I am thus: The son of a Spaniard. A Borgia. A cardinal of the Catholic Church appointed by my own father, the Pope’s, hand. Anyone in the Christian world has been taught the duties of such position. But only those closest to His Holiness truly understand the sacrifices.
“Your Eminence.”
Micheletto – my servant, my hound, my assassin. One such sacrifice. He is here to inform me he has failed me again. My temper gets the better of me and I have him against the wall, as is often the case between us.
“Do as you want, my lord,” he bows. “I am your servant.”
He says this as he says anything else. The same low, secretive tone of all his reports, and the same unassuming honesty and stone face with which he fools everyone else. The matter at hand vanishes from my mind entirely.
“You have already proven your loyalty,” I say, deflating. “You need not kneel and kiss my feet at every turn.”
“I don’t do it for need of it, my lord.”
With one downward glance, he is lowering to his knees and bowing until his lips meet my shoes, one after another. He stares at me without rising. His breath warms my robes. Something compels my hand to the nape of his neck, and I watch his throat bobbing as I grip the hair there.
I am not myself around this man.
“Do as I’ve said,” I say, and leave him on the ground.
There is blood on my hands. God knows how I’ve avoided killing by my own hand until now, but it is done, and they are a crimson stain in the dark that the rain won’t wash off and Micheletto is there, of course, talking about murder like it’s as mundane as hunting. My patience is thin, and my nerves are frayed, and before I know it my hand is flying across from me and with a loud clap, I’ve painted the side of his face red.
He raises his head back to me and I wait. For what, I do not know. He will not fight back, not unless I tell him to. My Micheletto is obedient.
He takes hold of my hands and brings them to his lips. When he lets go, his mouth and beard are covered in blood. Like a feeding wolf.
I am far from being daft. Micheletto is a strange man which lends to strange readings, but he can still be read. I know I have his devotion in a multitude of ways. I would not risk this otherwise.
I grab his neck, tell him to meet me in my rooms, and leave no doubt as to why.
He assents like it’s any other order.
It is after, and he allows himself to lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I watch his face. I picture green fields and goats and plain clothes, miles away from any city. We look equal when we’re naked – call me Cesare in this room.
I bite my tongue. We are no arcadian farmers. He is a beautiful, sharp dagger that I do well to keep close and concealed within my sleeve. If my pulse warms his steel, that is only natural, but it does not make him woolen.
He begins to gather his clothes, “I should go. Before the morning.”
Stay here. Sleep. Be seen leaving in the morning. Pretend there are no consequences.
“Then go,” it comes out like a command, and he obeys in kind.
When he is dressed – because I know then that he will not do it, that he will take no permission other than mine, not even his own – I put a hand around his neck and pull him towards me, and I kiss his lips.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” he whispers into my mouth, and leaves.
I watch, naked, from my bed, the moonlight the only thing filling his absence.
I hold a blade against his neck, he begs to serve me. I flog him, he pleads, “harder!” And even after defiling me in my own bed, in my father’s palace, to my debauched encouragement, he still considers my touch a privilege he would not dare act entitled to.
I cannot help but smile. I have a good dog.