The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  With Nando staying at Vittoro’s, where he was fussed over by Felicia, the front of the shop was empty. I found Rocco in the yard behind the building. He was working bare-chested in the morning sun, bent over a table on which he had set a small grinding wheel propelled by a foot pedal. I had a few moments to observe him unnoticed. The sun had laid a patina of gold over his skin, reddening along the curve of his broad shoulders. His hair was tied back and secured by a leather thong to keep it out of his eyes. He worked steadily and with great concentration. Even seated, moving only his hands, he looked the image of grace.

  I cleared my throat. At once he stopped, letting the wheel run down, and turning, saw me. Only then did I notice that he had a cloth pulled up over his nose and mouth.

  He lowered it and smiled. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Heaven help me, I blushed like a girl and for a moment was at a loss for words.

  Rocco stood up and dusted off his hands. “Guillaume has caught a whiff of something but he isn’t sure what it is.”

  “Has he?” Of course, I wanted the particulars, but first I needed a moment to recover what dignity I possessed. To that end, I made a show of interest in his occupation.

  “What are you doing there?” I asked, indicating the worktable.

  “I’m learning to grind lenses. There’s an increasing demand for them and I thought they’d make a good sideline. They are glass, after all, so I thought with a little effort I should be able to manage them.”

  “And are you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m getting better. Diamond powder seems to give the best polish by far.”

  “Is that what you’re using? It sounds expensive.”

  “It is,” he agreed, “but the results can’t be equaled by any other method. With practice, I should be able to turn out lenses you wouldn’t mind using.”

  “I’ll look forward to trying them. Now tell me, what does Guillaume say?”

  We walked together into the relative coolness of the shop, where Rocco poured us both goblets of chilled water. Like Sofia, he never drank anything that had not been boiled and strained first. It was all well and good that the ancient Aqua Virgo aqueduct had been restored to operation some forty years before by Pope Nicholas V. The water it carried into Trevi was sold throughout the city by men and boys balancing immense barrels on barrows that creaked and squeaked at all hours of the day and night. But most people still had to depend on cisterns that were full or dry at the whim of the rains, or wells that could never be counted on not to bring up clay in place of water. For the poor, there was only the Tiber, a disgusting broth of every imaginable kind of filth that made my stomach twist even to think of drinking.

  “Guillaume reports dissension among the Dominicans,” Rocco said. “A monk who went missing some time ago was fished out of the Tiber, dead with his eyes and tongue cut out. No one seems to have any idea of what happened to him but some of the friars are saying that the actions of Il Frateschi have created a sinful atmosphere in which any evil thing could occur.”

  “They blame the Brotherhood for the graffiti?”

  “They do. Guillaume says that even many of those who dislike Borgia do not believe that any good can come of such vileness.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps one or more of them can be persuaded to help us.”

  “Guillaume hopes the same but he must choose his moment carefully. Push too hard and they are likely to close ranks.”

  “He will do his best, I’m sure.”

  “As will we all, but—”

  He hesitated and I could see that he was wrestling with himself. “Francesca, about yesterday—”

  About Cesare, I feared he would say next. About why Borgia’s eldest son had taken such umbrage because Rocco and I embraced.

  “You were foolish to put yourself in danger,” I said, preferring as always to take the offensive. “You could have been seriously hurt or worse.”

  “How was I to know that spoiled popinjay would come strutting over and—”

  “Forget about him, he doesn’t matter.” At least I did not want him to, not where Rocco was concerned. “Everyone around Borgia is on edge right now.”

  “If that’s all it is—”

  “What more could it be? What are you saying?”

  I was a fool to press the matter, especially since I had so recent a reminder that Rocco was not a man to back down in the face of a challenge. He looked at me squarely.

  “You are a free woman, Francesca, beholden to nothing save your father’s memory. I understand that.”

  “But—?”

  “There is no ‘but.’ I am in no position to judge you or anything you do.”

  “Yet you think I could be judged were you not so magnanimous as to forgo the exercise?”

  “We are all judged. You, me, every last one of us whether we want to acknowledge that or not. God judges every moment of our lives.”

  “How loving of Him. Perhaps He would do better to help instead.” I held up a hand, cutting off whatever Rocco might have said in response to my latest bit of blasphemy. “And don’t talk to me again of free will. Nothing is free that comes at the cost of being constantly weighed in the balance and found wanting.”

  “Who finds you wanting? I do not.”

  But I did; every day with every breath I was not the woman I longed to be. The woman who had the right to take the hand of the good man who stood there, refusing to berate me for what he surely must suspect was the truth about my relationship with Cesare. Who, instead, only looked at me sadly.

  “Let us not argue, Francesca. As you said, everyone is on edge. Giovanni was a good man who loved you dearly. Grieve for him, by all means. Bring his killer to justice, if you can. But leave vengeance to God. The weight of it is too great to be borne by any man or woman.”

  “You see so clearly,” I said, not without a hint of bitterness. I could argue that Rocco, good man that he was, stood in the light and was blinded by it. Whereas I … I had to sharpen my every instinct in order to survive in the dark.

