InsaneJournal

Cesare Borgia: Predictions
"I had my own astrologer," Cesare says, to no-one in particular. "We all had."

He chews his lower lip. "But then Behaim - Lorenz Behaim, from Nuremberg - had always been more than a hireling, not someone who prattles idle for good coin. He wasn't someone who would lie to me to save his hide, or secure his well-paid appointment." Cesare's hands need something to do, so he winds up his wristwatch. Once that is done, he continues to twist a cufflink.

"Behaim was my tutor when I was a boy, and a person like that honours truth. Good Messer Behaim... well. He was brutally honest with me. And so I continued to pay him. I made certain he was on a handsome retainer, enough to furnish his library with the best and most sought-after books. But after a while I... stopped listening to him. My birth chart, he'd said, predicted a meteoric rise, followed by a sharp descent. Twenty-six was critical, he'd said."

Cesare shrugs. His eyes are turned inward. He doesn't see the dingy-yet-cheerful cafe. He sees the Adria, smoke rising from Forlì.

"Time rolled around, Fortuna spun her wheel, and I survived my twenty-sixth year. Not only that; it turned out to be a good one. But I did not forget about the birth chart. Maestro Behaim continued to send weekly predictions, suggestions, cautioning me against this move or that, depending on the day. I couldn't bear to tell him that I'd stopped reading his reports years ago."

Miquel insinuates himself, gently twirling locks in Cesare's nape. So bitter, caro. There were other predictions, too, weren't there. And you proved them wrong. Did not a great many misfortunes not befall you?

Didn't... not befall me? Cesare scrunches up his face in an attempt to sound out the double negative.

Mmm. Forget it, Miquel laughs kindly.