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He finds his master in a tavern north of the Esquiline. A shattered neighbourhood, this; like most of Rome, it is but a shadow of itself. The Holy Father had tried to remind the Romans that once their city was great; once it had bestrode the world and ruled a vast empire, but all his pageant had achieved was debt for the Vatican and a grumbling hangover for the commoners.
Only learned men care about the past. All things come to an end, some sooner than others. Perhaps there is profit in studying the ancients, but Micheletto sets more store on the present. Looking backwards is as much an indulgence as looking forwards. Better to focus on the now and let the rest fall where it will.
The tavern is a dark place, the air curdled with the stink of sweat and urine and the warm fug of yeasted beer. The walls are old, narrow terracotta bricks set in grey mortar in a herringbone pattern. Tallow candles give off greasy, guttering smoke. Men sit at trestle tables, gambling, plotting, or drinking themselves to oblivion. Some have grabbed tavern girls and are halfway to fornication.
Cesare should be above all this, but he sits surrounded by noise and filth, a jug of wine at his elbow and two cups on the table in front of him. He is as out of place here as he is in the papal residence.
Micheletto pushes through a knot of drunks, his gaze darting around the room. Cesare’s position is unprotected. If they’re attacked, they can put their backs to the wall and fight, but the exit is some distance away. The space between Micheletto’s shoulder blades itches, but he doesn’t permit his concern to show on his face. He approaches Cesare from behind and drops a hand onto his shoulder.
Cesare doesn’t even flinch. He tilts his head, looks sideways through disordered dark curls. “Micheletto, welcome. Share a cup with me.” His eyes shine in the uneven candlelight. He is playing at being inebriated, though for what purpose, Micheletto cannot tell. Perhaps some enemy inhabits this place; perhaps this pretend drunkenness is a lure.
Micheletto sits opposite. “Thank you, my lord.”
Cesare almost corrects him. Micheletto sees the shape of the term Your Eminence on his master’s lips, but Cesare stops himself before he utters the words.
There is rough amusement to be had from that, from the memory of the weeks Cesare spent scolding him into using a cardinal’s address. Micheletto almost smiles. “You miss it so much?”
“No. That would be foolish, to miss the bonds that held me to wrongful destiny. I am unaccustomed to hearing another title, that is all.” Cesare pours the wine.
“This one suits you better.” Micheletto raises his cup in salute and drinks. The wine is an indifferent vintage, but full-bodied enough to withstand the water that dilutes its strength.
“I think so, too.” Cesare sips from his own cup.
“Though perhaps you should beware of talk of wrongful destiny. Surely nothing good comes from such a thing.”
Cesare puts down his cup and laughs. “What, Micheletto, did the good friar from Florence convince you of God’s wrath after all?”
“I have no time for God, or He for me, but I believe we respect one another,” Micheletto says, his tone mild.
That produces another crack of laughter, and Cesare wags a finger at him. “You would make a fine priest, my friend. I’d wager not even one-third of the College of Cardinals has the wit to express themselves as eloquently upon the subject of theology as you.”
“Perhaps that is because they do not need to kill with their bare hands, but have others to do it for them,” Micheletto suggests. “A curious thing, I find. From what I have heard of Our Lord, Jesus was a man who got his hands dirty.”
“Blasphemy!” Cesare rocks in his seat, eyes dancing with amusement.
“The truth,” Micheletto says.
His master’s good humour fades. “Then perhaps it is heresy, instead. Heresies often stem from the truth.”
“I would not know, my lord.”
Cesare sighs, gazes into his wine. “How easy it is to move from hubris to heresy.”
“My lord?”
“Hubris.” Cesare looks up, and there is no trace of drunkenness upon him now. “You warned me against it.”
Micheletto furrows his brow. “I warned you against loose talk.”
