by Sara Poole
I winced. “For pity’s sake, don’t do that.”
My head throbbed and the light in the crypt seemed overly bright but apart from that I felt better than I had expected. Already, the cold caul of death was slipping away, replaced by returning warmth and strength. Discovering that I could move, I swung my legs over the side of the bier and attempted to stand up. That was a mistake. Immediately, my knees gave way and I collapsed onto the floor. Cesare being frozen where he stood, I was left to haul myself back onto the bier, where I sat until I caught my breath.
“I’m not dead. I’ll explain everything—” I wasn’t looking forward to that but his presence in the crypt left me no choice. “But first, why are you here and where is Sofia Montefiore?”
He gave no sign of having heard me but he did take a step nearer, followed by another. “You aren’t dead?”
“Obviously not, nor are you witnessing any sort of miracle.” I added that last part lest he was befuddled enough to think that Almighty God would favor one such as me.
“Then what in Hades is happening here?”
I think he had figured out at least part of it already, for he had a brilliant mind and an even greater genius for intrigue. Even so, the sheer enormity of the deception I had engineered gave him pause. He needed a little time to believe what I had done.
“This is all a charade? You faked your own death?”
I nodded. “You want Morozzi to show himself and so do I. This was the best way.”
Which made us coconspirators in the plot to use Borgia as bait. I had to hope that having joined him on the side of expediency in contradiction of all natural law, Cesare would be willing to overlook my little ruse.
“Damn it, why in hell didn’t you tell me!” He strode to the bier, seized hold of me, and dragged me upright. “Do you have any idea how I felt? I thought you were dead. Dead! Even then I said you weren’t, I told everyone that idiot doctor was wrong but you were still just lying there, not moving. I couldn’t hear your heart or feel you breathing. You were cold as ice. Why didn’t you say something! Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Because I was unconscious! How else could I have looked like that? Blame me for not telling you before I acted, although I had good reason not to and make no apology for it. But don’t blame me for failing to consider your sensibilities when I was hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads!”
The full enormity of what I had done finally dawned on him. He did not let me go, probably just as well, as I would have fallen again, but he did ease his grip.
“My God,” he said, “you took something.”
“It was perfectly safe.” I saw no reason to mention that it might not have been or, for that matter, ever to think of that again.
“Are you mad? You could have been killed!”
“I will be killed if Morozzi disposes of your father and clears the way for Savonarola to become pope. A great many people will die. You’re likely to be among them.”
That possibility seemed not to have occurred to him but then he was still in the stage of his life when he thought himself immortal. Even so, he did not reject it out of hand.
“You may have a point.”
Judging that to be as great a concession as I could hope for, I said, “Sofia and Luigi must be worried sick. Why aren’t they here?”
“They knew, both of them? You told them and not me?”
I considered trying to explain that to him but it would have involved so much placating and soothing of his vanity that I simply could not muster the strength. Instead, I chose the more practical course.
With a soft moan, I sagged against him.
“Francesca!”
It was cruel, I know, to taunt a man so lately overcome with grief at the thought of my death. But as I said, I had chosen the side of expediency.
He swept me into his arms and was striding toward the doors of the crypt when they were flung open and Sofia entered. I peered at her surreptitiously as she railed at Cesare.
“That’s enough! You put her down right now and let me take care of her! Luigi, bring the blankets. Binyamin, where is that tea I brewed? David, don’t just stand there, take her from him!”
He stepped forward without hesitation. Unlike Rocco, David ben Eliezer had grown up brawling in the streets of Rome, where the greatest provocation was to be seen as a proud Jew. Never one to bow his head to any man, he went nowhere without a knife, a cudgel, a garroting wire, and the power of his own fists. Moreover, he was as adept at using those weapons as was Cesare himself. Both men were warriors to the bone. Let loose, they would have done each other a great deal of damage.
How fortunate that I was there between them.
“Stop!” I cried out. “We have no time for this. Cesare, for pity’s sake, put me down. These people mean no harm. They care as much for your father’s safety as you do yourself.”
“They are Jews.”
“They are my friends! And they will be yours if only you let them.”
That was a bit fanciful but thankfully neither Sofia nor David contradicted me. Even better, Cesare must have realized the folly of dividing our forces, for he relented and sat me down on the bier.
Sofia rushed forward. I was draped in blankets, chafed with warm hands, fed the restorative tea, and generally made much of.
“How is your vision?” she demanded. “Can you see properly?”
When I assured her that I could, she rushed on. “Wiggle your fingers and toes. Good. Turn your head. The other way, too. What day is it? Who am I? What is the last thing you remember? Is there any ringing in your ears? Are you experiencing melancholia or any other morbid sensibility? Can you pass water? I would like to examine it to be sure that—”
“Enough! Unless you have found a way to stop time, we must be done with this.”
She paused. Only then did I notice how closely Cesare was watching us. Looking at Sofia, he said, “Did you give her whatever it was that she took?”
