August W. Derleth

“ Messer Machiavelli pondered a space. "How many figures are needed? How many must be burned to rid oneself of an enemy?"
"But one, Excellency. But Cesare is a true Borgia. His resources know no end."
Messer Machiavelli nodded. "It is good work, Giulio; I shall not forget it."
The lackey bowed and vanished in the shadows at the rear of the tent. Messer Machiavelli rose and donned a great cloak. He raised the flap of his tent and looked out at the cloudless sky. ”

“ Far away, on the horizon toward the east, the full moon was just rising above the hills, and from the marshlands to the west thin wisps of vapor were moving toward the camp. Messer Machiavelli glanced dubiously at the hour-glass on the table, saw that the sand had passed the half-hour, and slipped out of his tent.
At the banquet hall the young Paolo di Colonna was the center of a boisterous crowd. Cesare Borgia stood some distance away from him, and was the first to greet the Florentine envoy at his arrival. ”

“ The Borgia prince attended to the usual matters of his troops."
Messer Machiavelli toyed with a quill on his table. "What make you of the candles, Giulio?" he asked.
The lackey smiled suggestively. He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in an empty gesture.
"Who knows?" he said. "The Borgia takes a portrait of his enemy to a magician, and receives at its return a packet of wax candles. It is said that if one burns a wax effigy of one's foe, made according to certain secret formulas, or if one pierces it to the heart, the model dies." ”