The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  I last remember Vittoro spreading a light cover over me. As though from a great distance, I heard him say, “Don’t worry about Borgia. I’ll keep him at bay.”

  And perhaps he could, but not entirely and not for long. I slept, thanks be to Sofia, but with the certain knowledge that time was flowing like the implacable drips through a water clock, their measured fall ever a reminder that chance favors the ready hand, outstretched to catch the moment.

  The next morning, I woke feeling considerably better than I had any right to do. Minerva had clawed her way up onto the bed sometime during the night and was curled beside me. The deep rumble of her purr as she washed herself woke me. Having seen to my own toilette, I gathered her up for a visit to the garden, where she seemed to understand what was expected of her. When we returned, the day’s milk had been delivered. I gave her some along with a portion of dried cod that I soaked in it. By the time I was ready to leave, she had perched herself on a windowsill from which she could survey her new domain.

  I paused on the way out to check on Portia, steeling myself for what I was certain would be her reaction to the monster she had seen emerge from within me. Yet she sounded perfectly cheerful when I called to her and she replied.

  “Entrato!”

  I entered as she bid, finding her stretched out on a padded bench beneath a window opened to receive the soft breeze. Her small apartment was as tidy as ever; there was no trace of the deadly struggle played out within it scant hours before.

  Seeing the direction of my gaze, she said, “Captain Romano sent some people over. They took care of everything.”

  I nodded and turned my attention to her, relieved to see that despite the bruises darkening on her face and the sling in which her left arm rested, she looked surprisingly well. The cherries I had brought were in a bowl on the small table beside her. She gestured to them.

  “Would you like some?”

  The thought of eating made my stomach roil but I took one for courtesy’s sake. “How are you feeling?”

  Her broad face crinkled in a smile. “Surprised to be alive, if you want the truth, Donna. I owe you that.”

  A solid, practical woman, she appeared undismayed by what I had done, and for that I all but sagged with gratitude. Even so, I felt compelled to point out what surely must have been obvious. “You would not have been in danger but for me.”

  She did not deny it but said only, “You’ve an enemy, all right, but I suppose you already know that.”

  “I would like to know more. Captain Romano didn’t recognize the man and he didn’t think I would, either.”

  “He looked like a hundred men you pass in the street every day. Not exceptionally young or old, tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or ugly, just ordinary. Nothing to distinguish him at all except…” She broke off, hesitating.

  Her description ruled out Morozzi, who had the face of an angel to conceal his demonic nature, but left the possibility that he had sent someone in his stead.

  “Except what?” I urged. “Anything you can remember could prove helpful.”

  “You understand that I was in a rare state? I can’t really vouch for anything I think I saw.”

  By which I hoped she meant what she had seen of me as well.

  “Even so…,” I prompted.

  “He was wearing a drab sort of doublet—brown, I think—and there was nothing to notice about his hose or shoes. But under the doublet, his shirt … I only got a glimpse of it but even so—”

  “What did it look like?”

  “It was blue, a very bright blue and gold. There was a design on it, I couldn’t quite make it out but it might have been a tree.”

  Not for a moment did I doubt that Portia understood exactly what she was telling me. The most ordinary Roman can recognize the coats of arms emblazoned with the crests of our noble families. Being able to do so is useful when dealing with men-at-arms who may or may not be bent on mayhem depending on their master’s current state of mind. Borgia’s crest, for example, was mulberry and gold, emblazoned with a bull, until he became pope and incorporated the original design within the crossed keys and crown of his new authority. Cardinal della Rovere’s, on the other hand, remained a blue field surmounted by a golden oak.

  “You won’t speak of this to anyone else, will you?” I asked.

  For the first time since I had entered her rooms, Portia frowned. “I’m not a fool, Donna. With all respect, I hope you won’t be, either. This is serious business.”

  On that we were in full agreement. I stayed a little while longer to make sure she was comfortable and had everything she wanted, then took my leave. The day was fair but promised to be hot. The sweepers were out scrubbing the streets and also scrubbing away at graffiti that had appeared overnight. Rome is a great place for graffiti, the more graphic and ribald the better. I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the naked rump of a woman being penetrated by a male organ that could only be described as improbable in size before both disappeared under lather and bristle brush.

  To settle my stomach, I stopped long enough to buy a honeyed cornetto from the tray of the boy peddling them and ate it as I made my way toward the Vatican. The walk, short though it was, gave me time to absorb what I had learned and decide how best to proceed.

  I had finished my breakfast and brushed the crumbs from my bodice by the time I spied Vittoro just leaving the apartment he shared with his wife adjacent to the Vatican Palace. Donna Felicia waved to me from the open ground-floor door and gave me a warm smile, by which I concluded that the captain had said nothing to his spouse of what had required his attention the previous evening.

  “When were you planning to tell me?” I asked as we walked together across the piazza.

  Vittoro made no pretense of not understanding. “I thought to wait until you were more yourself, as I am glad to see you are.”

  I accepted his explanation and went on. “What do you make of it?”

