“Yet Borgia, always demanding, arrogant, worried us. He went out of his way to annoy Vitelli. I tried to play down his swaggering. I tried to play down our apprehensions. Then...then, he had Vitelli strangled. Strangled in Borgia’s tent. Enraged, afraid, I left that night. Niccolò provided my horse. He rode with me. We escaped through the rain. Our horses fast. Solitary roads...hoof beats... I remember. Vitelli murdered. In the tent.
“We said little as we rode.
“At an inn we dismounted, drank, warmed ourselves. Niccolò could not justify his Prince.
“Ai, that murderous rain! His name, his face, that Borgia face, assassination rain!”
It is late as I finish writing down his words. He is in pain. Last night he slept very little.
April 7, 1519
“No, not purgatory and not hell...
“I esteem the horse and the dog because they are free of perversions...no misa, no confessional...
“Animals exact little...make no covenants.