The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  “Borgia’s, of course. On my own, I am hardly worthy of so dramatic an end.”

  “You may jest, but this is a serious matter. You could have been killed. As it is, you—”

  “I am fine,” I said before she could continue. Fragments of memory were surfacing in my mind. Vaguely, I recalled being in a considerable state when I was brought to the apothecary shop. In truth, I remembered rather more than that but I was in no mood to acknowledge it. Not with matters of such import closing in around me.

  “I must go,” I said, and made to rise, only to be pressed back into the chair at once by both Sofia and David, each with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sofia said. “You aren’t going anywhere until I am convinced that you can stand for more than a moment or two. In the meantime, you must eat.”

  To my surprise, my stomach rumbled. I was genuinely hungry; indeed, I was ravenous. I spooned the porridge she set before me into my mouth with unseemly haste, and not only because I was anxious to go. Truth be told, I often eat without really tasting the food, my mind being preoccupied with some other matter. But the porridge was creamy, sweet with a hint of salt, delicious.

  “This is good,” I said, and held out my bowl for more. As a child might.

  Sofia and David exchanged a glance but neither spoke. When I had finished the second portion, I sat back with a huge sigh, a hand on my comfortably full stomach. For a moment, all seemed right with the world.

  Of course, it was not. Morozzi was at large; Borgia was likely frantic, though he would never admit it; and I had tarried long enough.

  “I really have to leave,” I said. This time when I rose, they did not object but both looked concerned and, worse yet, uncertain. Plainly, they were at a loss as to how to deal with me. I could hardly blame them. Neither David nor Sofia had any familiarity with the kind of deception that I worked so readily upon myself.

  Even so, my friends were determined to help me.

  “I’m going with you,” David said as he stood.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together,” I cautioned. Bad enough if the leaders of the Hebrew Quarter learned of his return; if he was spotted in the presence of Borgia’s poisoner, or worse yet her ghost, they would be beside themselves.

  “We’ll go the way we brought you here,” he said. “Through the tunnels.”

  I was beginning to wonder why anyone in the city ever went about on the surface, being rained on, stepping in piles of manure, dodging horses and carts, and the like. Were it not for a tendency to collapse without warning, becoming instant tombs, Rome’s hidden byways would have been even more popular than they obviously were.

  “Take this with you,” Sofia said as I prepared to leave. She pressed a small packet of herbs into my hand. “The tea has a reviving effect but it is also calming.”

  I nodded but said, “If you wouldn’t mind, I could use more of the sleeping powder.”

  Given what had happened in the church and afterward, I feared that when the nightmare came, as it surely would if I was not drugged sufficiently to prevent it, it would so overtake my mind as to render me unable to escape it. I was willing to do anything to avoid that.

  Sofia hesitated and for a moment I feared that she meant to refuse. Panic rose in me. With the benefit of hindsight, I should have taken it as warning of my true state. Instead, as I always did, I pushed it aside.

  “I can give you a little more,” she said finally. “But the powder is too dangerous to be used regularly. We must find other ways to help you sleep.”

  So great was my relief that I wasted no time assuring her of my heartfelt intent to do just that, when in fact I had no wish to do anything of the sort. Lest you think me utterly without conscience, let me say that I did feel a twinge of guilt at so misleading her, but it was far too weak to give me other than momentary discomfort.

  Having received the powder from Sofia, and my knife as well, I took my leave with David. He led me back through the underground passages until we emerged into a narrow lane adjacent to the Piazza di Santa Maria. At that hour of the morning, the square around the fountain was thronged with passersby on foot and on horseback, as well as carts and wagons jockeying for position. No one took any notice of us. Still in my boy’s garb, I looked no more remarkable than any young apprentice, but my anonymity could not last. Deliberately, I averted my eyes from the church where I had so lately confronted death, and bid David farewell.

  “You will be careful?” he urged, his brow furrowed as he studied me. “Now that Morozzi knows you are hunting him, there is no telling what he may do.”

