The Borgia Mistress

by Sara Poole

  I knew she was asking for no more than one of the debased coins—more copper than silver—that could be found everywhere. But the penny I drew from my pouch was pure silver, as she quickly determined by rubbing it between her fingers. When her skin failed to turn black, she stared at me suspiciously.

  “What do you want, donna?”

  “I’m looking for Magdalene.”

  She stretched her mouth wide in a parody of a grin. There were sores on the inside of her lips that appeared to be cracked and bleeding. “We’re all Magdalene here, donna; or didn’t you know that?”

  “I’m looking for a girl who used to work at the Priory. She had a child who died. Help me find her and you’ll have another of those.”

  The temptation was clearly irresistible, meaning as it did access to food, shelter, drink, and whatever else she needed to make life bearable, but still she hesitated. “What sort of lady comes to a place like this?”

  “The kind you don’t want to anger.”

  It was cruel, not unlike kicking a sick dog. But it had the desired effect. The girl stumbled to her feet and, gripping the silver penny, led me into the building. At once, I nearly gagged. As vile as the stench was outside, it was even worse within. Beneath a ceiling so low that I almost had to stoop, dozens of stalls ran off in every direction. Some were equipped with tattered curtains to provide a semblance of privacy, but most were open to all eyes. Instead of bedding, filthy straw covered the floor. All the windows were sealed over, plunging the place into unrelenting gloom and concentrating the stench of unwashed bodies, waste, and despair. Thin, pale-faced men and women alike peered dazedly at us or merely stared off into space as though they had fled all connection with the world. Some were racked by coughs, but others appeared too weak to do anything but moan. Others sat hunched over, rocking back and forth and crooning to themselves, oblivious to everything going on around them.

  If it was possible for human beings to dwell in greater degradation, I could not imagine how. The Church was supposed to care for such pitiable creatures, but here in Viterbo, seat of popes, no provision had been made for them. They were left to live—and die—without regard for their most basic dignity or the condition of their souls.

  I told myself that I could not afford to care, the matters concerning me being too grave to allow for any distraction. Yet I could not deny the dismay that filled me as I plunged deeper into what might as well have been one of the circles of Hell. Surely, if Dante had ever visited such a place, he would have had no trouble recognizing what it was.

  Deep within the building, my guide stopped and pointed. Peering through the gloom, I could just make out a huddled form crouched against a wall.

  “Wait for me,” I said, doubting that I could find my way out. She nodded and withdrew, sliding down onto her haunches.

  Bending low, I stepped into the stall. “Magdalene?”

  When no response came, I inched a little closer. Her hair was so dirty and matted that I could not make out its color. Her cheeks were sunken, and I could see the telltale sores near her mouth. Not six months before, the great Cristoforo Colombo had returned from his voyage to what he still claimed were the Indies but which cooler heads realized was Novus Orbis, the New World. He brought back several natives of strikingly handsome appearance, a very small quantity of gold, a strange plant called tobacco, and a disease. One of his subcaptains, Pinzón of La Pinta, came ashore covered in strange pustules and consumed by fever. Nor was he alone; several other men who had sailed with the great discoverer were similarly stricken. Very shortly, the same symptoms appeared among the whores of Barcelona, the city to which many returning crew members had gone. Since then, the illness had spread with frightening speed, carried from town to town by sailors, merchants, and pilgrims. Some of its victims were able to survive the sickness, but among the poor and hungry, it cut like Death’s own scythe. Apparently, it had reached Viterbo.

  “I want to help you,” I said, bending closer. That was true, even though my help came at a price. I needed for her to tell me what had happened in the alley behind the butcher’s shop. But as I moved nearer, I began to doubt that she would be able to do so.

  Her eyes were open but glassy and unblinking. She stank of rotgut, the refuge of those too poor to afford even grain alcohol, and often poisonous. It was known to induce periods of frozen absence during which the imbiber seemed completely removed from the world. That, of course, was the whole point of drinking it. However, just as I debated what to do, the pitiful creature stirred. Becoming aware of my presence, she flinched and tried to draw away.

  “Easy,” I said quickly. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.” Behind my words was relief that, so far at least, she gave no sign of recognizing me. If she really had been in the alley when the Spaniard was killed, I had to hope that meant I had not been there as well.

  A gurgling noise rose from her throat. Her lips moved, but stiffly. I leaned closer in an effort to hear what she was mumbling. “… pray for us sinners.” She swallowed with difficulty and continued. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord…” Her voice trailed away. She looked confused.

  Pity stirred in me. On impulse, I took both her hands in mine. Looking into her eyes, I recited, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  One of my many secrets is that although I have no gift for prayer, I do on occasion try to pray to Mary. While God the Almighty Father is incomprehensible to me, she seems entirely real and vastly more approachable. I had felt particularly drawn to her ever since I killed the man in the Basilica di Santa Maria several months before. The nave of the basilica is lined with richly carved capitals that, it is said, bear the face of an older Queen of Heaven, the one called Isis, the capitals having been taken from her temple on the nearby Janiculum. Somehow, I conceived the notion that the goddess understood what I had done and perhaps even approved of it.

