The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  “A visitor?” I heard my own voice—cool, polite, moderately interested—as though from a distance.

  “Signore Enrico d’Agnelli. He came himself … alone. I was almost out the door and suddenly there he was.”

  The memory of Rome’s most renowned glassmaker’s visit seemed to fluster him. He reddened. “As you may know, his only son died last year. A fever of some sort, I believe.”

  “Did he?” I had heard of that, for Rome was—still is—a chatty city in which everything is grist for the gossip mill. I had never known the young d’Agnelli or any of the family, for that matter. Why then the sense of dread that was growing in me?

  “D’Agnelli has a daughter. Her name is Carlotta. She turned eighteen last month.”

  “Did she?” I was parroting myself but could not help it. Eighteen was an interesting age for a young woman, a time when even the most indulgent father will feel compelled to turn his attention to the subject of marriage. Mine had.

  For the first time since he had begun to speak, Rocco looked at me directly. He appeared torn between conflicting—and irreconcilable—realities.

  “D’Agnelli has a notion that I should come into his business. I told him I was flattered but not interested, and that was the truth … until just now. Seeing Nando with Donna Felicia and her daughters … it made me realize what he has missed by not having a mother to love him.”

  I did not have to ask how the man who had lost his only son envisioned joining forces with the most gifted young glassmaker in Rome. Obviously, the fair Carlotta—already I tormented myself with thoughts of her beauty—would have a key role to play in any such arrangement.

  “Not all women make good mothers.” I regretted the words the moment I spoke. The acrid taste of their bile stung my throat. I knew too well that it was not of Carlotta that I spoke, but of myself.

  “Even so—” His eyes darkened. He reached out a hand—square, blunt-tipped at the fingers, scarred here and there from the fire he wove into wonders. For just a moment, I thought he meant to touch me.

  We are all of us balanced on Fortuna’s wheel, clinging as best we can lest we tumble heedlessly into Fata’s dark maw. Yet we can, if we dare, let go and in that golden moment find the strength of our own wings unfurling.

  But I did not know that then.

  A single step toward him, likely nothing more would have been needed. Had I taken it, everything else, the entire course of my life from that moment on, would have changed. Or so I imagine.

  A cloud drifted across the sun. In the sudden gloom, I froze. But for the slow beat of my heart tolling in my ears, I might have been a statue.

  Rocco stared at me a moment longer. “Even so—,” he repeated, and dropped his hand.

  I watched him walk away, the sight of him wavering like a reflection in a pond rippled by the fall of a stone. He disappeared into the crowd and was gone before I could move again.

  18

  The day passed with unbearable slowness. I cannot tell you what I did although I must have done it well enough, for no one commented on my behavior or so much as looked at me askance, at least not within my viewing.

  I was alone, Renaldo being off somewhere or other, the secretaries occupied as usual, and the rest of Borgia’s vast staff being disinclined to seek my company. In the midst of the busy stream of comings and goings, moderated by Vittoro’s increased vigilance but still significant, I felt my solitude more keenly than usual.

  That being the case, when I had finished with the necessary inspection of goods, I sought diversion until that hour when I had engaged to meet Alfonso. It did occur to me that I should visit Lucrezia but the thought of yet another conversation about her anticipated wedding just then filled me with such disquiet that I could only make a silent promise to remedy my neglect as soon as possible.

  Instead, I turned my attention to the lingering mystery of Borgia’s disappearances. Where was he going and how was he managing to get there?

  At that hour—it was by then midday—His Holiness was scheduled to be hosting a performance by the papal choir in honor of the hapless Spanish envoy, after which the two men would adjourn for further discussions, free, it was to be hoped, from any more flying tableware. As always, Borgia’s secretaries would be in close attendance upon him. His office would be empty.

  One advantage to being held in fear and dread is that scarcely anyone ever thought to question what I did. The guards on duty throughout the Curia knew of my friendship with their captain but they would have avoided challenging me strictly on the basis of my own dark reputation. The same could be said of the various clerics scurrying back and forth, all burdened with armfuls of ledgers, reports, correspondence, and the like, without which no large institution, certainly not Holy Mother Church, can function. These priests made a particular point of averting their eyes as I sallied up the marble steps, down the long gilded corridor, through the antechamber, and to the very door of Borgia’s inner domain within the Vatican Palace.

  There I paused, but only briefly. While it is true that an excess of audacity can lead to disaster, more often than not it will carry the day, or so has been my experience. A quick glance through the spioncino confirmed that the office was empty. I eased one half of the double door open and slipped inside. Leaning back, I let my weight close the door behind me and surveyed the room.

  Partly, my intent was to make sure that I did not inadvertently displace anything and thereby leave evidence of my intrusion. But mainly I was curious to see the office without Borgia’s overwhelming presence. Most people leave touches of themselves in any place they inhabit. Surely so outsized a figure as His Holiness would have an imprint larger than most. But the more I looked around the ornate space, the less I saw of him. The wide marble expanse of his desk was bare save for the elaborate ink and pen set. The shelves behind it held such objects—small sculptures and the like—as could have been found in the home of any wealthy man. In all fairness, Luigi d’Amico had better, but then the banker’s taste was far more refined than was Borgia’s. A few books were in evidence on the shelves but they appeared untouched. The paintings were good enough but again, nothing remarkable or any in way personal. The whole seemed designed solely to give the impression of great riches and power while concealing the man within. Of the religious nature of his office, there was no hint at all.

