Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  There was a noise from the street outside, the sound of a cat hissing in pain. The door opened, an enormous shadow swallowing the light.

  The smell of him was one that she had never forgotten, the stink of flesh and the rot of old wine. It made her want to vomit even as her arms and legs spasmed with the need to draw themselves in, wrapping around to protect her from the pain of violation. She rose and crossed the room to the other side, near the window. The distance was safe. The open window was safe.

  "You." Ruberto's voice was a satisfied grunt. "Come back with that Borgia whore?"

  Betta did not reply; her heart was beating out a frantic rhythm, hammering against her ribs. She had forgotten his effect on her, the life breathed into a smaller, weaker person by his presence.

  He grunted again, contemptuous, then slammed down onto the stool that she had vacated by the brazier, his bulk causing the joints to squeak. The rotting of his looks that had begun soon after his marriage to their mother had come into fruition; she could see little of the handsome man that she remembered from years before in his enormous belly and scant mop of graying hair. His feet stretched out, filling the opening in the floor, and Ginevra immediately stood, crossing the room before bending down to remove his shoes.

  Over Ginevra's bent head, Ruberto caught her eye and smirked. "Knows her place, this one. Not like you."

  Through the fear, Betta could feel the stirrings of something else, a feeling that was hot and bright and glowing to life like a coal inside of her chest. No.

  The shoes now off, Ginevra scuttled back, her body curved forward. She refused to meet Betta's eyes.

  "Out," Ruberto said, and Ginevra jumped to her feet.

  "Has he fucked you?" The words escaped from her lips before she had the chance to think on them, to question if they were wise. She was no longer in control of her tongue, or her body, which had stepped forward, interposing herself between her sister and the man who had dared to harm her.

  Ginevra was at the stairs. At Betta's words, she stopped and shrank down into a crouch, covering her head with her arms.

  Betta raised her voice. "I asked if he had fucked you yet."

  Ginevra cringed at her words and then shook her head. From his stool, Ruberto watched with raised eyebrows, untroubled by the turn of the conversation. "Worried someone else took your place?" he sneered before setting back, resting his back against the wall. His hand reached down, rubbing obscenely at his cock. "Don't fret, I've plenty left for you. And I've not sullied her, only taught her..."

  Before he could finish, Betta ran forward, crossing the room in three strides and swept the heavy iron skillet from the trivet. She brought it around in an arch, using the weight of her body to propel the motion until it met his temple with a meaty smack that wrung a cry of pain from him in the second before his eyes rolled back and a startled sob erupted from Ginevra.

  "What?"

  "Go." Betta snapped, already moving to the workshop and the several lengths of rope that waited beneath one of the worktables. "Hide yourself upstairs and do not return until he or I are gone."

  "What do you mean to do to him?" Beneath the fear, Betta could hear the concern, both for her and for the man that was her father.

  "What I must."

  The sound of Ginevra's footsteps faded. Betta took a moment to enjoy the sight of him sprawled out on the floor. The blow had caused him to lose control of his body, and the stink of urine stung the inside of nostrils. Covered in piss and stretched out upon the floor: it was better than she could have hoped.

  "Ruberto" Betta shouted next to his ear. "Ruberto!"

  Beneath her, the man twitched and spasmed, drool running in a steady drip from mouth to the floor, but he continued sleeping. Betta crossed the room and retrieved the bucket of water used for cleansing the tools. Her father's face flashed through her mind, brown hair and gentle smile as he instructed Marco and Franco. Sharp and clean, he would say before washing the tools at the end of each day. Sharp and clean, the mark of a master's hand.

  The water splashed into Ruberto's face, opening his eyes with a startled gasp muffled by the thick wad of leather she had stuffed down his throat. Betta stood over him and watched, satisfaction suffusing her as his face became increasingly frightened as the awareness of his current position dawned; naked with his limbs spread wide and tied to the worktable.

