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His figure, though shrouded in deep blackness, revealed itself as the magnanimous epitome of the oncoming autumn, staining the world in gold, ochre, and carmine. He drew upon the elegant nobility of balmy eves, which bring with them a velvety, dubious breeze, much like his viperine whispers; a wind that sweeps the foliage — where the verdant yields to the amber-gold — across the firmament, without asking leave. And everything bent to his aspirations.
The lord's form was impeccable, as it had been carved in the cradle and would remain unto the grave; yet, though he breathed, he did not seem alive in the common sense. He evoked, rather, the nostalgic melancholy of lingering afternoons, when the sun no longer warms, but traces sharp contours upon all things, recalling the ephemerality of that which lies in the past—where once it was whole, and now merely subsists in memory. It is, thus, at this very point that everything gains definition and appears most beautiful — and yet, there is a silence that stills his lips, as though something had withdrawn without leaving a trace. It had departed, then. Like everything that once lived and today reposes beyond what breath is capable of touching.
Dual. Cold and warm in equal, exact measure. A requiem for a soul still imprisoned within its cutaneous shroud, refusing to tear itself away. Therefore, even beneath the pomp of so grand a palette, behind the gleaming surface, there remains the void. No excess; no haste. A particular venustity belonging to those of his lineage — scathing, venomous, intoxicating like the sibilant warning engraved upon the rings of a coral snake slithering over the dying grass. Notwithstanding the absence of desire or hope, such a presence manifests itself, solely, in the exhaustion of the gesture itself — in the resignation that nothing more remains to be contested, save to dance to the triple meter of the cycle to which we are all fated. Like the bough that sustains the last leaf without effort or intent — merely because the hour has not yet struck to let it fall and repose upon the soil, where, inevitably, it must fade into dust.
Thus, the enchantment, treacherous, thickens at that very point, much like the indubitable lyricism radiating from everything that, one day, surrendered to the terrifying touch of tragedy: on the surface, a full, almost solemn beauty; within, the stillness of an existence that has already ceased, preserved in form, intact as a scathing memory born of the stygian act of abandoning hope. There is in him the magnificence of every element hidden beneath the autumnal leaves: all the colors of the earth overwhelming something that, with its proper, inescapable inevitability, is already dead inside.
(…)
Under the solemn stillness of the retreat that precedes the nocturnal bleakness, the Roman autumn manifested itself in a golden, aching breath, evoking the passing of that era of baneful beauty, in which the coloring heralds nothing but the waning of nature as a prelude to the umbrageous winter. There, the evening breeze, saturated with the mild crispness of the season, slipped between the tree canopies and unleashed leaves in shades of copper, crimson, and amber, causing them to twirl in slow eddies before strewing the moss-covered earth. On the horizon, where the celestial firmament kissed the ground of the pontifical capital, the twilight dissolved into a magnificent gradation: the deep blue of the ascending night swallowed the last vestiges of a purplish pink and a pale orange that still insisted on staining the low clouds, bathing the rooftops in a nuanced penumbra that evoked the purest work created by the Almighty in the beginning of all things.
Under this changing sky, the count advanced, traversing the borders of the Eternal City, devoid of any joy or haste to enter the sumptuous Castel Sant’Angelo, where dinner, at that hour, must already have been served in the main hall. The truth was that, at such a moment, without an army to escort him or any malicious tongue to profess insults upon his name and see him exhausted, Riario did not ride with the customary imposing stature that his position demanded in public squares, tactical meetings, or in the command of his troops over yet another poor locality recently acquired by Sixtus's Chair; he kept his body slightly bent forward, yielding to the weariness that weighed upon his shoulders. Below him, with a firm and haughty stride, walked his magnificent black Andalusian stallion, whose untamed spirit and treacherous temperament mirrored those of the rider himself — a man whom the scent of death impregnated from head to toe, whether by the lives he took, or by his own soul permanently stained by the blood of those fallen so that his own might continue pulsing in his veins. Such a jewel of jet-black coat and noble lineage had been a personal gift from Queen Isabella of Castile — a symbol of alliance and respect that, at that moment, served only as the sole silent confidant of his exhaustion. The horse shook its long mane, snorting softly, and the sound of its hooves upon the dry foliage was the only noise to break the quietude of that twilit frame.
As he descended the winding hills of Monte Pincio, flanked by the opulent vineyards of the baronial ways of the Colonna and old stone walls that already heralded the outskirts of the urbe, Riario turned the rein; he extended his gloved hand and caressed the Andalusian’s muscular neck, in a mute thanks for the long, nearly sleepless journey he had forced it to make from Florence to this place — a gesture of stripped humanity, bringing a silent recognition between the exhausted mount and the spent rider. In that surrender, the dust of the Latium roads and the dried blood that stained the cuffs of his shirt contrasted painfully with the serene venustity of the landscape, causing him to look at the foliage floating in the wind, envying for a brief second the lightness with which it accepted its own fall. Perhaps, on a single day in his bitter life, he could do the same: join it, and merely be, until fading away into the womb of creation.
