Cesare Borgia: Topic: Jobs
"The way I understand it, a job is something you do, forced by necessity, but not something a person is naturally inclined to, correct? Consider the trials and tribulations of Job from the Bible, and you have it, in a nutshell. Poor Sisyphus on his mountain, day in, day out."
"But whatever happened to calling? I'd prefer that to a job."
The distinction is fleeting, though, the lines blurry. Cesare weaves his fingers around one knee and remembers the grey afternoons of Romagna, himself buried under mountains of paperwork - dispatches, administrative documents, topics so sensitive he couldn't even trust Agapito, his private secretary with them. For a while he dug and delved into those. It was better than seeing Miquel's pale face, wan and drawn, betraying the sickness they shared. Better to bury himself in work, draw up maps, marshal his troups, ride out and inspect the battlements.
"Because a calling is something you can't help, see? A lightning stroke from above, a benediction, a course set for you." He nods gravely. "What could I do but follow my star? Indeed, what can I do? When it's my calling to rule? Retreat to my country villa and tend to the vines while there are decisions to be made?"
***
Leave him be, Miquel pleaded. Send him back to Napoli. Alfonso is a limp-wristed pretty-boy; he poses no threat. Let him go, Cesare.
And allow him to drum up the Sforza and all of Aragon? I don't think so. Cesare crossed his arms, set his jaw.
It will kill Lucrezia. She's grown fond of him.
Ah. If there was any pain in Miquel's voice, then he hid it well. Then she'll have to grow fond of someone else, I suppose. Cesare smirked. Thinking of applying for the position as her sweetheart?
Cruel. That had been cruel. Miquel's face shut and smoothed itself into something noncommittal. Your orders, Excellency, he said. Not a question, more of a statement, and anything but deferential.