[Silently two Spanish Gentlemen seat themselves near his couch and play. He turns on his elbow and watches them, passing his ball of perfume from hand to hand.
AGAPITO.
[In a murmur to Torella.
For hours, long hours, impassible he fixes
His eyes upon the board, as if the secret
Of Destiny were secret of a Sphinx
He could divine by watching.
CESARE.
[Still fixed on the game, but speaking to all.] Without doubt
Our fortune is unchained against us, friends:
But there are chances—let us reckon them!
My captain Scipione is of ours
Till death; he joins me in my liberty.
The bankers guard three hundred thousand ducats
At Genoa and at Florence: from such nurture
Springs a live army. Volpe and Michelotto
Refuse for any bribe to quit my service.
I do not even accuse my fate, still less
The ingratitude of men, for I have found
In all, save one I trusted, loyalty.
Bring me my poignard with the little mirror—
That peasant’s hand ruffled my chemisette....
[The poignard being brought, he looks in its glass at his tear-stained face.
What ruin! Damage!
... And yet my enemies are frightened, Vera.
These giants of power still fear a fettered man,
Ill, shaking in a tertian, and with life
Itself unwarranted from hour to hour.
Stir up the hearth and spread the juniper’s
Cloud of ripe resin....
Enter Messer Niccolo Macchiavelli.
Messer Niccolo!