  As Vittoro had said, two concealed doors led from the office, one to a corridor that led to the private papal apartments within the Vatican and the other to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, where it came out near the entrance to La Bella’s quarters. The doors were not so much hidden as discreetly designed so that they fit so snugly into the surrounding walls and so precisely matched their decoration as to be undetectable by any but the most observant eye.

  Neither was what I was looking for.

  Quickly, I made my way around the perimeter of the room, tapping lightly on the walls as I went. You may wonder how I knew to do so, but recall, a good poisoner must be constantly examining objects that may hold concealed compartments filled with hidden dangers. I simply applied the same techniques to the much larger container that was the office.

  Initially, my efforts yielded no results. I was beginning to wonder if the very premise on which I acted, namely that Borgia had a secret means of leaving his inner domain, was wrong when my attention drifted to the shelves along an outer wall. The more I studied them, the more they seemed not quite right. Only after staring for several minutes did I realize that one edge of the shelves, where they fit into the recess that held them, was thicker than the other.

  Swiftly, I ran my hand down that side. Nothing happened. For a moment, I felt the hollowness of defeat but then a thought stirred in me. I was moderately tall for a woman but Borgia was taller still; indeed, he towered over most men. He could reach a hidden lever far above my grasp.

  Hardly breathing, I scrambled around for an embroidered stool of the sort offered to visitors whose rank did not quite merit a chair. Having located
one, I dragged it over to the shelves and clambered up on it. Scarcely had I begun to examine the space higher up than my hand encountered a concealed lever. With great anticipation, I pulled it.

  The shelves moved very slightly, bumping against the stool. I scrambled down and shoved it out of the way, then eased the shelves open farther. They were very heavy but swung on well-oiled hinges. I had no difficulty making a space large enough to fit through.

  I will admit that at that moment, I hesitated. Borgia was unlikely to approve of what I was doing no matter how good a reason I might give him. While the claim that I was acting out of concern for his safety had some merit, the truth is that I was overcome with curiosity.

  Because of my father’s favored position in the household of then Cardinal Borgia, who also served as vice chancellor of the Curia, I had grown up more familiar with the environs of the Vatican than were all but a similarly privileged few. Not only had I been permitted to visit the Sistine Chapel, usually open only to the highest ranking clergy and noble guests, I had also visited the Vatican Library. It contains an astonishing four thousand or so works, mostly Hebrew, Greek, and Latin codices in addition to manuscripts acquired from the library at Constantinople. There is talk of commissioning a building solely to house the library, but so far nothing has come of that. In addition, I was aware of the existence within the library of certain archives said to contain the most sensitive correspondence, state papers, and the like. My father had seen them there, though I had not.

  With all that, I was quite certain that the Vatican still concealed many secrets. No one person would ever know them all but I had the urge to discover at least a few.

  All of which I hope makes clear why I left Borgia’s office behind me and ventured down the hidden passageway toward a destination I could only guess at. To my surprise, initially I did not need a lamp to see my way. Narrow windows near the ceiling admitted sufficient light while also informing me that I was still within an outer wall. Further, unlike many of the passages I was familiar with in the Vatican and elsewhere in Rome, this one was dry, clean, and large enough that even a man of Borgia’s height could walk without stooping.

  I continued on for several minutes before noticing that the passage had begun to slant downward. A little farther on I came to a point where the outside windows ended and only darkness lay ahead. There I stopped, relieved to find several well-tended oil lamps along with flint and tinder on a shelf close to hand. I lit a lamp, lowered the wick to give a steady light, and kept walking.

  A short time later I came to a heavy wooden door inset with brass strips heavily darkened by time. Despite its apparent age—the wood appeared wormy—and its considerable weight, the door yielded with only a light shove. Beyond lay a chamber—not large by any means but large enough that the light from the lamp only hinted at its farthest edges. An iron grille stretching from floor to ceiling and divided by a locked gate separated me from what lay beyond. I could see, but only remotely.

  On the other side of the grille, I made out a large, high-backed chair of intricately carved wood padded with cushions, a footstool similarly fashioned, and a pair of small tables. Nearby were several lamps and, I could not help note, a wooden rack holding bottles of claret. The room was far enough below ground to be cool even on so warm a day. However, that, too, had been considered. A cooper brazier stood near the chair, ready to give warmth if needed, and more light.

  Someone was making himself very comfortable in this hidden room below the Vatican Palace. Someone who could come and go at will from the pope’s private office.

  Of course, I realized at once that I likely had found the explanation for Borgia’s mysterious disappearances. But what drew him to the room? What was hidden there? Try though I did to discern the contents by peering beyond the iron grille, going so far as to press my nose through it, I could see only obscure shapes.

  However, I could just make out the words on the tarnished plaque set in stone above the grille.

