The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  My father, in his days as poisoner to the House of Borgia, understood the risk of being so focused on what is nearby as to overlook what is on the periphery. He was a great believer in getting out and about, instructing me in the finer points of how to look, listen, even smell a scene so as to understand it and, even more important, how to know early on when something is wrong. He also understood that the right prop could explain one’s presence without calling attention to it. Hence the basket.

  I went down the wide stone steps of the palazzo and set off to the southeast in the direction that a stammering serving boy told me led to Viterbo’s central square. The day was pleasantly cool with only thin traces of cloud to mar the otherwise pristine sky. Bright autumnal flowers trailed from window pots, their perfumes mingling with the bite of the lye soap used to scrub the paving stones. Having long been a favorite haunt of popes, the town overflowed with churches, many of them centuries old, constructed mainly of stone that had yellowed softly over the years. In that respect—and only that—it bore the faintest possible resemblance to my beloved Rome. Otherwise, everything appeared small, shrunken, and still far too quiet for my taste.

  The old porta romana giving entrance to the town through the high stone walls punctuated by watchtowers would have been opened at dawn; already travelers were making their way toward the palazzo in hope of doing business with the papal household. Members of Viterbo’s garrison were in evidence, patrolling in breastplates and plumed helmets with spiked halberds in hand. But I also saw men of the Pope’s own household guard on patrol in the town. I could not help but wonder how much the show of their presence had to do with protecting the Pope and how much was intended to quell the spreading resentment of the Spaniards.

  In the central market adjacent to the main piazza decorated with carvings of lions and palm trees, the town’s twin symbols—stalls overflowed with heaps of newly harvested grapes and olives. Vats of virgin olive oil and raw wine were stacked near wicker cages of chickens, ducks, and rabbits. I smelled rounds of tart pecorino and the sweet aroma of pearly ricotta. Salted pink hams hung from rafters beside the stalls. Heaps of thorny artichokes vied with a surprisingly good selection of mushrooms. I bought some of each, filling my basket.

  All the while, I listened. The good wives of Viterbo, many in high conical bonnets and rich lace bodices, were serious about their marketing. Like sensible hagglers everywhere, they scoffed at the prices being asked before settling on what all parties could consider fair.

  I was eavesdropping on an exchange regarding red borlotti beans when several cooks I recognized as being from Borgia’s household entered the market. These maestri di cucina, garbed in their customary white tunics emblazoned with the papal seal and trailed by kitchen boys brought along to carry their purchases, began to pick through the displays. They seemed unaware that the mood among the townspeople had changed abruptly. It was as though a dark cloud had moved across the otherwise sunny sky.

  “Damn Romans,” the matron near me muttered. Forgetting her interest in the borlotti beans, she stomped away. Nor was she alone. One by one, the good wives of Viterbo shot scowls at the new arrivals and took their leave.

  A loud argument broke out not far from where I stood. A stout butcher draped in a blood-splattered leather apron was refusing to haggle over the price of a haunch of beef, declaring that the red-faced cook could pay him what he demanded or do without.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” the maestro protested. “No one will pay what you’re asking.”

  “An idiot, am I?” The butcher’s expression darkened as he picked up a cleaver and smacked it down hard into a wooden chopping board. “If you don’t like how we do things here, why don’t you go back to Rome?”

  A rumbling of agreement rose from the surrounding stalls. In the midst of it, someone else said, “And take the goddamn Spaniards with you.”

  “Better yet,” another shouted, “send them back to Spain. We don’t want their kind here.”

  “Or yours!”

  “Put that on His Holiness’s plate, why don’t you?”

  At the mention of Borgia, I froze. Discontent over the behavior of the Spaniards was reasonable enough, given what Cesare had told me. But when it spilled over to include the Pope himself … A handful of peasants on the route north could make asses of themselves without my worrying unduly. But if the people of the very town Borgia was counting on to block a French advance were emboldened to behave in such a matter, the situation was considerably worse than I had realized.

