He spoke, too, of sending my cousin to Perugia, where a strong hand was needed, as the town showed signs of mutiny against the authority of the Holy See.
When he had departed, Messer Fifanti permitted himself one of his bitter insinuations.
"He desires a clear field," he said, smiling his cold smile upon Giuliana.

"It but remains for him to discover that his Duke has need of me as well." He spoke of it as a possible contingency, but sarcastically, as men speak of things too remote to be seriously considered.

He was to remember his words two days later when the very thing came to pass.
We were at breakfast when the blow fell.
There came a clatter of hooves under our windows, which stood open to the tepid September morning, and soon there was old Busio ushering in an officer of the Pontificals with a parchment tied in scarlet silk and sealed with the arms of Piacenza.
Messer Fifanti took the package and weighed it in his hand, frowning.
Perhaps already some foreboding of the nature of its contents was in his mind.

Meanwhile, Giuliana poured wine for the officer, and Busio bore him the cup upon a salver.
Fifanti ripped away silk and seals, and set himself to read.

I can see him now, standing near the window to which he had moved to gain a better light, the parchment under his very nose, his short-sighted eyes screwed up as he acquainted himself with the letter's contents.