  But for all that, I could not bring myself to be at odds with him. Instead, I touched his arm, a gesture of reconciliation, and received a quick smile in return that did not reach his eyes.

  We spoke a little while longer, cordial words, nothing important. I walked away from the shop knowing that both of us meant well but only the sadder because of it.

  In the way of my mind, before I had gone very far my thoughts veered in a new direction. Or perhaps I should say in a very old one. Inexplicably, or so it seemed at first, I found myself thinking of Pliny, not the young one who left us that riveting account of the destruction of Pompeii but Pliny the Elder, whose death beneath Vesuvius his nephew witnessed from the safety of the sea.

  The elder Pliny was a great one for cataloguing everything and sundry, compiling it all into his Naturalis Historia, that vast encyclopedia upon which we remain far too dependent even now. He is best known to those of my ilk for his claim that a diamond, placed in a goblet or other container to which poison has been added, will neutralize the deadly effects. Believing him, some have gone so far as to swallow diamonds whole in an effort to protect themselves.

  My father had been so impressed by the breadth of Pliny’s wisdom that he had actually tested this claim, only to discover that it had no apparent merit.

  I could not have told you why I fled from thoughts of Rocco to those of a long-dead Roman and his fascination with diamonds. Or why, as I went about my business the rest of that day, I kept returning to the image of Rocco bent over his worktable, using pulverized diamond to grind down the tiniest imperfections in glass.

  It was only late that night when I lay alone save for Minerva—Cesare having been sent by his father on an errand to Siena, where Borgia kept some of his money rather than entrust it to the Medicis—that my seemingly random thoughts began to coalesce into a possibility. Once grasped, it caused me to rise from my bed, wrap a shawl around my shoulders, and sit the remainder of
the night in the window seat looking out over the slumbering city where so many plots were hatched and so many deaths plotted, all in the name of Christo et Ecclesiae.

  16

  Another week passed, during which I managed to visit Lucrezia frequently enough to allay my fears about her mood. She was calmer than after the upset brought on by Cesare’s cruel letter and she no longer seemed to feel any need to strike out at him in turn. This was explained the third time I called, when I found her in the garden feeding crumbs to the pet finches kept in wicker cages.

  “He says he only spoke out against the marriage because he does not believe our father has any intention of allowing it to endure. Cesare thinks Papa is only upholding his promise to the Sforzas in order to keep them on his side long enough for him to come to an arrangement with Spain and Naples, after which he will no longer need them.”

  Although I doubted that Cesare had been so temperate in his explanation, I saw the sense of what she said. Borgia was capable of using his young daughter as ruthlessly as he used his sons, and he certainly had no illusions about the sanctity of marriage.

  I stayed a while with her, nibbling on strawberries and listening to her talk of her intended. Privately, I thought she was building up the Sforza by-blow to such a degree that he could not possibly meet her expectations. But perhaps time would prove me wrong.

  “He will be here two days before the wedding,” she told me. “Papa is planning a grand reception, even a special Papal Mass at Saint Peter’s, the only place big enough to hold all the guests. I will be allowed to see him but only from a distance.”

  “I am sure you will not be disappointed.” Despite my doubts, I still hoped for the best.

  She was very lonely just then, having little use for her ladies, who she knew were no more than spies for their own families. La Bella visited her as often as she could but His Holiness’s mistress was pregnant again and said to be having a difficult time. I lingered longer than I should have because of that, not leaving her even as the afternoon aged.

  To be fair, I had another reason for remaining sequestered with Lucrezia. The time had come to tell Borgia that I might have found a method for killing della Rovere. I was reluctant to do so for many reasons, not the least being my continued concern that any attack against the Cardinal would not be limited to him alone but would also kill those unfortunate enough to be near him when it came. Of course, those could be the French emissaries, whose loss might only serve to convince their king that God did not favor his enterprise. But what of others—chance guests, hapless servants, and the like? So far as I knew, della Rovere had no mistress at the moment; he was making that great a show of his propriety to contrast himself to Borgia. But there were always women coming and going through secret doors and hidden passageways. Boys as well, but let us not dwell on that. My point is that I was far from reconciled to killing della Rovere and I most certainly saw no reason to kill anyone else.

  So I delayed, refining my plans, considering this and that until finally time ran out. Borgia sent for me, going so far as to dispatch a messenger to Lucrezia’s apartments, where he found us playing cards in the garden fanned by blackamoors in satin pantaloons and shaded by broad awnings.

  “I have to go,” I said, rising with reluctance. Fortunately, I was not unprepared for the summons, having been anticipating it for several days.

  She must have sensed my mood for she caught my hand and gave me a smile that showed a flash of her former mischievousness, before she donned the sober mantle of wife-in-waiting.

  “Come back and we will have sorbet,” she said. “Lemon, if you like, or plum. I know you like that.”