  “To be frank, I have a hard time believing that della Rovere was behind the attack on you. He has motive, of course, especially if he is responsible for the attempts on our master’s life or he suspects that you may be sent to kill him. But surely he would have gone about disposing of you more subtlely.”

  I agreed. “He’s made mistakes in the past, to be sure, but he’s far from a fool. Really, what assassin wears his master’s colors to do the deed?”

  “My thoughts exactly, but before you jump to the conclusion that—”

  “It was Borgia?” A conclusion that Vittoro surely must have dreaded, as it would have transformed me at once into His Holiness’s most dangerous enemy.

  “I’ve already considered that,” I said. “If he did send the assassin to inspire me to want to kill della Rovere, he would have had to be certain that I would survive the attack.”

  In which case, His Holiness knew even my darkest secret, a possibility I could not bear to contemplate.

  “Our master values your services far too much to put you at such risk,” Vittoro countered.

  “He is at least toying with the idea of sending me to Savona, where I surely will die nastily.”

  “He can’t be serious about that. You realize,” he added quietly, “that leaves only one other possibility.”

  Thus for the second time in as many days I heard the name of my father’s killer on the lips of a friend.

  “Morozzi.”

  9

  I knew of only one person who could tell me for certain if the mad priest was back in Rome. The distance from the Vatican to the Jewish Quarter was not far, being less than a mile. I walked swiftly, stepping around the piles of waste, animal and otherwise, that cluttered the streets. Despite the looming threat of upheaval, war, and even schism, Rome was a thriving city. Her hearty citizens appeared ever ready to follow the old adage of carpe diem and seize the day. However, I would have been very much surprised if a goodly portion of those I passed did not already have a bolt-hole in the countryside in the form of a bumpkin relative w
ho could be cajoled or forced to take them in. At the first sign of serious trouble, the roads would clog with wagons and the river with barques as everyone who could flee did so. Only the old, the very poor, and the despised would be left. I was on my way to visit the last of those.

  Sofia Montefiore’s apothecary shop was on a narrow lane not far from the Via Portico d’Ottavia, the piazza at the heart of the ghetto that still contains the remnants of an ancient forum named in honor of the sister of the great Augustus. Although no wall surrounds the ghetto—one is always being proposed by someone or other—many of the streets leading out were blocked by the piles of stone and rubble designed to limit access for any seeking to enter or leave the area. Borgia had promised to have the streets cleared but nothing had been done about that so far.

  Situated so close to the river, the streets of the ghetto were swept regularly by tidal floods, invading many of the shops and tenements, and bringing with them swarms of mosquitoes that made life a misery. Only the wealthy—and they did exist—fared any better, residing as they did on slightly higher ground in what amounted to fortified palazzetti. Whether to protect their wealth or simply because they saw no alternative, the merchants had long since joined forces with the senior rabbis to enforce a policy of cooperation with the authorities. Not everyone agreed with them.

  Sofia was bandaging the arm of a young boy when I arrived. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

  I smiled at the boy and did as she bade. The front of the shop was sparsely furnished with a few stools and a simple wooden counter behind which Sofia dispensed the powders, tinctures, lotions, and poultices that offered some relief for the conditions that plagued so many. Unlike others of her calling, she prescribed only those remedies that she knew to be effective. Many of these were not even in evidence, being confined to cabinets in the back room for discretion’s sake.

  The air smelled pleasantly of the mingled scent of thyme, rosemary, lavender, and the like drying in the rafters above. Several large barrels of vinegar stood along one wall. Sofia believed vinegar to be most helpful in preventing infection in wounds and in maintaining cleanliness in general. She used great quantities of it but at the cost of her skin, her hands being always red and hardened.

  Yet her touch was unfailingly gentle, as I could see with the boy who, though pale, remained calm under her ministrations. As she finished, she bent close to him and whispered a few words in his ear. He nodded and sprang up, pausing only to thank her before running off.

  When we were alone, she washed her hands in the basin and dried them before she looked at me. Her dark eyes were unfathomable. I resisted the impulse to squirm under her scrutiny.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Fine. I saw Rocco yesterday. He is concerned about what happened at the villa but there is no indication that anyone was caught—”

  I would have preferred that no one else know of the events in Portia’s apartment but that was not realistic. The hard truth was that the danger to Lux might begin and end with me. I, not anyone else, might have been the target of both attacks. If that were the case, the other members had the right to know, if only the better to protect themselves.

  Sofia heard me out in silence. A look of dismay crossed her face when I spoke of killing the assailant but she waited until I was finished before she said, “Are you certain that you are unharmed?”

  “Completely. I even slept last night, thanks to your powders.” Not for the world would I speak of the creature I became in extremis, when the darkness within me howled for blood and could scarcely be sated.

  “Look at me,” I said and, having stood, I threw out my arms and twirled around like a heady girl showing off a new gown. “Do I not look perfectly fine?”

  It was an absurd thing to do, as I think I realized even in the midst of doing it. Yet I could not seem to stop myself. I was that set on acting as though the events of the previous night had left me unscathed or, better yet, had happened to an entirely different person.

  “I am sorry to say that you do.”