  The same thought had occurred to me but I did not say so. The mad priest was not likely to take my failed attack on him as anything other than a blatant provocation. He was certain to retaliate soon, making the urgency of stopping him greater than ever.

  Having assured David that I would take every precaution—yet another lie to add to my ever-growing tally—I made my way to my apartment. I hoped for some brief period of respite in which I could gather myself but that was not to be. Scarcely had I turned the corner into my street than I realized that the inevitable reckoning for my failed attack on the mad priest was about to come due.

  22

  Vittoro would not look at me directly. He kept his eyes focused on the wall over my shoulder. His hands were clasped behind his back, his features set in an expression of studied aloofness. Were I his subordinate, I would have quaked with fear. As it was I had to remind myself that I had done nothing other than use my best judgment regarding how to keep Borgia alive. Granted, a case could be made that I had erred by not calling in more assistance to confront Morozzi. But had I succeeded in killing the priest, my audacity would have been applauded. I was not disposed to apologize for it, although in all candor that might have been the safer course.

  The building was surrounded by condottierri who had taken up position in front and overflowed into the loggia. Apart from the soldiers, no one stirred along the street. My neighbors had the good sense to hide inside their residences, from which they peered out through shuttered windows at the goings-on below.

  “Donna Francesca,” Vittoro said when he spied me. “Alive and whole, despite what we have been hearing.”

  That seemed to give him no pleasure but I had to hope that my old friend still welcomed my continued presence on this earth.

  “So it appears,” I replied. “I need to bathe and change. Come up with me and we can talk.”

  Thus did I attempt to take control of the situation, insomuch as that was possible. I was counting on Vittoro’s inherent goodwill to grant me time to explain what had happened and in that, thankfully, I was not disappointed.

  “His Holiness is deeply concerned about you,” he said as we passed Portia’s door. The top panel was open and I thought I caught a glimpse of her hovering just within but I could not be sure.

  I did not take that statement literally, nor could Vittoro have meant for me to do so. We both knew full well that Borgia’s concern in any matter extended no further than his own welfare.

  “He shouldn’t listen to street gossip,” I replied.

  “You have been missing since yesterday. Much of the city has been caught up in an anticlerical riot that associates of yours are suspected of having provoked. There are reports of a killing within Santa Maria, although no body has been found. Now you show up, in boy’s garb and hardly able to speak because of what looks like a serious attempt to strangle you.”

  I touched a hand to my throat self-consciously. “Morozzi escaped me, for which I take full responsibility. However, at least I have been able to confirm that he is in the city and the number of his followers has been reduced by one.”

  Il capitano raised an eyebrow. “By your hand?”

  I shrugged in silent acknowledgment. “I understand that His Holiness will hold me accountable for my actions but I don’t think he would appreciate my appearing before him like this.”

  I was a sufficient source of scand
al already without provoking yet more, but I also wanted some little time to prepare what I would say in my own defense before facing Borgia.

  Vittoro did not disagree. He accompanied me up the stairs to my apartment and waited in the salon while I bathed and changed. Ordinarily, I paid little attention to what I wore, but under the circumstances I thought it prudent to take more than usual care. Accordingly, I chose a flowered Florentine silk that Lucrezia had pressed on me and even went so far as to let down my hair, brush the tangles from it, and secure it under a silver net snood.

  When I emerged, Vittoro was standing by a window overlooking the interior garden. He was petting Minerva, who appeared to have taken a liking to him. Surveying me as he might have one of his own daughters, he appeared satisfied by what he saw.

  Even so, he said, “I must warn you. I have rarely seen our master in such a state.”