  "I am glad that you are awake." she chirped, using her foot to step on each of the knots binding him, testing their strength. Satisfied, she retrieved the stool and put it next to his chest, so close that one of the legs overlapped the flesh of his side. He winced when she sat down, then began working his mouth, trying to expel the wad of leather. His eyes were molten blue, glaring up at her, but for once, his anger did not touch her. It was a drop of water against the ocean of rage that she felt. And with the freedom came a sense of shame at her own weakness. She had allowed herself to be a victim, to be used and tortured because she was weak. In a child, such weakness was acceptable, but she was no longer a child. Fear had been holding her back, and that he had dared to touch Ginevra had removed the fear as effectively as if it had been cut from her body.

  "Do you have something you wish to say?" Reaching down, she removed the wad, shuddering as a long string of saliva trailed down, brushing her hand.

  "Bitch!" he rasped. Before he could gain more volume, she stuffed the leather back in, digging deeply into his throat until he began to choke.

  "Oh no, I don't think we will be having that." Betta sat on the stool, her smile brightening as the leg dug into his flesh again, eliciting a pained grunt. "We have things to talk about. I will say what I mean to say, then, if you are acting like a civilized man, I will remove that," she nodded at his mouth, "and allow you to speak."

  Though he nodded, the look on Ruberto's face promised dire retribution.

  "You will never touch me again. Because of the love I bear my sister, I will continue to come here every Sabbath and bring my wages that the entire burden for keeping your stinking hide from starving does not fall on her shoulders."

  On the floor, Ruberto's shoulders began shifting back and forth, pulling at the restraints. She tracked the movement but allowed him to continue. After all, if he could escape from the bonds now, what would come next would surely fail. And what happened next needed to succeed if she was to keep her sister safe.

  Betta leaned close enough to smell the stink coming off him, the harsh reek of piss and wine and unwashed stench that were the meat and marrow of her nightmares.

  "You will never touch my sister again. You will not touch her, you will not instruct her, you will not force her to her knees and make her take you into her mouth. If I come here and find that you have done any of these things, I will carve a new opening across your throat."

  His mouth began working against the gag, trying to force words through the thick leather. Acting on impulse, she reached out and removed it.

  “You wish to speak?” she prompted, meeting his eyes without blinking, daring him to speak cruel words and force her to use the blades that were itching against her skin.

  “Think all that happened was all my fault, do ya? That they are gone?” he wheezed. “Did I bring the plague that took ‘em off?”

  “No,” she allowed.

  “Your sainted mother, it was her doing, all of it. I was no more than a lad when I took up with her, and your father not cold in his grave. Never thought of that, did ya, how hard that marriage fell upon his dying? Not a fortnight had passed before she let me take her up against the wall of a tavern with her skirts in the air. An’ that’s not all, oh no. She was not the saint she made out to be. That brother of yours, Marco. He weren't even your father’s. Constanza took up with a churchman, and the bastard price was her dowry.”

  His words were a slap, beating against her mind. It could not be true, not her mother, who had never been anything but kind and good and loving. And yet…there was that memory, a churchman coming to see them, and offering to take Marco away.
His bright golden hair, in the family sea of dark brown. And his name. Though they had called him Marco, his true name had been Marcoul; she remembered her mothing calling him that in exasperation. A peculiar, foreign-sounding name. Perhaps…

  And the other things he had spoken of. Had Ruberto been so young when he had married her mother? Memory served up the image of red hair and a wide smile, but the details were faded and indistinct, like a tapestry left too long in the sun.

  “What of it?” she whispered. “It was not my mother’s crime when you raped me.”

  “It was,” he spit out. “After all she said of me, not a woman in all of Rome would look at me. Ruined me, that whore did, just as you are trying to…”

  Betta shoved the gagback into his mouth, stopping the foul words. Ruberto tried to stop her, to clench his teeth against the gag, but the blade she pressed to his eye forced calm. Betta caught the brief flash of emotion as he relaxed back against the bonds, no longer fighting against the restraints. It made her laugh, she could read him so easily. His face had gone flat, expressionless, but she could see the rebellion in his eyes. That was a skill that he had taught her, the reading of the eyes, where the evil thoughts lay. For years he had talked of her sinful eyes, and he had been right. She had hated him from the first.

