The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(15)
“Then, in my opinion, we are better situated to take a defensive position against Venice. Our allies stand between the two cities, and unless he persuades them to change allegiance, he won’t have their permission to march through their territories. This means he’ll have to travel by sea.”
“That was my thought as well, Niccolò.”
The Prince rose and retrieved a gold signet ring from a cabinet that stood nearby. He held it up so Niccolò could see the lily of Florence that was carved into the gold.
“Prepare letters to the allies who reside between us and Venice, informing them one of our neighbors to the north may decide to march against us. Explain that you’re writing on behalf of the principality, but make no mention of me or of your new title. Request that they deny travel rights to our enemies and hold strong to our alliance. Tell them they will be rewarded.”
“Of course.” Niccolò reached for the signet ring, but the Prince palmed it.
“I will affix the seal to the letters. Bring them to me when they’re ready.”
Niccolò’s dark eyes fixed on the Prince’s hand, undisguised longing stealing over his expression, but only for an instant.
His expression did not go unnoticed.
He bowed low. “I am eager to serve in all things, my prince.”
Chapter 10
In order to maintain the charade that he’d been assassinated, the true Prince of Florence remained hidden in the Palazzo Riccardi. From here, he oversaw the training and mobilization of the army and all tactical decisions, through trusted intermediaries.
He couldn’t venture outdoors in order to feed and so he had to rely on the stores of his private cellar. Moreover, he couldn’t leave the Palazzo to wander the streets of Florence for fear someone would pick up his scent.
He’d taken measures to ensure Niccolò and the other Consilium members did not attempt a coup d’état by tasking Gregor, his assistant, to watch them closely.
Theodore, one of his servants, was ordered to monitor the comings and goings of the Emersons and to keep tabs on the illustrations that were on display at the Uffizi. Although the Prince was not in the position to deal with the Emersons, he intended to do so before they left the city.
A few nights before the Emersons were scheduled to check out of their hotel, the Prince grew restless. He’d been confined to his quarters for days with limited entertainment.
(The Prince took no interest in television or the Internet.)
In a move calculated to conceal his identity from any of his kind whom he might happen upon, he clothed himself in the stolen habit of a Franciscan (minus the cross). He pulled the hood over his head, shading his face, and, as was the local custom with the Franciscans, he wore sandals.
For more than one reason, the Prince found his choice of garment humorous.
To complete the deception, he took a vintage from his private cellar and doused a piece of cloth with it. Then he pinned the cloth to the inside of his robes, with the hope of confusing anyone who came near enough to scent him. Of course, the Prince had no intention of allowing any of his kind to come that close.
After sunset, he left the safety of the Palazzo through the back door, walking slowly and humanly down the street and toward Gallery Hotel Art. He was fortunate that the Emersons were just exiting the hotel as he arrived.
He followed them to dinner at a romantic restaurant overlooking the Arno River, and afterward through the narrow streets that led to the Piazza della Signoria, finally pausing near the Loggia dei Lanzi as they sat down to observe the city after dark.
The Prince was almost puzzled by their choice, since he preferred to view the city from great heights, such as from the top of Brunelleschi’s dome. It would seem the Emersons preferred to be much closer to their fellow humans (and the ground) than he.
“I think if we sat here long enough, the whole world would walk by.” Julianne’s wistful voice rose to the Prince’s ears as she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.
Tourists and locals milled about the Piazza or enjoyed a drink at one of the cafés. Nearby, a string quartet played Verdi, filling the square with a beautiful melancholy.
Julianne seemed to watch in fascination as street vendors launched glowing cylinders into the air, the toys sparkling like firecrackers against the ink-black sky. But always, the objects fell to the ground, their brief foray into the heavens ended by gravity.
The Prince saw a strange sadness creep over her pretty features and he heard her murmur, “We try to touch the stars, but we always fall back to earth.”
Gabriel drew her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist. “That’s true, but it isn’t like you to despair.”
“I’m not in despair. I just don’t want to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home either, but summer has to end eventually.”
Gabriel brushed a light kiss against her hair before pulling her to her feet. As the music continued, he walked her to the center of the Piazza. Then he took her in his arms and began to sway to the music.
She closed her eyes, floating over the stones beneath their feet as he expertly moved them.
Sudden feelings of both anger and pity bubbled up inside the Prince. He felt anger toward the professor, who clearly had a wife he didn’t deserve, and pity for Julianne, who probably was suffering because of her illness.
From his vantage point, he was no longer close enough to examine their scents or hear their words as they continued dancing. He could see the professor tighten his grip on his wife’s waist, his brow wrinkled as if in apology. His words were whispered.