  Harangued by the Spanish emissary, threatened by the demands of both the Sforzas and the King of Naples, with the specter of della Rovere looming over him, and now also confronted by Morozzi allied with the fanatic Savonarola, Borgia was indeed besieged on all sides. I knew that he had been in difficult positions before but there had always been a certain brio to him, a combination of enthusiasm and confidence that carried all else before it. More recently he had seemed merely angry or impatient, perhaps even disillusioned. After devoting the better part of his life to attaining the papacy, was our master discovering that Saint Peter’s Throne was not quite so comfortable a perch as he had imagined it would be?

  Rather than voice my concerns and in the process heighten them, I accompanied Vittoro largely in silence across the river to the Vatican Palace. The day marked one week to the appointed date for Lucrezia’s wedding to Pesaro. The bridegroom was expected to arrive in the city two days before then. In anticipation of his welcome, crews were out scrubbing the Corso and surrounding streets; draping banners in the gold and mulberry colors of the House of Borgia and the white and gold of the Sforzas over balcony railings; and setting out pots of poppies, marigolds, and white lilies mixed with jasmine. Armed guards stood watch against any repetition of the obscene graffiti that, for the moment at least, seemed to have stopped.

  In kitchens all over the city, preparations were under way for the vast public feast Borgia would offer up as tribute to the people of Rome. Ordinarily, anticipation of the festivities would have prompted a certain lightheartedness and good cheer but everywhere I looked, I saw faces set in sullenness, if not outright hostility. I had been so preoccupied with keeping Borgia safe that I had paid little attention to the mood growing in the city. Now I regretted not taking more notice of it.

  Despite what their “betters” like to think, humble men and women pay keen attention to what is happening around them; how can they not when their very survival depends on the whims of those fate has raised above them? That is all the truer of the sophisticated citizens of Rome. They knew full well the danger approaching from all sides. If what I saw was a fair representation of the city as a whole, the goodwill Borgia had received upon his election to the papacy had evaporated like rain striking heated stone.

  Our armed escort kept the crowds at a distance from us, but I caught more than a few, perhaps guessing who I was, make the horned sign to ward off evil. Much good it would do them.

  Having seen me within the confines of the Curia, Vittoro did me the courtesy of going no farther than the foot of the grand marble staircase leading up to the first floor and Borgia’s offices. I was spared the ignominy of being brought to His Holiness under guard. Yet I must admit that, distasteful though that would have been, I would have welcomed a strong arm to lean on as I climbed the steps.

  The denizens of the Curia being no more immune to the lure of gossip and scandal than any Ostian fishwife, my arrival was an occasion of great notice. One by one those I passed fell silent, regarding me with various degrees of malicious pleasure and outright hostility from which I gathered that my odds were not considered good. I regretted having no opportunity to lay off a few bets before confronting my fate.

  Only one friendly face awaited me and even that was guarded.

  “Donna Francesca,” Renaldo said as he darted into my path. “Praise God, you are alive.”

  “For the moment. How is His Holiness?”

  Renaldo grimaced. “In a rare state. Signore Cesare has returned from— Well, I’m sure you know where he was.”

  The knowledge that the business in Siena had been concluded lifted my spirits. Had circumstances been otherwise, I would have had no thought but to be reunited with my dark lover. Unfortunately, at the moment I had other priorities.

  Renaldo bent closer. In my ear, he said, “They are arguing worse than I have ever heard them. I fear they will come to blows.”

  “Right now?” I asked, surprised. “Cesare is here?”

  Renaldo nodded, not even bothering to pretend surprise at such familiarity on my part.

  “He arrived about an hour ago. He is enraged by the attacks on Donna Lucrezia’s honor. He actually blamed Il Papa for using her as a pawn and thereby putting her in danger.” The steward shuddered. “The shouting got worse after that. Frankly, I’m surprised the walls aren’t cracked.”

  I listened intently but heard nothing.

  “And now the silence—” The steward looked heavenward.

  I understood his concern. Heated argument between father and son was worrisome enough; dead quiet was far more ominous.

  “Has anyone—?” I began.