  MYSTERIUM MUNDI

  The mystery of the world. And, it seemed to me, a play on the sacred words of the holy Mass in which the priest calls upon the faithful to rejoice in mysterium fidei, the mystery of the faith.

  Above me, the life of the Vatican went on, the chanting of the hours, the saying of Mass, the buying and selling of indulgences, the confessions for the sake of the immortal soul. All that is required by God, so we are told, including the getting and keeping of power.

  But here, beneath the surface, buried in the earth, here was the mystery of the world, the very reality that we of Lux sought to pierce not on the basis of faith but through reason. Where, it seemed, Borgia had been spending his stolen time.

  Lacking a key, I could go no farther. Even so, I was reluctant to leave. I stood for some unknown time straining to get a glimpse of what lay just beyond my reach. Eventually, my eyes adjusted to the dim light sufficiently that I could make out pigeonholed racks of what might have been scrolls or possibly maps, as well as shelves of bound books, some of which appeared to be extremely old. I thought I saw slabs of carved stone covered with what might have been lettering. There were also chests of various sizes, and objects I could not make out at all.

  Eventually, I returned to the surface but only with the greatest reluctance. The papal office remained hushed, devoid of activity save for a few dust motes dancing in the rays of sun that penetrated through the high windows. Beyond I could hear the quotidian noise of the day beginning to wind down as the sun dipped toward the chimney pots.

  My hand strayed to the leather sheath holding my knife close to my heart. I had an appointment to keep. But I resolved that, assuming I was able, I would find a way to return to the secret room beneath the palazzo and discover what treasures it concealed.

  I was at the octagonal stone fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere just before sunset. A dozen or so local boys were gathered around, drawing water for their families or masters for the night. They lingered in the waning light, bragging of their exploits, pushing and mock-wrestling with one another until the great bell in the tower of the church di Santa Maria behind us rang out the call to vespers. Then they scattered, vanishing into the surrounding lanes and alleyways, leaving only puddles behind them.

  Except for a handful of beggars bedding down for the night in front of the church, I was alone. Around me I could see lamps being lit in people’s homes and in the nearby taverns, hear the clink of dishes and the murmur of conversation. Someone, probably in one of the taverns, broke into a song that was popular that spring—yet another ditty about a ripe young girl and the swain who loved her—and a second voice joined in. The heavy, fecund scent of the river vied with the aroma of wood smoke and the ever-present odor from the sewers.

  I looked toward the church. It is said to be the oldest house of prayer dedicated to the Virgin in all of Rome, although the clerics at the church of Santa Maria Maggiore on the Esquiline will tell you otherwise. At any rate, it has the look of great age despite having been razed to the ground and entirely rebuilt by Pope Innocent II less than five hundred years ago. (It is a measure of the antiquity of Rome that anything a mere few centuries old must be considered young.) Innocent II used enough of the old building to preserve its venerable appearance but in the process destroyed the tomb of his rival, the Antipope Anacletus II, which was likely the point of the whole exercise. The victor lies there now, keeping company with the head of Saint Appollonia, yet another virgin martyr, and a piece of the Holy Sponge.

  You can see why Santa Maria is a popular stop for visitors to the city, but only in daylight. With the gathering gloom, the piazza in front of the church rapidly filled with shadows. The moon, not yet quite full, had hovered as a pale daytime presence over the city during the hours of light and would not return until shortly before sunrise. In its absence, the cold stars offered scant company.

  I had just begun to wonder if perhaps Alfonso had not gotten my message, or more likely was choosing to ignore it, when a stirring off
to the side alerted me that I was no longer alone.

  Shapes emerged out of the shadows, staying close to the walls, moving swiftly. Two … three … vanishing into alleys, reappearing, edging nearer. I saw a face—young, pale, caught in the sudden light from a window. It disappeared and another took its place only to vanish in turn. They came quickly but with care, not venturing out into the open piazza until they must have been certain that I was by myself and posed no danger.

  Then three formed a perimeter around me. I spied the glint of steel in their hands and drew a quick breath. If they were not Alfonso’s men … if Il Frateschi had somehow followed me …

  I reached for the knife in the sheath near my heart and was about to draw it when il re dei contrabbandieri himself emerged from an alleyway and walked toward me. Previously, I only had seen Alfonso seated in the thronelike chair surrounded by his loot and his acolytes. Standing, he was taller than I expected and reed thin, with long, gawky limbs that for all his height, he seemed not yet to have grown into. He came with a cheeky grin and a sweeping bow as graceful as any young nobleman could manage.

  “Donna Francesca, well met.”

  I took a breath to steady myself and got to business. “And you, Signore Alfonso. What can you tell me of the man who was seen?”

  “He matched the description you gave—tall, blond-haired, face of an angel. My man only caught a glimpse of him but he was clear all the same. There is no doubt.”

  Perhaps not, but still I wanted to be sure. “What was he wearing?”

  “A dark cloak, covering him from head to foot. It had a hood but that was pushed back. My man thought he caught a glimpse of a priest’s cassock underneath.”

  I nodded, satisfied, and went on. “This happened in a tunnel near here, during the day?”

  “In one of the passages, yes, a little after sext in mid-afternoon. My man was … making a delivery. You understand?”