by Sara Poole
“Do you have any idea why a whore would have killed him?” I asked.
The old woman hesitated until Felicia added, “Come, now. My friend and I aren’t innocent girls to take offense at anything you say.”
“Well, then … might be she didn’t like how the Spaniards treated her. Odd creatures, aren’t they? Who knows what they get up to?”
“Indeed,” I murmured.
The fishwife leaned a little closer, filling the air with the aroma of cod, brine, and rotting entrails. “They shouldn’t even be here,” she hissed. “Wouldn’t be if it weren’t for a certain Spanish someone.”
A moment passed before I realized that she meant Borgia, whose family hailed from Valencia, in Spain. The reminder of how much His Holiness was disliked in Viterbo, and what the consequences of that could be, sent a shiver through me.
“A whore,” Felicia said thoughtfully as we left with enough cod for a month of Fridays, not to mention what had to be far too many anchovies. “I suppose that’s possible.”
I set aside my concerns about the mood in the town for the moment, and said, “It’s not that easy for a woman to kill a man, except with poison, of course. To be successful with a knife would require training.” Such as Cesare had so thoughtfully provided for me. But then I also had a certain natural talent for the weapon, unfortunately.
“Maybe she took him by surprise,” Felicia suggested, “or just got lucky.”
“Perhaps.…”
“We can keep looking,” she offered.
I intended to do just that, but I didn’t think I should involve her any further. She had already extended herself more than I had any right to ask.
“I’m sure your daughters are wondering what has become of you. Besides, can we really carry anything more?”
With a laugh, she admitted that we probably could not. Together, we trundled up the hill lugging our overladen baskets. Outside the small house, Felicia bid me farewell, but not before inviting me to dinner.
“Come for the mutton shanks; they really are good. We eat earlier than His Holiness, so you can be back before he dines.”
For a moment, I was unsure what to do. I spent so little time in normal company that I wasn’t entirely certain of how to comport myself. But Felicia’s kindness and my friendship with Vittoro made refusing impossible.
“I’ll bring wine,” I said. “His Holiness favors a hearty Tuscan Sangiovese that is excellent with mutton.”
“We’ll drink to his health with it,” Felicia said.
She would, I knew, also pour a splash of the wine on the floor in an offering … not to the gods of old, for only the very powerful can flirt with heresy. To some saint or other, whomever Felicia favored, who might favor us in turn. If nothing else, it would give her some comfort to do so.
There was little enough of that to be had in Viterbo, where with each passing moment the mood seemed to darken further. Or perhaps it was my own spleen that I was sensing. I pushed the thought aside. Before I could sit down to Felicia’s good mutton, much remained to be done.
17
I returned to my rooms long enough to apply a salve to my feet. The damage to them was not extensive, but it did make me wonder again where I had gone in my mad flight. The floors throughout the palazzo were far too smooth to have inflicted any such injury. Besides, if I had remained inside, far more than a mere handful of guards would have seen me.
Clearly, I had gone outside, but where? Back in the corridor, I looked in either direction. The wing of the palazzo where I was housed contained numerous other guest apartments, but mine was set a little apart on a corner. Just beyond it, a door led to a curving stone staircase that gave out onto a lane running off the piazza.
If I had gone down those stairs the night before, they held no sense of familiarity. Nor did the scene that greeted me when I stepped out onto the lane. A cat, drowsing in the afternoon sunlight, raised her head, blinked at me, and flicked her tail. Pigeons cooing in the eaves above fell silent. Small, smoothly rounded cobblestones covered the ground. I could not possibly have hurt myself on them.
At the far end of the lane the ground was rougher, with some of the paving stones broken in places, leaving sharp edges. In my distress, had I crossed the square to the church where I had been meeting with Mother Benedette? Again, no memory stirred.
I turned completely around, looking in every possible direction, but no solution presented itself. I had left the palazzo, that much seemed certain, and I had returned at least as far as the garden. It was on the opposite side of the palace from the square, near the courtyard behind the roofless loggia that looked out over the steep Faul valley.
Had I gone to the crumbling arena where I had watched Cesare duel with Herrera? The sandy ground there could not account for the condition of my feet. But looking out across the fallen tiers of seats where ancient Romans had gathered to watch gladiatorial contests, I noticed the thick covering of pino growing just beyond, along the steep slope leading down into the valley. The low, thorny bushes were a perfect hiding place for animals small enough to find shelter within their prickly defenses. But for anyone unfortunate enough to step on them barefoot …
The memory of needles driving into my feet made me gasp. Was it pain that had stopped me from plunging into the abyss, driving me back instead to the safety of the garden? If so, I had to be grateful for it.
A flattening of the ground nearby caught my eye. When I peered closer, I realized that a narrow path led down through the bushes along the slope and around the side of the palazzo. That must be how I had reached it, but what drove me to do so? Where had I imagined I was going?