  I assured her that I would and set off for the Vatican Palace. Shortly, I was shown into Borgia’s inner office. His Holiness was seated behind the wide sweep of his desk. He was not alone. Once again, Juan was with him. I wondered if they were discussing the grand marriage rumored to be in the works. Betting was running about evenly between a Spanish or a French bride for Borgia’s second son. The choice could determine whether we had war or peace. I would have withdrawn and waited in the antechamber for a more propitious moment but His Holiness beckoned me forward.

  “There you are, Francesca. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps you’d gone off for a little holiday somewhere.”

  I did not make the mistake of taking him seriously, being all too aware that my employer kept himself well apprised of my movements. But I did stand patiently while he pretended to survey me.

  When he appeared satisfied that his point was made, I said, “I have been seeing to my duties, Holiness.”

  He waved a hand, as though dismissing any suggestion otherwise. “Oh, I’m certain you have been, but to what result?”

  “May I point out that you remain in the peak of health?”

  “Thanks to you, is that what you mean? Well, I suppose there’s something to that, but it’s not enough. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  “So you did, Holiness.”

  I glanced at Juan, who was making no effort to hide his distaste, although whether that was because of my occupation or because the brother he loathed and had threatened to kill shared my bed, I could not say.

  “If we might speak alone, Holiness?”

  Borgia’s gaze narrowed as he assessed my request. “Alone?”

  “If you please.”

  Juan appeared about to protest but before he could do so, his father waved a hand toward the door. “Give us a few minutes.”

  The duke reddened and glared at me with what I can only describe as hatred. If I had not already had an enemy in that quarter, I acquired him then.

  “As you wish, Father,” he said, and took himself off stiffly, making a show of closing the gilded door hard behind him.

  When he was gone, I said, “I have been giving the matter that you laid before me considerable thought and I think I have something that will interest you.”

  I withdrew a small pouch from a pocket of my overdress. Having approached his desk, I unfolded a black cloth about a foot square, spread it out, and poured the contents of the pouch onto it.

  Borgia leaned forward and studied what I offered. He frowned. “It looks like salt.”

  “It is salt, of the finest quality, taken from your personal supply.” I laid a second black cloth on the desk and set on it a small packet that I unwound carefully. “Now, if you would be so good as to look at this.”

  “More salt,” Borgia said after a moment.

  I shook my head. “Not so. This is pulverized diamond. It is very expensive; I had to borrow it from a friend.” I had visited Rocco again a few days before, asking for the loan of the diamond powder. He had graciously assented despite my failure to offer any explanation for why I wanted it.

  “If you look through this lens,” I said, offering it to Borgia, “you will see that while the two appear virtually identical, they are in fact very different. The powdered diamond contains many more sharp edges that cannot be seen by the unaided eye.”

  “What is the point of all this?” Borgia asked even as he did as I bid.

  “Diamond in this form is used to grind and polish. In effect, it lacerates surfaces very finely. It has occurred to me that it might be possible to mix a quantity of diamond powder with finely ground salt and have the presence of the diamond escape undetected. Once ingested, the diamond would come into close contact with the soft tissues of the gut where, I believe, it would do considerable harm.”

  “I thought it was understood that diamond protects against poison. Indeed, I’ve wondered why you didn’t advise me to use it.”

  “Because I have a care for your health,” I said. “It is true that there are those who swallow diamonds whole and pass them without difficulty, but there is always a risk that they will lodge in the lower body. When that happens, the result is acute pain until the object finally comes loose. On the other hand, there is no evidence whatsoever that diamond protects against poison, despite what Pliny claimed. My father tested the pr
oposition thoroughly enough to be convinced of that.”

  “All right,” Borgia said slowly. “You say that even finely ground, diamond will cut enough to do real harm. Is that it?”

  I nodded. “The smallest particle retains all the characteristics of its source but can be multiplied thousands of times over. Additionally, it can be mixed with the finest grind of salt in such a way as to mask its presence. Then it would only be a matter of getting that salt to Savone, where, because of its quality, it would be reserved for della Rovere’s table.”

  “The Cardinal is making a great show of his personal piety. When he dines in public, he eats very little.”

  That could put a crimp in my plans but I sensed a qualification in Borgia’s wording.

  “In public?”

  “Indeed. In private, he remains quite the gourmand. Not really the best for him given that his bowels are unreliable.”

  “You are saying that when he eats, he is alone?”

  The Pope shrugged as though it were of no import, when I was certain he knew otherwise. So did he toy with what passed for my conscience.

  “As I said, he is making a show of his piety.”

  “All the better. We would have only to wait for him to ingest a sufficient quantity.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how much he takes. But if he uses it regularly, say several times a day, and there is enough diamond present in the mixture, I believe the effect would be fairly quick.”

  “The moment he is ill, suspicions will be raised that he is being poisoned.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Suspicion of poison is raised whenever an eminent person dies in any way other than falling off his horse or being run through with a blade, and even then it has to happen in front of a multitude of witnesses to be believed. But it is well known that della Rovere is heavily protected, making poisoning him very difficult and unlikely. Even if everything in contact with him was inspected over and over, I don’t believe anyone would think of the salt, much less examine it under a lens.”