  A deep sigh escaped Magdalene. “Yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.” She was silent for a moment before she said, “I had the sweetest baby boy.” A tear trickled down her ashen cheek.

  My throat was thick, no doubt because of the foul air. I sat back a little but kept hold of her hands. “I can help you, but you have to tell me what you saw in the alley.”

  She looked at me as though not entirely sure that I was real. “The alley?”

  “Behind the butcher’s shop. Were you there last night?”

  Slowly, she nodded. Almost at once, a look of terror crossed her face, forcing her into frenzied coherence. “I didn’t do it! I swear by all the saints!”

  “I don’t believe that you did,” I said quickly. “But I need to know what you saw.”

  “Nothing … just a man. He had a girl … I couldn’t see her … the shadows…”

  “What did you see?”

  “She … thrust something into his side. He fell. By the time I realized he was dead, she was gone.”

  “Did you see her face?”

  “No.… I scarcely saw her at all, I swear.”

  “Did you see a knife?”

  “No, no knife, just blood, slow like, seeping into the ground.”

  A single wound, then; perhaps delivered between the ribs? Done right, there would have been no spurting of blood, only the steady flow the girl was describing. And the knife gone, which lent credence to my fear that it was the same blade I had found where I lay near the thornbushes.

  “You’re certain that it was a woman?”

  “I thought so because they were … you know. But there’s plenty that like it different. Still, there was something about the way she moved…”

  A woman or someone pretending to be one? That brought me no closer to the truth; neither did it exonerate me. I hesitated, debating what to do. As the rumor spread that a girl from the Priory had killed the Spaniard, I would not be the only one looking for Magdalene.
Once found by someone else—Herrera, for example—she might be induced to say anything. She might even be encouraged to believe that the woman she saw in the alley was none other than me.

  It would have been a simple matter to solve that problem right then and there. Certain substances I always carried with me would have done the job quickly and more or less painlessly. Yet I could not bring myself to kill so blameless a creature, despite the danger she presented.

  Slowly, I loosened her hands and rose. Though Rome was hardly the best place to be just then, if I could get her into Sofia’s care, she might have a chance. I would have to act quickly, but with luck I could have her out of Viterbo before nightfall.

  My guide reappeared as I emerged from the stall. Swiftly, I handed her another penny, then added two more. While she was gaping at them, I asked, “Is there somewhere near here she can be moved to, just temporarily?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Anywhere she won’t be found … a shed, perhaps?”

  Slowly, the woman nodded. “Perhaps, but—”

  “Come, then; help me.”

  Together, we managed to get Magdalene on her feet and out of the stall. The going was slow and difficult—we had to stop several times to let both women rest—but finally we stepped out into the sunlight beyond the wretched building. The shed was only a short distance away.

  “Can you get food for her and bring it here without being noticed?” I asked when we had gotten Magdalene inside.

  The woman nodded without great conviction. “I can try. How long—”

  “A few hours, no more. If she’s found by anyone else, she will be in danger and so will anyone around her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I will do as you say, donna.”

  I had to be content with that, but for good measure, I added, “When this is over, you will be well rewarded.”

  Though she managed a wan smile, I wondered how much she really understood. Not that it mattered; I had no better options. I took my leave, but not before taking off my cloak. It was a small gesture, all I could do at the time; as I draped it around Magdalene, I hoped it would bring her some small comfort. As swiftly as my throbbing feet could manage, I climbed the road to the palazzo once again.

  18

  It was then midafternoon. I had promised to dine that evening with Vittoro, Felicia, and their brood. If I sent an excuse, I would arouse the good captain’s curiosity. The last thing I needed was Vittoro looking too closely at my activities. Accordingly, I went in search of Cesare, finding him, rather to my surprise, in the otherwise deserted chapel.

  His Eminence was stretched out on the marble steps leading up to the gilded altar set beneath an elaborately carved stone canopy. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a volume of Boethius—his Consolation of Philosophy—in the other. When I entered, he glanced up.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been shopping all this time?”

  Taking a seat beside him, I replied, “Why did I bother to seek the gossip in town when there is so much of it right here?”

  “Boredom elicits an unhealthy interest in the lives of others. Speaking of which…” He indicated the volume. “Do you think it’s really possible to detach ourselves from misfortune and simply accept hardship while remaining apart from it?”

  “Only if you’re writing in prison while awaiting execution. What attitude would you expect Boethius to have taken?”

  “I suppose. Herrera is insisting that you be put to questioning regarding the death of his servant. He’s driving me mad.”

  “Which is why you are here, hiding from him?”

  Cesare did not deny it. To the contrary, he said, “This is the one place I’m sure the beloved nephew of Their Most Catholic Majesties won’t set foot. At any rate, was your foray successful?”

  “I found a witness who may or may not be reliable. Tell me, how many times was the Spaniard stabbed?”