Nowhere. I had been running not to but from. A shadowy figure had pursued me. A robed being no less terrifying than Death itself. Even in bright sunlight, my breath caught at the memory. I had fled along the path leading up the slope, straying from it often enough to catch my feet in the thorn bushes. And I had hidden. There, in the shadowed cleft that I had glimpsed for the first time when I sought out Cesare the day I arrived in Viterbo and forgotten until the moment when I desperately sought refuge. Like so many of the surrounding hills, the slope leading to the valley was riddled with small caves, most only large enough to hold a single person. In one I had sought to conceal myself. The ground, when I examined it, was still tamped down by the body, my own, that had lain there. When the moment availed itself, I had fled into the garden, where Cesare had found me. But something was left behind.
I bent closer, following the glint of sunlight reaching into the obscurity of the cave and reflecting off … steel. A knife. Not unlike my own but slightly smaller. There were dark stains on it.
I raised the knife in my hand and inhaled deeply.
The copper tang of blood rose above the deeper note of steel. So close that I could taste them, I stared at the scattered splotches along the blade. Absolutely brutal. He was stabbed through and through, with gore running everywhere.
The condition of the knife supported what the fishwife had heard. It had stabbed deeply and repeatedly as it drained the life from the Spaniard and left him an empty husk lying under a cold night sky.
I staggered back, still grasping the knife, and with a quick glance toward the palazzo, shoved the blade into the pouch beneath my skirts. If the knife was found … if I was associated with it …
I walked, as calmly as I could manage, back toward the palazzo, across the loggia, through the great hall, and out the main entrance. In the piazza, I thought quickly. I had to find the whore. Please God, she existed, in which case I was perfectly willing to agree that she had ample good reason for whatever she had done and should be given the liberty of Viterbo as reward, just so long as I could be sure that I was not responsible.
Delay being out of the question, I slipped away from the palazzo again and returned to the town. Following the main course down toward the gates, I shortly found the Priory, a solid timber and wattle building a stone’s throw from them. Three-storied, with iron grilles over the
windows, it announced its purpose with the image of a mermaid on the sign above the door.
A very large, red-faced man with a single brow and a stoic manner occupied the entrance. He glanced up as I appeared, looked me up and down, and said, “It’s Thursday.”
“So it is. How clever of you to know.”
“No hiring on Thursday. Come back on Saturday. In the morning.”
Being taken for an out-of-work whore was not remotely as offensive as being called a demon-possessed spawn of Satan. Keeping that in mind, I said, “Thank you, but I’m not here for employment.”
The fellow scrutinized me again, reassessing my economic standing and, apparently, my proclivities. “Your pardon, I’m sure. You want the Brindle Mare, around the corner. They’re more … versatile in their clientele.” I must have looked puzzled, for he felt called upon to explain. “We just run to the usual. Man-woman, you know.”
I had some idea, but I wanted to be sure. “There aren’t actually any horses at the Brindle Mare, are there?”
“Lord, no. If that’s what you’re after, you’ve got to go to the Cote. It’s on the road west out of town. Big place; you can’t miss it.”
And here I had been thinking of Viterbo as a provincial backwater when in fact it had entertainment options to rival Rome’s.
“I’m actually just here to talk to the proprietor.”
The single brow furrowed. “What about?”
“I work for His Holiness.”
At once, the fellow brightened. Borgia might not be popular in the town as a whole, but in certain quarters he could still prompt a smile.
“We’ve been wondering when we’d hear from him. Come in, then.”
Just beyond the door of the brothel, I stepped into a large room hung with middling-good tapestries and furnished with an assortment of Roman-style couches upon which I assumed customers reclined to assess the goods. At that hour, the area was deserted. I watched dust motes dance in sunbeams filtering through the slanting shutters until a motion on the stairs diverted me.
The person who descended from above appeared to be neither male nor female, but was possibly both. About the size of a ten-year-old child but with the face of an ancient, he—or she—wore a red velvet robe draped over a plump form and carried a small, entirely hairless dog with large ears and protruding eyes. I stared at the animal in fascination. It surely had to be one of the ugliest things I had ever seen, yet at the same time, it was oddly engaging.
A polite cough recalled my attention. “I am Erato. And you are…?”
“My name is Francesca Giordano.” I waited, but not long. Not long at all.
Erato stiffened. He … she … descended the remaining steps, stopped in front of me, and forced a smile. “I have heard of you.”
“Good; that makes things simpler. You are the proprietor here?”
“I am. We would, of course, be delighted to serve His Holiness.”
“And so you will. At the moment, he requires information; nothing more, and not to your harm. Whatever I learn, I will gladly keep to myself.”
The dog curled back its lips to expose pointed teeth. It emitted a long, low snarl.
“Even so,” Erato said, “I doubt—”
“A Spaniard died in the town last night. Rumor has it one of your girls killed him.”
“A lie! Put out by my competitors.”
The dog barked. Flecks of foam dotted its chin.
“How vile of them,” I replied. “No doubt you are anxious to clear your name.”
Erato sighed. She—I decided to think of her as female, if merely for convenience—patted the dog and gestured toward a small room off the reception area. “I don’t really have any choice, do I? This is a dreadful business.”
Unsure whether she meant prostitution in general or the murder in particular, I followed her into the cozily furnished chamber. She gestured me into a chair on the opposite side of a small desk. After placing the dog on a tasseled cushion nearby, she said, “None of my girls was involved. I am absolutely certain of that.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I know you are. I saw the bars on the windows.”