  She stood, smoothing out the folds of her skirt. "I can see the plans forming in your mind. You will free yourself, and then you will teach me another lesson," she teased, rising from her seat and stepping to the brazier to where a liquid bubbled in a pot. "My mistress sends me out for such things," Betta said, wrapping a thick cloth around the handle, shielding her hands. "Distilled spirits," she said, answering the question see could see in his eyes. "Useful in many decoctions, though very dangerous because it burns." She walked back to him. "Pain is a teacher. You taught me that, lessons with your lash when I fought against you. When you feel the burns in the next weeks, remember this and think you how much easier it would have been to kill you." She held the pot out, level with her chest, and turned it over.

  Red blossomed, spreading over the white skin like a drop of paint in a bucket of milk. The sounds he made, screaming through the gag, were heart-wrenching. If she could not remember her own cries, she might have felt moved to mercy hearing him scream and beg and gibber. Tears streamed down his face, oceans and rivers and lakes of tears; they made her smile.

  When the screams had faded, becoming moans, she reached down and removed the wad of leather, tossing it to the side. Ruberto was done. There was no fight left in him, or strength left in his body, though his eyes watched her with dull hatred.

  From the top of the stairs, Betta caught a flash of red. Ginevra peeked into the room, her face wet. Betta waved her away. Later there would be a need for her sister's tender care.

  Once again, she reached into her sleeve and removed the knife. Walking to each of his limbs in turn, she sawed through the rope. By the end, she was forced to brutally hack through the hemp strands as the knife blade dulled.

  Ruberto flopped on the floor, unable to sit up. A smell caught her nose, and she wrinkled it, thankful that the task of cleaning his hose would belong to her sister. Knowing that it would gall him, she ignored the disgusting miasma and went to the shelf and retrieved a bowl, which she filled with the beans that had been simmering over the brazier all the while. Bending her head, she filled her nose with the smell, blotting out the other. Ginevra cooked them in a way she was unfamiliar with. Herbs floated in the broth, and small pieces of meat. Finding a spoon, she sat at the table and ate the beans, never letting her eyes leave the man still gasping for breath on the floor. Finished, she set the bowl to the side and stood, preparing to leave. She covered her basket with a cloth and draped the shawl over her head.

  "Until next Sabbath," she said, turning to leave. It did not surprise her to hear the croaking sound of his voice as her shadow crossed the door.

  "If you kill me, they’ll burn you."

  "It would be worth it to see you dead."

  Rolling to the side, he attempted to sit up, only to fall back with a pant and a low moan of pain. The burn on his chest was still spreading, the color crimson and furious.

  "Better… whore in any alley." He wheezed, thinking to wound her, but his attempt only made her laugh.

  “See that you use them.” With a last look at the stairs where her sister still hid, she left, sliding the latch up.

  Dusk had fallen during her hours in the bodega, and the setting sun was beginning to paint colors in the sky. Betta filled her lungs as she walked through the streets heading back to the Palazzo. The air was crisp, almost cold, and tasted like freedom.

  Chapter 46

  Juan Borgia stretched long legs wide and slouched in his chair. Droplets of wine had spilled from his lips, staining the linen of his shirt and velvet doublet with red. The Turkish robes had been cast aside, and his light brown hair was disordered with drink and the long ride to the brothel on the edge of Rome.

  “The girls are pretty,” Juan said, tilting his head and surveying them with the air of an expert. “Not as worn as the whores near the Vatican.”

  Giovanni Sforza turned. “Pretty,” he agreed, slurring the words. Sitting on a stool instead of the more elaborate chair that Juan occupied, he was hunched over his taza, lips only inches from the red fluid. He drank with few words, intent on the task. A candle the length of his arm was centered on the table, dripping wax in a hardening puddle on the worn boards.

  “Do you see the blonde lapping at that Colonna dog? She is one of my brother’s favorites.”

