"The first ruler can only be strong. He conquered it all. His son tends to be weak, his grandson perverted and his great-grandson a tyrant. Which are you, Girolamo?" He could still hear his father.
Girolamo wanted to be strong. And he could. Strong in resolve, in battle and in reputation. Strong against temptation that isn't really tempting. But he was weak, too. Weak against anger, pride and the most repulsive temptation. Weak enough that he had agreed to a ten year old bride in hope that he would still go years without… And yes, for years he could all but forget Girolamo Riario was a married man. And even when he couldn't avoid this fact anymore, he comforted himself with the fact that he would never be one of those who had a bastard disguised as a nephew or a mistress disguised as a niece…
Perverted.
That Savonarola priest who spoke with such rage, the fire of hell, triggering his own in turn. And Caterina who didn't understand his temper, his sinful kisses that led… nowhere or how he turned her down before it was time to undress. A tyrant, she thought him, and he hoped that he was that one. Strong enough to also turn down others, a brazen youth in town, after his purse and his power, a young soldier on the battlefield, looking for protection and privileges. Savonarola was right. It was repulsive, devilish, unnatural. Those men who didn't marry, or deserted, or simply went on sinning were the worst. He refused to be that. Caterina had the strength of a ruler, for sure. Had she been a man, she would have been a cunning politician and a powerful leader. Many things would have been easier. Yet as a woman, she was the closest he could get to the heady feeling of an equal, not that he would ever tell her. Maybe she would make a better man than he was…
She hated him, he knew. Hated his coldness, his disdain, his absence and his presence. And she also desired him, which made it worse. For both. Did she understand why he was cold and secret, yet occasionally why he needed relief so bad? Did she know how hard he was trying - for her, for himself, for both - not to ever go back to what he wanted? Not even during those long months of battle, those long nights…
"One must look at one's enemy in the eye," she said, and he kissed her. Surprisingly things unfurled as they should that night. He remembered the first time he took her, years after she was his. She had been frightened of pain and he had been afraid of shame. She had grown much too comfortable. He still feared that. Perhaps if he got a child on her she would stop being interested in touching him, changing him, saving him, she would use that to raise a worthy heir. She was right, too, one had to look one's enemy in the eye, but he was his worst enemy, more than the youthful boys who stared and smirked as if they knew he had stared first, or caressed and kissed because they assumed he wanted that and they were not even wrong. Should he avoid his own face forever?
The first ruler could only be strong. He conquered it all. His son tended to be weak, his grandson perverted and his great-grandson a tyrant. Which was he?