A sudden, unsettling urge gripped Niccolò one afternoon. He watched from the arched entry of the ducal scriptorium as Cesare Visconti, heir to the formidable House Visconti, departed with Lucian Valerius, a quiet scholar of humble birth. Lucian, under Cesare’s recent patronage, had become a fixture within the palazzo walls, a shadow often trailing the younger noble. Such a simple curiosity, he told himself, a petty ache of a rival. He yearned to see how their journey home unfolded, an image he couldn’t shake: the refined, charismatic Cesare, followed by Lucian, a man of intellect and a quiet grace, clinging to his wake. A knot tightened in Niccolò’s gut. This was no mere curiosity; it felt like tampering with a sealed casket, rumored to hold not just despair but a cruel, insidious hope. He knew better. Such things should remain undisturbed. Yet, he found himself unable to resist. A low murmur escaped him, almost a curse. “Gods, I must be mad.” Indeed, reason had abandoned him. But even knowing the folly, he set off, following Lucian through the labyrinthine streets of Volterra. He didn't travel far. Carefully, Niccolò kept to the narrower alleys, shielded by the leaning houses, ensuring Cesare would not notice his presence. He saw Lucian, eyes fixed on Cesare’s retreating back, as they wound through a less opulent quarter. Plaster flaked from crumbling facades, revealing ancient brick beneath. Iron grates on ground-floor windows rusted, their paint long since surrendered to the damp air. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight filtering between buildings, illuminating cobbled stones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. Two figures moved through this humble setting: Cesare, tall and assured, in front; Lucian, a half-pace behind. And Niccolò, a silent observer, shrouded in the indignity of his own hidden vigil. Every atom of the scene screamed pathetic, utterly base. He turned back, a sour taste on his tongue. --- Later, in the quiet solitude of his study, the city lights a distant glitter through his window, Niccolò reflected. A perverse satisfaction settled within him. Yes, curiosity had flared, but had he persisted, who knew what wretched truths he might have unearthed? Better this. Better not to know. He was no fool to pry open a Pandora’s Box for the sake of a fleeting, ignoble urge. Cesare’s preoccupation with Lucian had only deepened, a fact undeniable to anyone paying close attention. As for Lucian, a fear—or perhaps outright disdain—seemed to dog his footsteps whenever Cesare was near. No, it was hatred, surely. How could one feel otherwise toward a figure who had, in the tumultuous early days of his Volterran sojourn, sought to dominate and challenge him so fiercely? Niccolò felt a strange, cold smugness about this. At least he had never attempted to intercede in Cesare’s initial torments of Lucian. Perhaps, in its own twisted way, that had been for the best. Fingers laced behind his head, Niccolò leaned back, his gaze finding the ornate plasterwork of his chamber ceiling. He thought of the gilded comforts of his life, the secure fortune of his House Moretti. He had been born to privilege, an only child indulged, never denied a single desire. “Damn it all.” He had once believed himself invincible, capable of anything. Until Cesare Visconti. That damnable man had unveiled a cruel reality: life did not always bend to one’s will. And Niccolò suspected Lucian was now learning that bitter lesson too. The world could be merciless, he thought, a truly brutal place. At least he, Niccolò, had mastered control, learning to sheath his desires, to obscure his true feelings beneath layers of cool indifference. Cesare, however, was consumed, his emotions a raw, exposed wound he seemed incapable of hiding. His fixation on Lucian, sudden and abnormal, surely unsettled him. Niccolò understood this unsettling torrent. He had lived through it. Yet, while Niccolò had endured, Cesare could not. Instead of winning Lucian’s favor, he had resorted to tactics that invited only resentment. For Niccolò, this suited his purposes perfectly. “Please, remain so hopelessly blind,” he murmured into the quiet room. Or better still, let Lucian tire and depart. He harbored no wish for Cesare to turn his affections toward him. Such a twisted love, if it could even be called that, terrified him. All he wanted was for a day to arrive when he no longer felt this ache for Cesare, and for Cesare to find solace elsewhere. A simple, impossible wish. For the world, of course, rarely granted such mercies. --- Another shift in Cesare’s orbit: Lucian now occupied the stool directly beside him in Maestro Cellini’s study, a position