by Sara Poole
“It’s one of my ideas,” Alfonso said proudly. “They’re cheap and easy to make. I give them to all my crew. A single whistle means come on the run. That’s good if there’s somebody who hasn’t got the word yet about my being in charge, maybe they’re causing a problem for one of my boys. We gang up, let them know what’s what, and more times than not, they fall in line. Two whistles means scatter, run. That’s good when the condottierri show up and we want to avoid trouble.”
It was an ingenious idea and I said as much. He preened, just a little, but quickly turned serious.
“I understand what you’re saying about tightening the noose, flushing him down into the tunnels and not leaving him any way out except through the church. It’s a good plan. But with all respect, why do you want to face him alone? Wouldn’t it be better to have guards there with you?”
“Certainly, provided I could be sure that Morozzi would not realize that they were there until it was too late. I have learned to my sorrow never to underestimate him. The only way he will show himself is if he is certain that I am alone.”
“You’re the bait?”
I nodded. Borgia had sought to use me as such when he allowed the villa to be attacked. As distasteful as that was, it was too good a tactic for me to ignore.
“Morozzi wants to kill me for reasons that lie between the two of us, but also because I stand between him and his ultimate target, the Pope.”
Such are the times we live in that the notion of someone daring to strike at the Supreme Pontiff did not surprise Alfonso. He merely nodded.
“And you think you can stop him by yourself?”
I did not blame him for being skeptical but—as Vittoro had said—Morozzi had never shown any tendency to sacrifice his own life. On the other hand, a sufficiently committed assassin can penetrate anywhere.
It was not that I wanted to die, not in the sense of seeking my own death as did those poor souls swallowed by the writhing Tiber. But the thought of being done with the darkness, the nightmares, the visions, the sense of being set apart from others and alone, which had grown so powerful since the murder of my father … all that had a certain seductiveness. Of course, against that weighed the teachings of Holy Mother Church regarding the hideous sufferings that awaited the apostate, murderess, fornicator, and possible strega in the Inferno below. But what had begun as a canker of doubt within me had blossomed into a thorny hedge wherein questions, outright disbelief, and growing contempt tangled impenetrably. Behind it, I sheltered, defiant and resolute.
“I will do what I must,” I said.
For all his youth, il re dei contrabbandieri had not risen to his exalted position without understanding when a storm can be navigated around and when it must be gone through. He nodded and laid a hand lightly on my shoulder before vanishing back into the shadows.
I was alone in the gathering darkness. Before me, the stone bulk of Santa Maria loomed. I lifted my gaze to the mosaic of the Virgin suckling her son and, in defiance of all those who would condemn me, said a silent prayer that if there was anything out there, anyone to hear me and care, I would not die by Morozzi’s hand.
Before fear could overcome me, I ran up the steps and into the church.
21
There was disagreement later about exactly who was responsible. Some claimed it was the apprentices, always suspected of running riot at the least or no provocation. Others declared that the culprits were imps from Hell who cavorted naked on cloven feet. A few insisted that it was the smugglers, but as no one could explain why they would behave in such a way, that was not taken seriously.
What is known is that Trastevere did not sleep that night. How could it when mischief-makers ran riot through its streets, singing loudly, bursting into homes and shops, upending tables, sending chickens and pigeons alike into a frenzy, freeing pigs into the roads, and all the while inexplicably chanting, “Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”
The plain truth is that there were more than a few priests in Trastevere that night—as any other. One or two may have been chastely in their own beds. Perhaps not; those numbers seem high. The rest were content to drink and carouse right along with a bevy of bishops, several archbishops, and at least one cardinal.
Some tried to flee when the trouble began only to be caught by what was rapidly turning into a torchlight parade drawing even decent people into a whirling bacchanalia where, amid pounding drums improvised out of kettles and staves and clashing cymbals thrown together from metal plates, liberated wine flowed freely and a general mood of good cheer prevailed.
Others of the cloth dove under beds from where they were rousted when the happy, singing mob threw open doors, dragging all into their midst with most—presumably not the members of the clergy—joining in the cry that resounded through every alley and lane: “Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”
It was even said that the cry was taken up in other neighborhoods, carried from rooftop to rooftop wherever people sought relief from the oppressive warmth. To this day on the anniversary of the Imp’s Parade, as it came to be known, you can still hear the mocking admonition from the throats of all those brave enough to utter it.
“Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”
The goings-on in Trastevere meant nothing to me save that they should accomplish their purpose. I reasoned that the threat of discovery coupled with the mocking nature of the mob would compel Morozzi to seek safer ground. In hope of that, I took up my position in the church near the wooden door that Alfonso had revealed.
In my hands, I held the knife I had used to kill the assassin Morozzi had sent, likely a member of the Brotherhood, not that his identity mattered to me. I had gotten lucky with him thanks to the element of surprise and Cesare’s coaching. But I could not count on luck again.
Accordingly, I had made a slight alteration to the blade. It was now coated with a contact poison that, unlike that encountered by the feckless Donna Lydia, I knew to be deadly. Of course, this meant that it required the most careful handling. I drew a deep breath to steady myself and kept my eyes on the wooden door.