  “Looked through the spioncino? They haven’t the nerve. They’ve all fled to the farthest antechambers or beyond.”

  Where I would have been more than happy to join them, had I already not been in such disrepute with my employer that I did not dare risk more. Gathering my courage, I nodded.

  “Perhaps I should let His Holiness know that I am here?”

  Renaldo puffed up his cheeks and exhaled sharply, a sure sign of his agitation. “I think that would be a good idea.”

  For all that he approved my intention, he did not offer to accompany me. I could hardly blame him. Had I been the witch people accused me of being, perhaps I would have had a convenient spell for creating a simulacrum of myself to do my bidding while I remained at a safe distance. Unfortunately, I lacked such skill.

  “Well, then,” I said, and ventured forth.

  The innermost antechamber directly next to Borgia’s private sanctum was empty. I crossed it quickly, ignoring the murals of a lush Eve cavorting with the serpent. On the crest of a deep breath, I peered through the spioncino. I expected to see father and son in quieter conversation, having remembered belatedly the need for discretion. I would knock, announce myself, and hope against hope to be received with a minimum of outrage.

  The office was empty. There was no sign of either Borgia or Cesare.

  I cracked the door open, stepped inside, and peered around. No, they were not hiding in the corners waiting to leap out at me. They were nowhere at all.

  There were only three possibilities: They had adjourned to Borgia’s apartment, which I thought unlikely, as Renaldo would surely have known of their presence there. They had left the Curia and were in the adjacent Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico. I had difficulty imagining that in the throes of a serious argument, they would seek the company of either La Bella or Lucrezia.

  That left the secret door and the passageway leading to the Mysterium Mundi.

  I told myself that it was my duty to seek out His Holiness without delay, assuage his fears about my fate, and take responsibility for my failure to kill Morozzi. In doing so, I would reveal my knowledge of the concealed room beneath the Curia, but that was a price I was willing to pay to discover what lay within the hidden sanctuary, and what had drawn Borgia padre e figlio to it.

  I inched open the hidden door behind the bookcase and proceeded along the passageway slanting downward into the bowels of the earth. As sunlight faded behind me, I hesitated to light a lamp, reluctant as I was to give noti
ce of my approach. Waiting while my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw up ahead a glimmer of light, sufficient for me to continue on cautiously. Shortly thereafter, I caught the low murmur of men’s voices coming from the same direction. A breeze carrying the scents of moist earth and the nearby river cooled my cheeks. I crept toward the long shadows of two men cast against the stone walls. Their backs were to me; I could hear them talking but could not make out their words. Gathering my courage, I stepped from the darkness.

  Cesare saw me first. He was all in black, the somber hue accentuating the broad sweep of his shoulders and chest, the tautness of his waist and hips, the powerful muscles of his thighs. Truly, I was the most distractible creature. Yet I did manage to note that his garments were mud-splattered, suggesting that he had ridden for the city in great haste. The unguarded look of relief that flitted across his face startled me. Had we been alone, I might have responded without restraint, that glad was I to see him. Borgia’s presence quashed any such possibility.

  “The prodigal daughter!” Il Papa exclaimed. “Dare I ask how you come here? If there is any place more secret in all of Rome, I haven’t heard of it.”

  I lied without hesitation rather than reveal my penchant for sticking my nose where it does not belong. “My father told me of this place.”

  Before His Holiness could question me further, I made a show of looking around with great interest. That, at least, was genuine. Whereas on my first visit, I had been able to make out very little from the far side of the grille, now I could see that the room was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with scrolls, illuminated manuscripts, loose sheaves of parchment, jeweled casks, crystal vials, and, most ominously, skulls that looked not entirely human. Larger oddities, too big to be shelved, took up most of the remaining space. I glimpsed statues of bearded angels that, upon closer look, appeared to resemble demons; curiously carved bas reliefs; a large black rock half the height of a man with a highly polished, smooth surface as though burnished by fire; and too much more for my mind to grasp.