Messer Niccolo Machiavelli had just signed his name to a letter to the Ten, when the flap of his tent swung wide in the hand of a lackey, permitting His Highness, the Prince Cesare Borgia, to enter.
"Ah! Excellency." Machiavelli half turned.
"Another letter to the Ten, Messer Machiavelli?" Cesare Borgia shrugged his shoulders. "You keep them well informed as to my movements."
Niccolo Machiavelli made a deprecating gesture. The Borgia prince smiled.
"You had best warn them against guile in their dealings with me, Messer Machiavelli. Florence holds no interest for me—but let them once deceive me, and the Medici rule no longer."
Messer Machiavelli bowed his head. "Florence has no intention, Highness, of going against your wishes. Indeed, she is most anxious to preserve your friendship."
"That will remain as it is, Messer Machiavelli. For the present I have come to ask you to dine with my company on the third night hence. The dinner is in honor of the young Duke Paolo di Colonna."
Messer Machiavelli started. He looked at his host with raised eyebrows. Only yesterday his trusted lackey had informed him of the rumor of a plot against the Borgias, the headquarters of which were in Rome, at the palaces of the Cardinals Orsini and della Rovere. It was rumored, too, that the young Paolo di Colonna was in alliance with this secret revolt, and that he was furthering the cause by sowing the seeds of revolt among the troops in camp at Imola, while at the same time the Duke Giovanni di Orsini was seeking to stir up the Borgia soldiers at Forli. As yet Machiavelli had no knowledge that the prince knew of the affair.
Messer Machiavelli nodded his head. "You honor me," he murmured.
"You will come?"
"With pleasure."
"Very well. We will meet at table, if not before."
The prince signaled to his lackey, who raised the tent flap for his master to take leave of the Florentine envoy. But hardly had the Borgia prince left the tent than Machiavelli gave a quick, short call.
"Giulio!"
From somewhere in the rear of the tent a small, stooped figure arose and stood before Niccolo Machiavelli.
"You called me, Messer Machiavelli?"
"You heard the Borgia?" The figure nodded. "It is well. You will follow him continually until the third night hence." The lackey laughed silently. He nodded. "At the third night, report here before dinner."
The lackey nodded quickly again, and without a word vanished into the interior of the tent, to emerge in the gathering darkness at its back within
the minute. Messer Niccolo Machi-