“Grilles,” Erato corrected. “They are ornamental.”
“My mistake. I assumed they were there to assure that no one could leave without your knowledge.”
Erato sat back in her chair and observed me closely. After a moment, she said, “May I offer you a liqueur? I have a very nice lemon infusion newly arrived from Sorrento.”
Generally, I tried not to mix business and drinking, but under the circumstances I thought it would be impolitic to refuse.
“That sounds delightful, thank you.”
A servant appeared at the ringing of a bell, coming so quickly as to suggest that he had been hovering just on the other side of the door. Instructions were given and the drinks were swiftly produced, presented in small glass goblets.
I took an appreciative sip. The presence of lemons was very strong, but underneath I caught hints of pepper and … bay leaf?
“That’s excellent,” Erato said when I hazarded a guess. “You have a sensitive palate.”
“Useful in my line of work. So … your girls were all here last night? None of them was called away elsewhere?”
“With the roads flooded to the north, the town is quite full. We’ve been unusually busy. I couldn’t have let anyone go even if there had been a reason to do so.”
“The Spaniards didn’t want anyone from here sent up to the palazzo?”
“Not last night, which was just as well.”
I took another sip and thought of the orchards of lemon trees south of Rome. When the wind blows from the right direction, their fragrance overwhelms the city. Romans claim to enjoy these sudden invasions from the countryside, but that isn’t true. There is always great relief when the smell abates, replaced by the familiar, well-loved stench of the Tiber.
“You don’t want the Spaniards’ business?” I asked.
“Their coin is as good as anyone else’s.”
“But—”
Erato shrugged. She selected a wafer from a small silver plate and fed it to the dog, who crunched it noisily. “They drink too much. Half the time, my girls end up sitting around doing nothing.”
“And?”
“Then they complain when other clients expect more of them.”
I sipped a little more of the liqueur and nodded. “That must make it difficult for you.”
The dog licked Erato’s fingers assiduously. She allowed it for a moment or two, then withdrew her hand.
“Every business has its challenges,” she said. “Our clients expect a certain standard of service. Not every girl is up to that.”
“What happens to a girl who can’t take the pace or just isn’t up to your standards? Where does she go when she leaves here?”
A deep, rich chuckle emerged from within the folds of red velvet. “Why, she marries her favorite client, of course, the fellow who has been coming to see her for months, often paying her for no more than conversation and bringing her lovely gifts. She goes off with him to a new town where no one knows her and begins a new life as a respectable housewife.”
Such were the dreams of whores. Not all of them unfulfilled, if rumor is to be believed. Supposedly the lineages of most of the great families include—But I digress.
“No, seriously, where does she go?”
“Oh, well, if we must be serious … I usually recommend Ostia. The port is thriving, and a whore who would be considered used up here can still earn a living there. Otherwise, she ends up on the street, plying her trade in back alleys.”
“Such as the one where the Spaniard was killed?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“You know how rumors are. They start from a little seed. A girl who used to work here and is now on the streets saw something last night. She told someone. That person told someone else, and so on. Somewhere along the line, someone remembered that the girl used to be here at the Priory. The
story sounds better if she is still here. Better still if what she saw becomes what she did. And now you have a problem.”
“Which I can solve by—”
“Give me her name and tell me where I can find her.”
Erato shook her head. “There have been many girls—”
“One who didn’t take your advice but instead stayed here in Viterbo. Maybe she had a reason to do so. A child, perhaps?”
It was a stab in the dark, but it found its mark. Erato shook her head in exasperation. “She would have been better off if she had left. The child died. So many of them do.”
“But she still stayed?”
“I suppose she didn’t see much point in leaving after that.”
“She—?”
“Magdalene. A professional name, of course. I thought she had great promise, but she proved to be a disappointment. The last I heard, she works the alleys, when she isn’t too drunk to stand up.”
“Where can I find her?”
Erato wrinkled her nose in distaste. “There is a crib off Tanners Lane. The last refuge of the down-and-out. You could look there.”
Ideally, the tanning of animal hides should be done well away from any place of general habitation. Unfortunately, the process requires urine, which is most easily collected from humans. Viterbo was large enough to supply that in sufficient quantity to attract a small but apparently thriving tanning industry. It was perched just beyond the town walls, next to a noxious little stream clogged with the sludge of cast-off waste.
The sensible thing would have been to go back to the palazzo, find Vittoro, and request an escort to accompany me. But good sense had never been high among my attributes. Added to that was the fact that I had a keen and ever-growing conviction that time was running out.
I had no difficulty finding Tanners Lane just on the other side of the town walls; the smell led me to it unerringly. Breathing as shallowly as possible, I approached the ramshackle wooden building that appeared to have been added on to in fits and starts with no thought to structural integrity. A good wind could have knocked it over. A cluster of women—all looking well past their prime but likely little older than I was—were seated outside. They wore a motley collection of rags over their thin bodies. Most stared off into space, seemingly aware of nothing. But one thrust out a scrawny arm in supplication. “Alms, donna? Spare a penny for a poor girl down on her luck? The saints will bless you.”