  Catcalls and hoots followed the cooks as they retreated amid hurled threats and shaken fists back up the street toward the palazzo. With their hasty departure, the good wives reappeared. Save for a rippling undercurrent of satisfaction, the market returned swiftly to normal. I made my way back to the palazzo slowly, thinking over what I had witnessed. Had the Spanish truly been so boorish in their behavior as to deserve such hostility, or was it possible that the mood of the town was being stirred by an unseen hand? Della Rovere’s, perhaps, acting in concert with the French? Rumor had it that the cardinal who hungered to replace Borgia on Saint Peter’s Throne had struck an agreement with the young French king whereby Charles would receive Naples in return for della Rovere’s ascent to the papacy.

  A sudden blaring of horns up ahead interrupted my thoughts. A troop of horsemen was approaching at high speed down the winding street leading from the palazzo. They came at a gallop, banners flying, spurs gleaming in the sun. I saw at a glance Cesare riding with Herrera, the other Spaniards ranged out behind them. Baying dogs ran alongside, signaling their intent to hunt.

  Parties of young aristocrats make a show of themselves galloping through the streets of Rome all the time. But they stay to the broad avenues and for the most part cause little trouble. Not so here. There was a moment when everyone in the byway seemed to stand stock-still with surprise at what was happening. Then pandemonium broke out.

  I dove into the nearest doorway as people all around me did the same. Peddlers rushed to push their carts into alleys, while those unfortunate enough to be driving wagons whipped their animals frantically as they struggled to get out of the way. I saw a man fling himself into the road to scoop up a small girl as chickens beat their wings in panic and a white cat who reminded me of mine arched her back and hissed in fury.

  So, must I admit, did anger surge in me. That men should show such contempt for the peace of the town was infuriating. That Cesare should be among them passed all bearing. Had I the means, I would gladly have thrown him from the saddle to crack his thick head on the paving stones, consequences be damned.

  Turned away as I was to avoid flying dust and small bits of stone struck loose by the horses’ pounding hooves, I was certain that Cesare took no more notice of me than he did of anyone else in the road. He and the other riders went by in a blur of silver spurs, foam-flecked dogs, and panting handlers racing to keep up.

  When they were gone, I stood for a moment, listening to the fading sounds of their passing. My basket had tilted, and several of the artichokes had rolled out into the road. I bent to retrieve them, becoming aware as I did so of the muttering all around me.

  Straightening slowly, I dared a glance at those standing nearby. Uniformly, the face of every man and woman I could see was bright with anger. What good would the strongest walls be to Borgia if a disgruntled populace welcomed his enemies in their hearts?

  Such was my preoccupation with that thorny question that I must have grasped one of the artichokes too tightly. The sharp end of a fleshy leaf pierced the palm of my hand. I stared down at the bright drops of blood as dark apprehension rippled through me.

  6

  Venison, served still bloody as Borgia liked it, graced the Pope’s plate that evening. The sight of it made me queasy as well as reminded me that I was angry at Cesare. His feckless accommodation of the Spaniards still rankled. Herrera was seated next to him at dinner and seemed able to make him laugh at will.

  I did not linger in the hall
as was my custom but instead threw a cloak over my shoulders and stepped outside. Wood smoke curled from the chimney pots that dotted the tiled rooftops of the town. To the west, the sun’s last rays filtered through mist and the promise of rain. Although it would be vespers soon, the square directly in front of the palazzo remained busy. Merchants of every stripe jostled with priests, peddlers, prostitutes, and the occasional penitent, all avid for a bit of papal business. The guards kept the crowd orderly enough, but as the hour aged and the prospect of a day’s trade dimmed, the press of bodies clamoring to be heard grew more urgent.

