Modern Lullaby (1/1)
Modern Lullaby
Monna Trecca the innkeeper was startled awake from her slumber by a rapid tapping at the door. She threw on a jerkin over her green serge gown, pulling the flaps across her ample chest, muttering,
‘A bad Easter and a bad year to whoever wanders in at this hour!’ she yawned, pulling the chains back with a fierce look.
The two travellers huddling outside wore similar grey habits, the cowls drawn deep over their faces, with water dripping off the edge. The one standing closest abruptly pulled the hood back, revealing a face that, Monna Trecca knew straight away, has rarely been touched by a smile.
‘Forgive the intrusion, Madonna; my friend and I were caught in the storm in the most unexpected manner.’ He rasped, ‘perhaps you could find some shelter for us? Unless we are to content ourselves with a mossy bed and the rain for a curtain.’
She was familiar with their type, of course; pilgrims travelling from faraway lands to catch a glimpse of St. Peter’s tomb. Besides, the speaker had a voice all but melting out of his throat, a learned man. Monna Trecca let her scowl soften,
‘Why of course, come in and warm yourselves up by the fire. I still have some stew left by the stove if you---‘
Something like a shadow darted across the features of the bearded man, so quickly she thought it must have been a trick of light.
‘Thank you, kind lady. But I think we would rather rest for now, the day has been long.’
She waved them upstairs to the one spare room she had left. All the while the other cloaked figure followed his companion mutely, not even ridding himself of the soaked habit. Once or twice the first man glanced back towards his silent shadow, as if worried he might dissolve into thin air (a nephew, maybe? Or an apprentice. The speaker had the rough hands of a tradesman when he took the keys from her)
Cesare started pacing as soon as Micheletto closed the door behind them firmly (a door quietly shut would be more likely to invite eavesdropping)
‘How far are we from Rome?’
‘A day’s ride at most, Your Eminence.’
‘A day you say.’ Cesare threw back the hood, dragging one gloved hand through the unruly curls, ‘how I wish the devil would give me wings.’
‘I could ride ahead, Your Eminence, if the message is urgent.’ Micheletto gestured to the narrow cot, ‘the guards cannot reach us here; you should try and get some rest.’
‘You think it’s merely the swords and spears that have been chasing us, the hounds snapping at my heels?’ Cesare croaked out a laugh, ‘nay, Micheletto. I cannot rest, not when I close my eyes and see red, when I cover my ears and the cries of the Sforza swine echo in my skull.’
Micheletto stepped closer, raising his hands to undo the clasp at Cesare’s throat, ‘it was no more than he deserved.’ Cesare stood still, neither helping nor resisting Micheletto’s nimble fingers, ‘I wonder if the Holy Father would be as generous with his forgiveness.’
Micheletto peeled off the heavy cloak, shaking the rain out before spreading it onto the back of the lone chair.
‘His Holiness could forgive even the most grievous sins, could he not?’
‘Yes, he could spare my soul from the eternal fire, if he deems my penance to be sufficient…’ Cesare trailed off, his hands hung limply by his sides, the half-undone tunics forgotten.
‘What is it, Your Eminence?’
‘I felt, nothing.’ Cesare stared into the blackened cracks on the wall, leaning his brow against one forearm, ‘my mind was silent, peaceful even, when the first hot spurt of blood hit my fingers. Even now, I can barely master up a trickle of remorse.’
‘You acted to defend your family’s honour. It was not a mindless murder.’
‘Oh but it was. What made me draw that blade was rage, pure and simple. A rage I have felt before,’ Cesare’s voice shook inexplicably, ‘towards my fool of a brother; even once or twice, my unwitting father, blinded by affection.’ He rubbed a palm up and down his arm, falling silent once again.
Neither man spoke for long moments. When Cesare finally turned around to meet Micheletto’s gaze, his eyes were fever bright.
‘You revealed something to me, in Forli.’ He paused; face ghostly in the dim light, ‘I am asking now, not as Cardinal Borgia, not as your master, but as Cesare to Micheletto. Will you answer me truthfully?’
Micheletto nodded.
‘Tell me about your father.’
‘He was a drunk, and a preacher, not just in the verbal sense. He loved two things in life: the bottle, and the gambling house. If neither entertained him there was always the whip. He’d shown more tenderness to the family dog than his own kin.’ Micheletto drew a breath, ‘He drove my mother to seek escape in her numerous fantasies.’
Cesare shifted closer, fingers twitching before putting a hand to Micheletto’s shoulder, pressing down briefly. For a moment Micheletto fancied he saw a great shadow unfurling on the walls behind; wings maybe---feather soft or smooth and cold as mercury.
‘I cannot say I understand, Micheletto, not fully. But you did it to protect your mother, and that is something I will never hesitate in doing.’
‘Yes.’ Micheletto swallowed, ‘and no. He also threatened someone, very dear to me.’
Cesare searched his face, eyes unnervingly dark in such proximity. Micheletto waited, a million reckless thoughts bubbling in his veins. This conversation would cost him, he was sure of that now, perhaps in more ways than either of them could fathom.
‘Sometimes I wish we shared the same blood.’ Cesare grasped Micheletto’s arms, gripping tight enough to bruise, ‘then you could be spared the horrors of your youth, and I,’ he looked away then, a muscle jumping in his jaw, ‘I could be delivered from a terrible crime, an evil that whispers to me in my waking moments and sleepless nights, its voice getting sweeter by the day.’
Micheletto paused, eyes tracing the tense lines of Cesare’s back, ‘If I maybe so bold, Your Eminence. Do you still hold any affection for your brother?’
The silence lasted so long Micheletto thought an answer would not be coming after all.
‘Yes,’ Cesare dropped onto the rickety cot, ‘I loved him, and he me, when we were children. Although it seemed like another lifetime ago.’ He rested his chin on top of interlaced fingers, eyes fluttering shut, ‘I could barely recall my mother’s villa, chasing after Juan across the dusky plain, the sun the colour of crushed grapes…’
‘For that, I swear to you.’ Micheletto kneeled at his feet, palm spread over the tap tap tapping of his own steady heartbeat, ‘you will never have his blood upon your hands, not for as long as you shall recall those memories with fondness.’
Cesare sat still as a statue in basalt. Between one stuttering breath and the next, he reached out, cradling the other man’s face in both hands,
‘Promise me nothing, Micheletto. For a Borgia’s heart is fickle and insatiable, that is how we’ve survived in this hellscape called Rome.’
Micheletto pushed him down gently, ‘then sleep now, hell can wait another day.’