I did not have long to wait.
Before I had barely settled myself, the door was flung open and Morozzi hurtled through it. He wore a black cloak that obscured him from head to toe, and moved as though demons were in pursuit, although I suppose that if they had been, he would have embraced them. At any rate, he took no more notice of me than he would have of a gnat.
So quickly did he come that he got beyond the door and into the aisle that traversed the church from apse to nave before I could react. He was running toward the altar when I leaped in pursuit. It was in my mind that there had to be many ways out of the old church and that Morozzi would know of them. He seemed to have spent all his time in the city investigating its hidden byways. I could not risk him vanishing into another of them.
“Hold!” I cried. “Bernando Morozzi, hold!”
He stopped and turned, looking toward me from the deep obscurity of his hooded cloak.
“It is I, Francesca Giordano. Will you run from me, coward? Or will we finish this now?”
I was counting on his hatred of me as well as the assumption made by every male that women are the weaker sex, unequal in any struggle. Sadly, that is too often true, but I had to believe that in my case it would be otherwise. I was prepared and I was determined. All I had to do was draw him close enough to so much as nick him with the knife. That would be enough.
Lest he sense my intent, I kept the blade lowered at my side as I walked toward him.
“Not so brave when you are alone, are you?” I taunted. “You can send someone to try to kill me but you are afraid to do it yourself. It was the same with my father. You could not do that either but had to act through others.”
He did not move or speak but I felt his eyes glaring at me.
I moved closer, propelled by the utter rightness of what I was about to do. Ki
lling Morozzi would rid the world of a monster, avenge my father, protect the Jews, and help to preserve Borgia all at the same time. The certainty of what it would mean filled me with strength unlike any I had ever known.
I was so close.…
An arm wrapped around my throat from behind. In the same motion, I was yanked off my feet. I had only an instant to realize what was happening before the breath was squeezed out of me.
“Strega,” a voice hissed in my ear. “I will watch your bones crack in the fire.”
A witch. But far more important, a fool. I had fallen into the trap of my own arrogance, forgetting what I not only knew but had warned other people of—that Morozzi was far too clever ever to be underestimated. Like Borgia, he played a deep game, always thinking many moves ahead. For certain, he had outmaneuvered me.
Desperately, I thrust backward with the knife but Morozzi was too fast. In an instant, he threw up his free arm and blocked my strike. Pain shot down through me. Only with the greatest effort did I manage to hold on to the knife.
At the same time, the other man, the one who had gulled me into thinking he was my quarry, rushed to assist Morozzi. He seized my wrist, intending to wrest the knife from me. His hood fell back and I saw a young man, not much older than myself, his eyes alight with the fire of a true believer.
Morozzi tightened his hold around my throat yet further. Black spots swam before my eyes. I knew myself to be only moments away from unconsciousness and death. With the last of my strength, I held on to the knife just long enough to nick the young man’s chin. Scarcely had I managed to do so than the blade fell from my numbed fingers. At first, the wound meant nothing to him; I doubt he even noticed it. But the poison is among the fastest-acting I have ever created. In the space of mere heartbeats, he staggered back as all the color drained from his face.
Seeing him, Morozzi must have realized that something was wrong. He tightened his hold around my throat even more. I clawed at his arm in desperation but it was no use. The blackness closed in around me and I went limp.
Moments later—it could not have been longer than that—I recovered to find myself lying on the floor of the church against a column where Morozzi must have hurled me. He was bending over the younger man, screaming at him.
“What is wrong? What did she do to you?”
Distantly, I realized that in the tumult, Morozzi had no more idea of what had happened than did the younger man himself. So far as they both knew, I had managed to strike him down with, at most, hardly more than a pinprick.
I crawled upright, holding on to the column, and saw what Morozzi saw. His lackey was writhing on the ground, gasping for breath as his eyes bulged and his limbs convulsed.
As I said, the poison is fast-working.
Which meant that I had little time to finish the job. Frantically, I scrambled across the floor, trying to find the knife. If I could only get to it quickly enough—
The younger man was in his final throes. Black foam spewed from his mouth. Morozzi recoiled in horror. He turned away and saw me just as light from one of the altar lamps glinted off the knife’s blade.
I lunged for it, sobbing with relief when my hand closed around the hilt. With the last of my strength, I struggled upright. I would meet Morozzi on my feet and, by God or the Devil—at that moment, I truly did not care which—I would kill him.
The mad priest froze, his face contorted in rage. He made to rush me only to halt suddenly as his gaze locked on the knife. To my despair, I watched as understanding dawned.
“Strega,” he said again, with fear and loathing. The raw instinct for survival took command. With a furious snarl, he turned and fled down the aisle.
At the same moment, the last of my strength left me. I slid to the floor. My throat felt constricted by fire and every breath I struggled to draw was agony. Later, I might be glad that I was alive but just then I could think only that Morozzi had escaped me—again. Poor weak creature that I was, I lay on the cold stones and wept.
* * *
Slowly, I became aware that I was not alone. Kind hands touched me. Voices murmured. I was lifted and carried some distance through shadow and flickering light, up a short flight of steps and into a room.