previously held by a junior scribe. The location, right at the foot of the Maestro’s lectern, was awkward, particularly for Lucian’s height. He often obscured the illuminated texts from the others. The former seat-mate, a nervous youth from a minor house, exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Niccolò and Lorenzo. “Good day, Niccolò, Lorenzo.” Lorenzo and Niccolò merely offered curt nods. No words were exchanged. “Haha…” The nervous chuckle hung in the air, unanswered. Neither Niccolò nor Lorenzo offered a response. Their interest lay elsewhere. Cesare sat beside Lucian, silent, his attention fixed on the scrolls before them. And Niccolò hoped—no, prayed—they could remain thus, suspended in this fragile tension, for an eternity. That someday, this moment might dissolve into a vague, forgotten dream. --- Another change, whispered through the ducal courtyards. Cesare, known for his weekend revels and scandalous escapades, had finally curtailed his nocturnal habits. Or so it appeared. From fragments of gossip Lorenzo’s companions exchanged, it wasn't a complete cessation, but the boisterous boasts in the morning salons had ceased, and the lingering scent of wine and musk no longer clung to his silken doublets. For Niccolò, this offered a small reprieve. He no longer had to endure the stench of Cesare’s debauchery so close at hand. “Tell us, Cesare,” Matteo Barone, a boisterous young noble known for his coarse humor, swayed suggestively, his hands gesturing near his groin, a lewd pantomime. “No more chasing skirts through the Borgo, eh? Like this?” Cesare’s face twisted into a furious mask. He shot a quick, possessive glance toward Lucian, then bellowed, his voice sharp with anger. “Idiot! I told you to keep such talk private!” “Why the sudden modesty, cousin?” Matteo pressed, a grin playing on his lips. “If you breathe another word of it, Matteo, you’ll regret it.” “But Cesare—” “Silence!” “...As you wish.” Others in the circle looked visibly disappointed. Cesare, with his commanding presence and mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosities of young men brimming with unspent energy. The youths in Cesare’s entourage, though not entirely innocent, had merely fumbled through their own clumsy experiences. Compared to the truly naive, they were more easily stirred. With Cesare’s exploits no longer for public consumption, their attention drifted to Lorenzo. But Lorenzo merely bared his teeth, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. “Filthy perverts.” “Ah, there he goes again! Lorenzo with his holier-than-thou pronouncements!” “Such a zealot. A complete waste, honestly.” Laughter rippled through the study, loud and fleeting. Most of the young men in their circle had, at some point, ventured into forbidden territories, yet for some reason, Lorenzo Medici had not. While they teased him as a jest, calling him “the monk,” no one truly disrespected him. He was Lorenzo Medici, after all. At the same time, Lorenzo cultivated a lighthearted, almost careless demeanor, which made his actions seem effortless and his words easy to dismiss. Some found it charming, others approachable, often remarking how his easygoing manner belied his sharp, almost intimidating features. “Halt that glare, you brute. You’ll make me spill my ink.” “Aye, his face could curdle milk.” “Do you imbeciles have a death wish?” Lorenzo scowled playfully, and the group erupted in fresh laughter, though the jest was threadbare. A few other acquaintances, lounging in the far corner, joined in with their forced merriment, adding to the din. Amidst them, Niccolò sat, staring blankly at his hands, lost in thought. Niccolò could not recall a single instance where he had felt a true surge of desire for a woman. By that measure, he supposed, he was born to a different inclination. He had experienced arousal witnessing the crude woodcuts depicting men and women together, but never once had he conjured the image of a woman’s form in his mind while lost in private moments. The former, he mused, felt more about the raw intensity of the act itself, the latter a stark absence of genuine longing. He had once been dragged to a public house, a rowdy tavern by Cesare himself, but he hadn’t made it past the threshold. He possessed no false papers. Instead, he had waited outside until Cesare reappeared. Brothels? Disgusting. The mere thought repulsed him. He could not comprehend their appeal. Because of this, his companions sometimes jested, calling him “Niccolò the Chaste,” but in truth, his abstinence was more a consequence of his nature than a choice. A quiet sigh escaped him. The others were too busy guffawing at Lorenzo’s japes to notice. Seizing the