Approaching the more secluded stretch of the Flavius, just below the shadows cast by the open expanse of the Muro Torto, whose steep slopes covered in brambles formed a natural refuge against the eyes of the world, Riario pulled the reins gently, causing the Andalusian to halt its pace and release a long breath of warm air that soon dissolved into mist in the density of the nightfall. There, well before the chains that led to the rustic wharf of Ripetta, the river ran slow — a serpent of dense, leaden waters swallowing the violet reflections of the dying sunset —, while the scent of silt, wild reeds, and damp earth rose from the banks to impregnate the stagnant air of that solitude of stone. Yielding at last to the weight of his own body, the count dismounted slowly, feeling his knees protest with a sharp pang against the impact of the rough ground; there he remained for a moment, motionless and gripping the worn leather of the saddle, while the sepulchral silence of the place fell upon his shoulders like a grave-cloth for all the lives that, day after day, he subjugated in the name of a false prophet.
Before walking to the bank, he unfastened the knots of the horse’s bridle to allow the animal to rest in the shade of the fronds, while shedding his own gloves, letting the icy breath of the season finally lash his calloused hands. Sitting on one of the damp stones of the slope, he freed himself with difficulty from his riding boots and, with bare feet upon the moss, advanced toward the riverbed under a final glance at the horizon, whose colors were dying at the water’s line. Seeking the isolation of the place, he permitted himself to submerge into the torrent, letting the piercing cold rise through his legs and the flow wash the blood from his cuffs, wishing, in the silence of that immensity, that the old course of Latium would drag away with it the invisible ruin that no armor could conceal.
Hardly had he dared to enter the flowing immensity, and the course of the Flavius, in that stretch sheltered by the slope of the embankments, already reached the count's chest. It rose, therefore, like a liquid wall, dense, icy, and undulating around his silhouette, so infinitesimal in comparison to the voluminous abyss surrounding him. It was, in fact, the most beautiful virtue of creation — the most welcome greeting upon his return, still covered in the dust of the roads and spilled blood, to the heart of Saint Peter’s empire. There, parted from the outside world by the hidden cliffs, the river's masterful song functioned as a silent baptism, so that, with the drop of adrenaline, he was left with the strangely serene solemnity residing in that cold: an ancestral peace, prior to humanity itself, which now enveloped him entirely as the flow rose against the whiteness of his complexion.
Albeit the initial impact of the liquid stung his skin, the muscular rigidity soon gave way to an almost comforting lucidity — a bitter yet necessary awakening to the exhaustion rooted in his bones for years. It was a weariness that the turmoil of ordinary days, or of what he forced himself to call ordinary, compelled him to mask beneath the armor of an impeccable posture, falser than the sanctity of the man seated upon the papal throne.
Thus, there, static as an infinitesimal dark speck upon the dull surface, he allowed himself the luxury of merely existing, letting the icy air and the remaining warmth in his lungs contrast with the approaching night. The welcoming pulse of the river met the flesh in a measured, almost imperceptible rhythm — a regular sway that, little by little, dictated a new calm to his own heartbeat, while the current worked patiently, undoing, line by line, the dried vestiges that still stiffened his cuffs. More than purifying his countenance, that insistent embrace seemed to dilute, for a brief and clandestine instant, the burden dragged daily like an invisible armor — a gravamen that finally found temporary solace in the density of that torrent.
Under the nocturnal mantle advancing swiftly, the firmament stained the dense mirror with shades of faded violet and deep gray, projecting upon the low waters the exact painting of the sky. And so, before that specular amplitude, Riario found himself immersed in the exact recess where the aquatic element kissed the paled horizon; a threshold forgotten by the world, where he could feel suspended, devoid of bonds, between the rawness of the earth and the eternally expanding infinite.
Raising his arms slowly, aiming to break the line of contact with the reflection of the Tiber, he dipped his hands into the bountiful course and brought them to his face, scooping in his palms the liquid mirrored by the last twilight glimmers left behind; he permitted, thus, the lymph to drain in icy threads, bathing his forehead, his cheekbones, and his neck, where the piercing friction marked the expression lines creased by chronic fatigue. As he moistened his parched lips, he tasted the distinct flavor of damp earth, of history, and of time — the intrinsic palate of Rome, for centuries poured through those very banks and destined to persist immutable long after he himself turned to ashes.
Then, as he closed his eyelids, the perennial murmur of the flow remained, only and solely, as his last redoubt, completely burying the profane noises of the world. Beneath that liquid dome, the rigidity of altars and the severity of once-indissoluble oaths unfastened from his flesh; there, in that clandestine hiatus, the memories no longer had claws, devoid of all power to cause suffering. There subsisted no room for hesitations or sterile laments, only the nakedness of a fate accepted in its entirety. It was his contour upon the earth, and the very same temper that shielded him in the silence of that retreat would be the one he would pour upon the world as soon as he resolved to emerge. For, in his heart, he knew why: such lights of peace were, and always would be, ephemeral. After all, for a man of his lineage, there remained only — and only — duty.