  Giovanni grunted, never raising his eyes. Juan pressed his lips together in annoyance. The man was dense as iron. For weeks now, he had taken Lucrezia’s loutish husband to every fleshpot in the city, pointing out the whores that his brother favored, always fair-haired and slim, and yet Giovanni had missed the similarity they shared.

  “He always takes after the fair-haired ones. Have you noticed that, Giovanni? Why do you think that is?”

  At the insistent questioning, Giovanni’s face finally lifted from the wine. “Dunno. Likes the…” he belched softly, then swallowed as the wine threatened to emerge. “Flaxen haired girls. Pretty blonde curls…”

  Juan breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation turned in the way he wished. “Precisely. Never understood it, myself, panting after her from the time she was in the nursery.”

  Leaning back, Giovanni frowned. “After who?”

  “My brother, you fool, lusting after your sweet wife. Don’t tell me that you have not heard the stories. Lucrezia has spread her favors wide in our family. First our father, and then, Cesare. And he had been sniffing after her for years. Surprised me that she did not offer herself to me.”

  A snort emerged from Giovanni’s nose, and he bent toward his wine again. “All lies. A virgin when I took her. S’blood on the bedsheets.”

  “And you believed it? There are a dozen whore’s tricks to make a man think he is the first in a woman’s bed. My delicate little sister did not leave the nursery with her maidenhood intact, the way my brother hung on her every word.”

  Sforza’s forehead crinkled. “Don’t believe it. A lady, your sister is. A good wife. Even when I... don’t deserve it.”

  “She has played you false a dozen times, Giovanni Sforza. Wait, and I will show you.”

  Chapter 47

  The stairs leading from the Papal Apartments to the Passetto di Borgo wound through darkened corridors and along narrow passages that turned, and turned again. Lucrezia paused, listening for the sounds of footsteps following behind. There was no metallic rattle of armor or the whisper of velvet from the pages who had escorted her to the audience with her father. She had managed to elude their watching eyes. The breath she had been holding, clenched tight in her chest, eased, the tension draining from her shoulders. She was finally alone.

  The stones beneath her shoes were heavy with grit. The whitewashed corridor was marred by the stain of a hundred fingerprints; those who passed
used the walls to steady themselves as they traveled, circling upwards toward the place where the corridor entered into open air and safety far above the streets below.

  Music whispered through the stones as she began to walk forward. The man her father had commissioned to adorn the Papal Apartments, Pinturicchio, sang as he worked, the bawdy, earthy songs he favored burning the ears of churchmen who hurried from the Vatican and meetings with her father to spend evenings at the homes of courtesans kept in luxurious splendor. Their thinly veiled aura of superiority amused her. Few abstained from the pleasures of the flesh, but that her father had dared to openly acknowledge both his children and the women he loved scandalized all.

  The scent of heavily perfumed candlewax and incense drifted through the walls; in the chapel below, prayers were being sung by voices of unbearable sweetness. Other noises intruded on her thoughts, the scufflings of rats, the clang of weapons from soldiers in the piazza, the whisper of secrets.

  She ascended the stairs quickly, making the bruises on her shoulder and legs ache. Giovanni had come to her rooms after a night spent drinking with Juan, and his inability to lay with her had driven him into a rage. It was a blessing that the marks were easy to conceal, for it was not yet time to reveal them to her father. Soon, however. She would not stand his heavy-handed brutality for a moment longer than was needed.

  The first time that he had struck her…it had been an accident, the blow a reaction to the pain of his injury that had sent her to the floor nursing a bruised shoulder. Then it had continued, gaining in frequency as he sought comfort in wine. The nights spent in the city had worsened the problem, Juan’s evil humor seeping into Giovanni, turning his malleable mind into something darker, filled with rage. Had this marriage proved a benefit to her family, she would have continued to tolerate him, but even her father, who had been so eager for the Sforza alliance three years before, had soured on the family who had invited the King of France to invade Italy, almost dooming his Papacy. After the last of the French forces were expelled and the Orsini were dealt with, she would tell her father of his treachery, his continued dealing with Il Moro and the French, and see an end to the marriage, one way or another.