  “Once, between the ribs, a quick in and out.”

  So Magdalene really had been there. That could be a problem.

  “I want to get her out of Viterbo.”

  “The witness is a woman?”

  I nodded. “She believes that the killer is a fellow prostitute. But I am concerned that with a little persuading by the wrong people, she might say something else.”

  “Pointing to you?”

  “It is possible. She is ill, starving, and in the grip of melancholia. All that makes her vulnerable.”

  He passed me the wine. I took a swallow as he asked, “Where do you wish to take her?”

  Handing the bottle back, I replied, “Rome. Do you remember Sofia Montefiore?” It was not the most politic question, given that Sofia had been involved in a plan of mine that led Cesare to believe I was dead and caused him more upset than I had anticipated. He had not yet completely forgiven me for that.

  “The Jewish apothecary?” he asked. “Of course I remember her. You think she would take this girl in?”

  “Sofia has a kind heart.” I did not add that she would also have a sensible appreciation for the need to learn as much as possible about the scourge that I feared afflicted Magdalene.

  “What exactly did the girl see?”

  “Enough for her to believe that the killer is a woman.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Francesca…” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. I could not even blame him for it. “You still have no idea where you were during the time you were missing?”

  Lying on the steep slope beyond the arena where I later found the knife I believed killed the Spaniard. And before then—

  “Very little,” I replied. “But Magdalene—that is her name—gives no hint of recognizing me.”

  “You just said she saw very little.”

  Having my own words thrown back at me was irksome. If he was reconsidering my guilt, I would not trouble him further. But neither would I give up so easily. It was bad enough that I feared for my own sanity. I could not have Cesare do the same.

  “What reason would I have to kill the Spaniard?” I countered. “Or, for that matter, why would I have gone down into the town while in the grip of a nightmare? I cut my feet on the thornbushes behind the arena, of that I am certain. But there is no evidence that I went beyond the piazza.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Cesare said too promptly. “The servant’s killing really may be nothing more than the work of an angry whore. When do you want to get the girl out of here?”

  “Before nightfall. The sooner she is on the road to Rome, the better. Unfortunately, I promised to dine with Vittoro and Felicia.”

  He shot me a surprised look. We both knew that socializing was not my strong point. “You wish me to act in your stead?” The notion seemed to amuse him, and why not? Poisoners, no matter how skilled, do not delegate tasks to princes of the Church. To the contrary. I was prepared to wheedle if need be, but I tried diplomacy first.

  “If you could be persuaded to do so. There is no one else to whom I can turn.”

  He dismissed my flattery for what it was—simple truth—and agreed graciously. “So it shall be. Where is she?”

  When I told him, he nodded. “I have heard of the place, but I have not seen it for myself.”

  “Dante would take up his pen again if he saw it. It is a condemnation of Christian charity that such horrors are allowed to exist.”

  That was as close as I had ever come to criticizing Christ’s Vicar on Earth. Given all that Borgia had to concern him—the threats posed by rival princes of the Church, rapacious nobles, and foreign rulers, as well as his own determination to make la famiglia supreme in all of Christendom—it was hardly surprising that he had no interest in the actual teachings of Christ.

  Cesare took that in stride, which is to say he ignored it. “Go. Give my regards to Vittoro, his charming wife, his lovely daughters, his fortunate sons-in-law, and his ever-growing collection of grandchildren. I’ll see to your Magdalene.”<
br />
  I thanked him most sincerely, but as I stood, I also said, “Be gentle with her, please. She is … very fragile.”

  If the request surprised him, he gave no sign. I had to hope that he would not interpret my actions as a sign of weakness. Concerned that the stench of where I had been still clung to me, I went to bathe and change my clothes. My wardrobe had grown considerably since I had assumed the duties of Borgia’s poisoner, in large part due to Lucrezia’s insistence, but I had gladly left most of it behind in Rome. What I had brought with me was simple and serviceable, and, most important from my perspective, did not require the assistance of a maid. My underskirt of forest green wool looked good enough paired with a bodice of russet velvet.

  I refused to wear my skirts as long as was the current style, thinking it ridiculous that I should have to tuck them into a belt in order to move about without tripping over them. However, I had bowed to Lucrezia’s insistence that my bodices be both snugly fitted and tapering to points that emphasized the narrowness and length of my waist. Personally, I thought it was all a great deal of foolishness, but it had not escaped me that when I made at least some effort to conform to fashion, people seemed a shade more comfortable with me. My hair I wore as I almost always did, in braids wound around my head, but in honor of the occasion, I added a black velvet cap hemmed with silk braid and decorated with small amber beads.

  As always, I secured my knife in its leather sheath beneath my bodice, but I hesitated as to what to do with my pouch. I would take it, of course; I could not imagine being without it. But the bloody knife I had recovered weighed the pouch down; it jostled against my leg as I moved. After hesitating a moment, I withdrew the knife and secured it in my puzzle chest.