City of God by Cecelia Holland

without—from within. Cruel the blows of the pagan, crueler yet the blows of her own children.” He nodded to the gardener, half-hidden behind an armful of long-stemmed flowers. “Pack them in snow, if possible.”
    The gardener murmured, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
    â€œShe will be pleased,” the Pope said. “She will smile again.” He sounded wistful. Nicholas wondered which of his mistresses was to be coaxed back to smiles by the dying elegance of the flowers. It amazed him that a man so old and fat still devoted much of his time to sex.
    Bruni was saying, “Against the Turk, Your Holiness need only summon us, and Florence will empty her streets of her young manhood in the cause of the Crusade.” His voice rang with conviction, louder than before.
    The Pope ignored him. He put his fingertips to the flower. Abruptly he was smiling at Nicholas. “From Nepi, can one not see the mountains? Perhaps she can see the snow from her window. The flowers will surprise her—remind her of Rome.”
    It was his daughter then he missed. Nicholas bowed to him. “Your Holiness knows that the city is not truly Rome in the absence of the Lady Lucrezia.”
    â€œYour Holiness,” Bruni said, “let me have the pleasure of relating to my state that Your Holiness again bestows on us the warmth of your approval.”
    â€œWhen you pay our dear son the money you promised him,” the Pope said, “I will approve. Now go. I have no more to say to you.”
    Bruni bowed and spoke mellifluous leavetakings. Alexander extended his hand, and Bruni and Nicholas by turn applied their lips to the ring of Peter. As they left the Pope was smiling at the flowers as if he looked again on the face of his beloved exiled daughter.
    Bruni said, “Bah. You are a bewilderment to me, Nicholas— He spoke to you directly, and all you could do was prattle about that whore his daughter.”
    â€œHe spoke to me of his daughter, Excellency.”
    â€œNonetheless, that is why you fail so often in diplomacy. Then you must have turned his mind instantly to Florence and our business with him.”
    â€œYes, Excellency.”
    â€œThat is the art, Nicholas. To lead men, not to echo them.”
    â€œYes, Excellency.”
    From Tuscany came daily reports of the ravages of Valentino’s troops. Cesare Borgia, demanding the money that the Republic had promised, settled his soldiers in the Tuscan countryside and let them do as they pleased. Nicholas kept lists of the complaints of the Florentines against Valentino’s men: so many bushels of grain stolen, so many vines burned, this woman repeatedly raped, that man flogged and castrated. The stories accumulated on his desk. He tried to read them with detachment, but the horror’s awakened some ugly response in him, and he found himself reading them over, his eyes jumping back to the beginnings of sentences, dwelling on the evils.
    He went daily to the Vatican, toying to gain an audience with the Pope for Bruni, but Alexander refused even to allow the Florentines into his morning gatherings.
    When he reported the latest rejection to Bruni, the ambassador threw his hands up over his head. “We are lost,” he said. He was sitting behind his desk, a novel open before him; as he took his hands from it, the book’s pages turned of themselves. “Venus and Mercury are in opposition, the Sun is in Gemini.”
    Nicholas said, “Still, Valentino has not attacked. Florence—”
    Bruni had left his chair. He prowled around the depths of his chamber, past the windows overhung with velvet that shut out the sun. “They say his men are filtering into the city. There is fighting everywhere. You know his tactic—he sends in people to riot and preach riot, so that most of his work is done before he comes within sight of the walls.”
    â€œIf the Signory would send out a force to confront