  Failing to find the peace I sought, I was about to go back inside the palazzo when a sudden splash of color on the edge of my vision stopped me. From one of the corsi leading into the square came a figure out of fantasy, dressed in a patchwork tunic and leggings and wearing on his head a pointed felt hat on which spangles glinted in the fading sun. He was banging a drum at the same time as he blew a horn and shook his head to make the spangles clang. He looked as much a jester as any to ply his trade from court to court, but there was also something oddly familiar about him.

  Advancing across the piazza in leaps and bounds, he came at last very near to where I stood. Seeing me, he paused and with a smile swept the hat from his head and executed a more than passable bow.

  Having secured my attention, he lingered only a moment before he straightened and gamboled off back toward the town. I took a breath, let it out slowly, and followed him.

  * * *

  David ben Eliezer and I found a quiet place to sit in the back of a taverna catering to a motley crew of jugglers, jongleurs, jesters, and pantomime players. They were a rowdy bunch, their raucous laughter making it unlikely that we could be overheard. A buxom young woman took our orders, not so preoccupied that she didn’t manage an appreciative glance at David. Having removed his hat again and set aside the other accoutrements of his borrowed occupation, he looked like a figure out of a Botticelli painting, all dark liquid eyes and fierce grace. Yet the jester costume remained a brilliant disguise. No one would think to look behind it for a renegade Jew determined to protect his people with guile if he could but with the sword if he must.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave Rome before we could meet,” I said when the barmaid had gone again. In the rush of activity leading up to Il Papa’s departure from the Holy City, there had been no time to seek out David. As glad as I was to see him, his sudden appearance in Viterbo could not be good.

  He inclined his head in understanding. “I, too, was occupied. There is much to speak of. But first, I’ve brought letters.” Sliding them across the table, he added, “One from Sofia, another from Rocco, and a message from a woman named Portia, who won’t tell me how she found me but who wants you to know that your cat is fine. She hopes you are the same.” He looked at me all too perceptively. “You aren’t, are you?”

  I slipped the letters into my pouch. Sofia’s I welcomed. As for Rocco’s … I would not think of that just then.

  “I am well enough.” David and I had braved death together, and only just escaped it, but I was reluctant all the same to burden him with my troubles. We spoke of lighter matters until both of us were satisfied that we were not attracting any undue attention. Only then did I ask why he had come to Viterbo.

  “I wouldn’t have,” he said in answer to my query, “had not His Holiness decided to hie himself here. Not that Rome has much to recommend it these days. The weather is foul, the plague is stirring, and the populace is more than usually disgruntled.”

  “Save for the plague, Viterbo isn’t much better.” I leaned a little closer across the table. “His Holiness’s servants are insulted openly in the marketplace. As for the garrison … let’s just say that at the moment, I would not put money on their loyalty.”

  “That is unfortunate.” David fell silent as our cups of wine arrived, along with a plate of bread and a saucer of pale green oil. We dipped and sipped before he said, “I bring news that I could not entrust to a letter.”

  Sourness stirred in my stomach. I set down the wine. “Tell me.”

  “An assassin is en route to Viterbo, may indeed already be here.”

  I was not about to disregard any threat to Borgia, yet the thought that one more would-be killer was stirring in the weeds hardly shocked me.

  “Yet another?” I said, picking up my cup again. “More seem to sprout with every rain.”

  “Unfortunately, this one may be different. The amount of money involved suggests that whoever has been hired is more dangerous than anyone else you’ve confronted in the past.”

  Just as poisoners vary in their degree of skill and, consequently, their price, assassins do the same. Yet I remained cautious.

  “How do you know this?”

  “You are aware that we still have contacts in Spain?”

  “I had assumed as much.” Tens of thousands of Jews had fled from there the previous year, expelled at the order of Their Most Catholic Majesties. But others, having seen what was coming, had chosen to remain as conversos, converts to Christianity. They lived under constant suspicion, although at least a few were nestled securely within the ranks of Holy Mother Church and the royal court itself.