“Against God. Or perhaps against my father—God’s representative on Earth.” A mocking smile graces Cesare’s features. He buries it in his wine-cup, drinks deep, and then pushes the cup aside. “The ancients had a word for such arrogant folly. Hubris. Placing oneself at the centre of one’s own destiny. Taking control of one’s own fate. Disregarding signs sent by the gods. Being insensible to every word of reason. Tell me, Micheletto, do I commit hubris or have I freed myself from the hubris of a man greater than me?”
Micheletto thinks it prudent to leave the question unanswered. “Alas, my lord, I lack the education to give you a satisfactory reply.”
His answer amuses Cesare nonetheless. “And you a good medical student, too!”
“Is not medicine a kind of hubris, my lord?” Micheletto asks, only half in jest. “And the life of an assassin—surely it is naught but one act of hubris upon another?”
Cesare frowns, thoughtful. “I take back what I said about you being a priest. You would be far too troublesome.”
“And wont to murder my congregation, if it pleased you.”
That silences them both. It was only the truth again, and like all truths it is uncomfortable and sits ill at their table.
Cesare runs a finger over the glazed jug, catches the drip of wine from the spout. He rubs the liquid between forefinger and thumb until it dries, becoming tacky on his skin.
“You pretend to be drunk and yet guard your wine closer than a maiden holds her virtue,” Micheletto says. “Is there a reason for this?”
Giving him a sharp look, Cesare says, “Indeed. These days, it seems, I lack the capacity for drunken debauchery.”
“The urge was washed away with your brother,” Micheletto guesses.
Pain strikes across Cesare’s features. His hand tightens on his cup. “I wish...”
“You got your wish, my lord.” Micheletto holds his gaze. “You are no longer a cardinal.”
“My wish—wishes—” Cesare corrects himself, “came at a high price.”
“Everything has a price.” Micheletto glances past the circle of candlelight to study the ebb and flow of men around the room. “You knew that long before you started on this path. I’ll warrant you knew such things when you were a babe suckling at your mother’s breast.”
Cesare flicks a look at him. “If that were so, I would not feel remorse.”
Satisfied that they are still alone and that no one cares about their conversation, Micheletto pours them both more wine. “It is a natural emotion to feel after committing an unnatural act.”
“You have committed many. Do you still feel remorse?”
“Not any more, my lord. But the possibility remains that one day I might.”
They sit in silence. The flame of the candle flickers and dims.
“When I killed Juan,” Cesare says, slowly, deliberately, “you said it was a thing well done.”
“I believed it so. I still do.”
Cesare looks up. His face is pale, his eyes dark and bright. “You do not think it was hubris?”
“It was not just for you that you did it.” Micheletto moves his cup in circles upon the surface of the table, swirling the wine. “Regardless of whether or not you acted for yourself, many others stand to gain from your action. I cannot think it selfish or arrogant—and if that is your definition of hubris, then no, it was not.”
There’s a pause as Cesare absorbs this, and then he nods.
“When I killed my father...” Micheletto hesitates, dropping his gaze to the contents of his cup. The wine is black in this half light, darker and thinner than blood. “There was nothing to it. I hated him all my life, wished him dead just as long, and so when prayers had no effect, I took it upon myself to rid us of him. It was easily done.”
“Did you feel remorse afterwards?” Cesare asks.
Micheletto makes a tiny negative motion. “No. But I wondered how it could be such a simple thing to commit such a heavy sin.”
“Sin must be easy,” Cesare says. “It is virtue that is difficult.”
“And what if you commit a sin—several sins—in order to be virtuous?”
Another silence, shorter this time. Cesare lifts his cup. He doesn’t drink, not immediately. Instead he laughs. “I am no longer a cardinal and therefore have no authority to answer that question.”
“So,” Micheletto says, amusement creeping into his tone, “am I to be your confessor now?”
Cesare smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I think I would like that.”
“Then so it shall be.” Micheletto drains his wine and sets the cup on the table with a bang, loud and final. “So it shall be, my lord.”