  I stopped in mid-step, my arms falling to my sides, and stared at her. Why would she, above all, wish ill for me?

  Seeing my expression, she seized my hands in hers and spoke most earnestly. “I have seen others do what you are doing, try to cope with a terrible experience by denying that it has any power to affect you. But what we think buried and forgotten can return ten-fold to harm us.”

  What could I say to her? That she need have no such worry for me because I had enjoyed killing the attacker? That far from being dogged by terror, I still basked in the lingering pleasure of what I had done?

  No, I did not think Sofia wanted to hear that.

  Instead, I said, “I thank you for your concern but this is far from over. I must remain strong to deal with what may be coming.”

  That at least she seemed to understand. “Your courage is admirable but please, heed what I say. I count you among my dearest friends and I will be glad to listen whenever you need to talk.”

  Oh, ho, she would not be! What, after all, would we discuss? The surge of power and release that overcame me when I killed, as though a demon buried deep within had broken free? The various and imaginative ways in which I contemplated ending Morozzi’s time in this world? The nightmare that I knew, in the aftermath of recent events, had to be upon me again soon?

  I could never let my mask slip, not with Sofia or anyone else. To the world, I had to be simply Francesca Giordano, a poisoner to be sure and therefore to be feared. But still not that different from all those who make the hard bargains needed to live in a hard world. Let any discover otherwise and I was certain they would turn on me like ravening dogs and tear me asunder.

  I was fumbling for something, really anything to say that would divert her when the door at the back of the shop opened. The man who entered was young, only a few years older than myself, tall and broad-shouldered. With his dark, curling hair, strong features, and black eyes, he could easily have been mistaken for a Spaniard. But David ben Eliezer was a Jew, one of the first I had met after discovering that my late father had himself been born into that tribe. Until recently, David had made his home in Rome but he had left the city the previous year in pursuit of Morozzi. At the sight of him I tensed, knowing as I did what his presence likely meant.

  David pulled out a stool from beside the worktable and sat down. He looked tired but resolute. Nodding to us both, he said, “Should I be worried that the boy found me so quickly?”

  “I told him where to look and he’s a good lad, he won’t say anything,” Sofia replied.

  By which I gleaned that the leaders who oversaw the Jewish Quarter were not aware that David was back among them. As they considered him a dangerous rabble-rouser, that was just as well.

  “Donna Francesca,” he said with a faint smile, as though we had been apart no time at all. “You look tired.”

  Before I could reply, Sofia took it upon herself to say, “Someone tried to kill her last evening. It was the second attack in as many days.”

  David’s eyebrows shot up. “I have heard nothing of this. What is happening?”

  I made short work of telling him, minimizing the details as much as possible. Even so, he grasped the whole of it without difficulty, putting it together with his considerable knowledge of larger events. David made it his mission to know of anything and everything that might affect the safety of the Jews in Rome and throughout Christendom. The simmering conflict between Borgia and Cardinal della Rovere was no secret to him.

  “Could Borgia be responsible?” he asked. “Would he go that far to convince you to kill della Rovere?”

  Carefully, I replied, “It seems a little extreme, even for him. I think it more likely that Morozzi is behind what is happening. That is, if he has returned to Rome?”

  David sighed and for a moment I had a glimpse of the toll the past months had taken on him. He had lost weight from a frame that had been spare to start and there were
deep shadows under his eyes. But he rallied quickly and said, “He may have, I am not certain. Since his flight from Rome last year, he has kept busy cultivating those who share his hatred of us and are eager to work with him to bring about our extermination. He slipped out of Florence a fortnight ago. I tracked him as far as Ostia before he eluded me.”

  “Does he know you have been watching him?” I asked, struck by the sudden thought that David himself could be in danger from the mad priest.

  “Despite my best efforts, I think he may. He has made powerful allies among Il Frateschi. I have no doubt that they are helping him now. At any rate, by the time I lost him, I was convinced he had to be making for here so I came on in the hope of discovering his whereabouts. So far I have been unsuccessful.”

  “If he is here,” Sofia asked, “what does he want?”

  “I don’t think there is any mystery to that,” David replied. “He wants what he has always wanted—a pope who will destroy the Jews.”

  “Then he has a problem,” I said. “Della Rovere has no love for you but if he achieves the papacy, he will have greater matters than the Jews to concern him.”

  Had he become pope the previous year as he had sought, della Rovere likely would have signed the edict condemning all the Jews and thought little of it save what advantage he could gain by seizing their property. But circumstances had changed since then. The discovery of what truly might be a new world had given everyone pause. Few sovereigns would be eager any longer to expel those who included many of the men capable of financing the exploitation of virgin lands. Worse yet, those same men would likely find a welcome in the embrace of the Turkish sultan, who, with their encouragement, could decide to take an interest in the new world himself. How ironic it would be if, in an effort to “cleanse” Christendom, the Church handed Novi Orbis to Islam.

  Whatever his failings, della Rovere was at least smart enough to understand that.

  “Morozzi may well be thwarted yet again,” I added, hoping that it was true.