  “Funds are moving between banks here and in Spain,” David said. “The objective seems to be to obscure their origins as much as to conceal the recipient. Someone is going to great effort to strike at Borgia. With all respect, I fear that this time they could succeed.”

  Far from resenting his assessment, I welcomed it. Only a true fool would reject the counsel of one who had proven himself as good and trustworthy a friend as David.

  “Do you know anything more?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but I thought it best to come here as soon as I got word of what was happening. We paid to the heavens and beyond for Borgia’s promise that as pope he would extend the hand of tolerance to us. So far, he has made good on his word. But if he falls…”

  I nodded grimly. “All the current crop of candidates to replace him see their power as rooted in Holy Mother Church. They will use any scapegoat to keep it from being blamed for the mounting ills of the world.”

  “You really think Borgia is different?”

  “I do. He sees his power as coming from within himself. The Church is only a means to an end. He would cheerfully tear it apart and rebuild it in some entirely new form if that meant he would achieve his own goals more readily.”

  “You are saying that in the vastness of his ambition, there is room for other men to breathe?”

  I could not have put it so eloquently, but it was true all the same. “Yes, I suppose I am. So, my friend, how are we to keep him alive?”

  David flashed a wolf’s smile. However high the stakes might be, he could still find pleasure in the contest. “You would be amazed at what people will say in the presence of a fool. If anyone in Viterbo has seen or heard anything that points to the identity of the assassin, I will find it out.”

  I did not doubt him, but I did have a suggestion. “As this information comes from Spain, you would do well to keep an eye on the Spaniards in particular.”

  David raised a brow. “Are you saying that Borgia’s own countrymen, his supposed allies, could be behind the threat to him?”

  In truth, I would not have thought so except that the known perfidy of Their Most Catholic Majesties was enough to give any sensible person pause. Fairly or not, I had to consider that despite the lengths Borgia had gone to woo them—giving them the lion’s share of Novus Orbis, the New World, for example—they still might not be steadfast in their loyalty.

  Even so, I answered mildly. “I am saying nothing, but neither do I want to overlook any possibility.”

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. Can you get me close to them?”

  It was my turn to smile. “Nothing adorns a great prince so well as a great fool. I will speak to Borgia.”

  We lingered a little longer, talking of Rome and mutual friends, before I took my leav
e and returned to the palazzo. There beneath the wooden-hammer-beam roof from which the banners of the popes dating back centuries were displayed, Borgia was still holding court. Herrera appeared to be attending courteously to whatever it was that Il Papa was saying, but I caught the mocking roll of his eyes when His Holiness turned away for a moment.

  When the meal concluded, I withdrew to my rooms, where, after some hesitation, I opened the letter from Sofia. She wrote to say that she hoped I was taking every care for my health, by which I assumed she meant that I was not abusing the sleeping powder she had provided. Plague was in the city but as yet seemed contained by the usual measure of boarding up the houses of the afflicted, leaving all within to live or die as God willed. I should write to let her know how I fared, and if I needed anything, I should tell her that as well.

  I set the letter aside and reached for the one from Rocco. Did my hand shake slightly as I opened it? I do not wish to think so, but the possibility remains.

  He was well and hoped I was the same. Nando had produced a drawing of their street that his father enclosed. He thanked me again for encouraging the boy’s artistic leanings. They had acquired a dog, some mix of greyhound and who-knew-what. Nando had insisted on naming her Bella. Rocco thought the sentiment far off the mark but admitted that with decent feeding, a warm place to sleep, and a bath, Bella was proving worth her mettle. He was keeping busy with commissions and had devised a new method of adding color to molten glass that he thought I would find interesting. He wondered when I would be returning to the city.

  Of Carlotta d’Agnelli, his wife-to-be, he said nothing at all.

  No doubt that was mere oversight. He had filled the page with his writing and did not think to turn to the other side. Or he had simply run out of time. Otherwise, he surely would have gone on and on about her.