City of God by Cecelia Holland Page B

for myself.”
    Valentino laughed. He lifted her hand to his cheek. “Which one?” Her fingers cradled in his hand, he stroked his cheek over her palm.
    â€œMadonna Caterina,” Lucrezia said. “Please, my brother, let me go—see how many are watching us.”
    He pressed his lips to her hand. “The virago—my victim? I assure you, dearest one, she fought more staunchly for her city than for her virtue, such as it was.”
    He let go of her hand. “Go. You will need the afternoon to bathe away the stink of the dungeon.”
    â€œWith your permission,” Lucrezia said; her eyes flashed at him. She lifted her skirts in one hand and swept off across the courtyard.
    Nicholas backed away, hoping to escape without more attention falling on him, but Valentino wheeled toward him. “Where are you going?”
    â€œNowhere, Magnificence,” Nicholas bowed.
    â€œWhy did you bring her here?”
    â€œMagnificence, I assure you—”
    â€œTut tut tut, my dear Nicholas, let me assure you that I will let nothing taint my sister’s happiness. Nothing. You brought her here to make her unhappy for your own ends. What a cur you are for that.”
    Valentino’s voice was soft enough that no one but Nicholas heard him. Nicholas’s scalp crawled; the dungeons were only minutes away. He plunged his hand into his wallet.
    â€œMagnificence, I would cut off my arm before I would suffer the princess Lucrezia one moment’s unhappiness—she summoned me here, my lord—” he found her message and held it out, folded in quarters, toward her brother.
    Valentino blinked at him. He plucked the folded paper out of Nicholas’s hand and held it a moment, unread, unopened, his eyes still on Nicholas’s face. Suddenly he tossed the letter into the dirt and walked away.
    Nicholas stooped to retrieve the letter. His head whirled with relief and he remained down squatting on his heels a moment, until Valentino had left the courtyard. With the letter in his hand he hurried out of the castle.
    Valentino and his army marched away with the French to Naples. A few days later, the Lady of Forli, Caterina Sforza, rode out of Sant’ Angelo prison. Bruni escorted her, since his negotiations had freed her. Some curious folk waited on the street to watch her pass by, but when she did they did not look at her. They expected a great lady of beauty and station, not the ruined woman who went by them, wincing from the sun, her clothes in rags and her hair turned white as ash.
    â€œSome say the cards can tell the future,” Stefano said. Shuffling through the deck, he came on another of the major trumps and laid it on the table.
    â€œDo you?” Nicholas said.
    The other man laughed. His eyes were lowered to the cards and his fingers stroked the edges of the deck; he loved the cards.
    â€œDo you believe in that—in such things, astrology and the like?” Nicholas asked.
    â€œI believe in luck,” Stefano said. “If the future is determined, I don’t want to know it.”
    He swept the cards up again and the carnival faces of the trumps disappeared inside the block of the deck. He and Nicholas were sitting opposite one another at a table in the center of the room. The walls were draped with cloth and scaffolding; the workmen had begun plastering over the old scenes only two days before and the entire house stank of lime. Even so Stefano had managed to eat two platefuls of the soup Juan had made them and a loaf of bread. Nicholas had eaten nothing. The smell and the disorder upset his stomach.
    â€œI could love a game,” Stefano said.
    â€œI suppose you could teach me,” Nicholas said, “but I am witless at games.”
    â€œTarocco needs time to learn. Months. Years.” Stefano braced his elbows wide-spread on the table. “Come down to my den, and I’ll play and you can have a decent supper.”
    â€œGo where? To