“Bring the lamp closer.”
I winced and tried to turn my head away.
“It’s all right, I just want to see your throat.”
Sofia. I opened my eyes to find her bending over me, her face creased with worry. She leaned forward, listening as I breathed, then straightened and nodded to someone standing behind her.
“It’s bad but she can breathe normally, thanks be to God.”
Her hands moved over me gently. “Does anything else pain you?”
Only my heart, but I saw no reason to say that. Instead, I shook my head and struggled to sit up. At once, a familiar figure stepped forward to help me.
“David … how did you…?” My voice emerged as little more than a croak, yet he still managed to understand me.
“Benjamin kept his promise,” he said as he settled me against the bolster at the top of Sofia’s bed. It was set behind a screen in the workroom at the back of her shop. I could smell the drying herbs and hear the soft hiss of the fire in a nearby brazier where water was heating.
“He stayed out of the way but he made sure to put me in touch with Alfonso. He sent word that you were in trouble.”
“More fool I.” Done with tears, I steeled myself for what had to be faced. “Morozzi got away.”
“We know,” David said, not unkindly. “We found the other man. He’s been … taken care of.”
I nodded, understanding that it was never good for the Jews for a body to be found in a church. Inevitably, they would have been blamed.
Thought of that reminded me of what Borgia had said regarding their purpose. My mouth twisted. Still struggling to speak, I gestured for Sofia to bend closer.
“I am sorry to have failed you,” I whispered.
A tear slipped down her cheek, silver in the pale light. Her arms enfolded me. I inhaled the faint aroma of vinegar that always clung to her. But just beneath, rising up to replace it, I smelled lavender mingling with lemon, a perfume I had never associated with Sofia. I had only a moment to wonder at it before I heard a woman singing softly. An extraordinary sense of contentment washed over me. For the space of a heartbeat, I felt utterly safe and loved.
With my next breath, terror roared through me. It came without reason or warning. The faint thought struggled through my mind that it was some sort of reaction to what I had experienced in the church but it was quickly evident that this was far more. I was plainly and simply petrified. My heart pounded so frantically that it seemed intent on exploding from my chest and I was hard-pressed to breathe. Mewing sounds that I scarcely recognized came from me. I clung to Sofia even as I lost all awareness of her presence.
I was behind the wall but it offered no protection; a wave of blood poured in beneath, above, around, engulfing me. I heard screams and a voice pleading but the words made no sense, coming as they seemed to from some moment just before the world shattered.
“Stay very quiet, sweetheart. Don’t make a sound.”
Who spoke? Whose hands pressed me gently into the darkness?
“Please God, don’t let her see…”
“Mamma!”
A great silence engulfed me. It went on for what seemed a very long time. I lay within it, curled deep inside myself, safe so long as I did not move. Some unknowable while later, I saw shards of sunlight, tasted broth spooned onto my tongue. A sparrow flitted within my sight. The sheets under me were cool. Someone spoke to me.
My father?
But he was dead and I had failed yet again to avenge his murder.
“Francesca—?”
I opened my eyes. Sofia still held me but it was David who had spoken. When I did not respond, he asked, “What is happening to her?”
“It is as I feared; the strain has been too much. She is remembering.”
I slept then, deeply, and mercifully without dreams. When I awoke, it was morning. I smelled porridge cooking and heard voices nearby. I moved but tentatively, feeling as fragile as the glass I loved to watch Rocco create. Yet I managed to sit up and even to swing my legs over the side of the bed. From there it was only a matter of gathering enough strength to rise.
The world spun but I held on, waiting until it righted. When it had, I took one step, followed by careful others. Sofia and David were sitting at the table in the front of the apothecary shop. They jumped up at sight of me.
“I am fine,” I said, but failed to fend them off. Truth be told, I didn’t try very hard. In my weakened state, the notion of being taken care of was an irresistible temptation.
“Sit down,” Sofia urged. When I had done so, she set a cup of tea in front of me and stood at my side until I had drunk the better part of it. The taste was faintly bitter but not unpleasant. Soon enough, I began to return more fully to life.
First and most important, I had to know, “Did you find my knife?” Although I had used it on Morozzi’s lackey, it would still be coated with the contact poison, making it extraordinarily dangerous to anyone who might handle it carelessly.
Sofia moved quickly to reassure me. “We assumed, given the circumstances, that it had to be dealt with carefully. I have it locked away in a box.”
Relieved, I nodded and pressed on. “What is happening in the city?” My voice sounded like gravel rolling around in a barrel but I was determined to speak.
“There is no sign of Morozzi,” David said. “Alfonso has his people looking but to no effect, at least not so far. Borgia’s men are at your apartment, asking after you. Rumor has it that you are dead.”
Ah, Rome and its gossipmongers, ever ready to spin a good story.
“How do they say I died?” You may think my curiosity morbid but I was truly interested in knowing.
“Struck down inside a church,” Sofia replied. She looked grim. “Opinion is evenly divided as to whether that was punishment for your wicked ways or Borgia’s.”