moment, Niccolò glanced at Cesare, who sat in unusual silence, his gaze fixed on Lucian Valerius’s profile as the scholar quietly consulted a manuscript across the table. As always, Niccolò regretted the glance. Why did he look? Why did he ask? To distract himself, he posed a question to Lorenzo. “So, truly, will you remain chaste until you take a wife?” Lorenzo, sprawling in his chair with an air of practiced nonchalance, suddenly directed his gaze downward, pointedly at Niccolò’s lap. His stare was so persistent that Niccolò instinctively crossed his legs, a shield against the intrusive gaze. What in the name of the saints was that for? “You are not my wife, Niccolò, so why the concern? Are you offering to remedy the situation?” “…” Of course. Lorenzo always spun his barbs with malicious intent. The others laughed. Niccolò kicked Lorenzo lightly in the shin beneath the table. Such were his days – a monotonous cycle, repeating without end. --- In the solitude of his chamber, alone with his thoughts, Niccolò often found his mind wandering, contemplating endless scenarios. Inevitably, these musings sometimes drifted into strange, forbidden fantasies. Today, he wondered what life might have been like had he harbored feelings for Lorenzo instead of Cesare. It seemed a far more agreeable plight. If his heart ached for Lorenzo, he would have been spared the torment inflicted by Cesare’s sordid entanglements. Even then, his heart would still ache, of course. Neither Cesare nor Lorenzo would ever return his affections. But at least his pain would not be compounded by the existence of Lucian Valerius. That train of thought inevitably spiraled into feelings of inferiority and a simmering anger. In the end, he wished only to complete his studies, to become a stranger to Cesare Visconti. --- At some point, Niccolò had developed an unconscious habit of resting his hands under the table whenever he sat. This began in his adolescent years, and the cause was always the same – men. As he idly adjusted the belt on his hose, his thoughts drifted. Should he? Or shouldn't he? The faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to unfasten the buckle, a knock sounded at his chamber door. “Niccolò! Are you at your studies?” “...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Yes, I am!” His heart leaped. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it. --- Lately, Cesare Visconti had grown truly infuriating. Sometimes, when Lucian’s gaze briefly met Niccolò’s, Cesare would deliberately launch into conversation with him. Lucian, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes toward Niccolò, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Cesare’s formidable presence, he would lower his head and offer a barely audible reply. “Yes, Cesare…” Just like that. Lucian subtly sought Niccolò’s attention more often, and had even started using his given name, “Niccolò.” Aside from his closest family, almost no one addressed him so familiarly, so the change was stark. Lucian seemed to believe he was being discreet, but he was not. The worst part was Cesare’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Lucian displayed even a hint of such daring. “Lucian, stop distracting Maestro Moretti from his work.” “What?” “Cease bothering him. Is that not clear?” “Oh… uh, yes, Cesare…” When Lucian stammered and averted his gaze, Cesare, with an almost childish petulance, slammed his fist against the leg of the study table beside him. Niccolò pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, clueless Lucian seemed to believe no one cared about him using “Niccolò” anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were perfectly normal. “Uh, Niccolò… pardon my intrusion on your studies.” Niccolò stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was Lucian mad? Cesare sat directly opposite them. Sure enough, Cesare’s fist struck the table leg again. Damn him. “Lucian Valerius!” “...Huh?” The atmosphere soured instantly. “I told you.” Cesare’s anger was palpable, naked. “I told you not to address him as ‘Niccolò,’ did I not?” “...Well, I…” “His name is Maestro Moretti. Call him Maestro Moretti.” Cesare’s gaze sharpened, almost predatory, as he fixed it on Niccolò. Niccolò despised that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Lorenzo, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Niccolò’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured close to Niccolò’s ear. “Cesare, if you continue this way, you truly will ruin yourself.” “What idiocy are you speaking?” “I mean that you will regret it.” Lorenzo smirked, and Niccolò felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason alone.

A Surveyor's Shame