Knowing full well the consequences of any such admission on her part, I spoke before she could.
“It was a potion of my own devising. Sofia tried to dissuade me and only agreed to go along so that she could be here to help me.”
Cesare was clearly unconvinced, but in the face of my lie, he could hardly interrogate Sofia further. That being the case, he turned his attention to Luigi.
“What is your excuse?”
I thought that the banker, being a sensible man, would seek to soothe Cesare, but instead Luigi said, “Francesca risked her life to persuade Morozzi that the way is clear for him. Your own grief will help convince him that she truly is dead.”
“You used me.”
“We are all using each other,” I said, my exasperation returning in full force. The chill of the crypt was beginning to penetrate the blanket I clutched. I had no wish to linger.
Turning to Sofia, I asked, “Did you bring clothes for me?”
Sofia indicated a basket. Together, we moved deeper into the crypt, where I dressed behind a blanket she held up. The breeches, doublet, and broad-brimmed hat that I donned were the uniform of a page in Luigi’s service. The livery was both easy for me to move around in and likely to deter unwanted attention.
Dressing, I whispered, “None of us bargained on Cesare being here. He can be useful later but I need to elude him for some little time.”
“Why?”
When I told her, she balked. “It is too dangerous. Surely, David can—”
“He wouldn’t be believed, nor would Benjamin. I have to do this myself.”
In the twilight sleep between life and death, it had occurred to me that tragic events had provided an opportunity to assure that Morozzi, never one to put himself at risk if he could avoid it, would not delegate the attack on Borgia to his Il Frateschi allies and slip away unseen. I did not add, although I suspected Sofia knew, that I also needed to repay a debt of honor.
Reluctantly, she agreed. With an arm around me, she hustled us past the men, annou
ncing loudly, “Enough of this terrible place. Francesca must have fresh air.”
A quick look passed between her and David. That smoothly, he stepped in front of Cesare and Luigi, delaying their own departure from the tomb.
At the first touch of the sun on my face, unfettered relief flowed through me. Despite the desperate gamble I had taken, I was alive. For that I was truly thankful, but any expression of my gratitude would have to wait.
With a quick nod to Sofia, I slipped away through the screen of trees and out onto the busy street.
32
It was mid-afternoon when I set out to cross the river to Trastevere. In body and mind I was still more fragile than I had admitted to the others. The dark pool in which I had floated for so many hours had not entirely loosened its hold on me. I moved through the waning light of day while behind me trailed wisps of the strange contentment I had felt, lightly tethering me to that sense of oneness that I would never entirely forget.
In my page’s garb, I attracted no notice whatsoever. As I walked, I listened to snatches of conversation from passersby. Most of what I gleaned was of no import but here and there I heard references to the death of la strega, to Borgia’s chances of survival—not considered good—and to the terrible war that he and della Rovere seemed determined to bring down upon simple people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to get on with their lives.
Mulling over all that, I crossed the Ponte Sisto and had a sudden uncomfortable moment when I spotted Vittoro on horseback patrolling with several condottierri, including the hapless fellow that Cesare had set to guard me. I was glad to see that he had not suffered for my “death,” but thought his pardon likely due less to any act of mercy than to the simple need for as many armed men as possible to shore up Borgia’s defenses.
Vittoro was another to whom I would have to explain and hope for forgiveness, but rather than worry about that, I found myself thinking about the kindness of his family in coming out to mourn me. To do that for someone whom most others condemned as a witch took courage as well as genuine feeling. With the realization that I truly was less alone in this world than I had thought, the dark pool lost a little more of its appeal.
Within the warren of narrow streets that fanned out from the larger avenues where the wealthy had their houses, I found the vine-covered entrance to the netherworld that Benjamin had revealed to me. Using the flint and tinder I had acquired from Luigi, I struck a light. The passage leading downward was as uninviting as I remembered but I did not hesitate. This much I owed to Alfonso and to the nameless girl Morozzi had turned into a living torch.
I had barely stepped into the remains of the buried villa where I had first encountered il re dei contrabbandieri when various of his acolytes took note of me. At once I was surrounded by a motley crew of red-eyed, angry boys and a few girls who looked ready to tear any intruder limb from limb.
Without delay, I whipped off my cap, let my hair tumble about my shoulders, and announced, “I am Francesca Giordano. If you think to harm me, be prepared to die.”
I was taking a risk revealing myself to them but I considered that I had no choice. Further, I believed that given all that had occurred, they would keep my secret rather than risk giving benefit to the vile enemy who had killed one of their own.
Even so, their reaction was everything I expected and more. Scant hours before, they would have learned not only of my death but of the honors afforded me at my hasty but well-attended funeral by no less than Il Papa himself. Truly, one cannot get much more dead than to be sent to eternal rest under the auspices of Christ’s Vicar himself.
Yet there I was alive. Orpheus returned from the underworld could not have been received with greater awe and terror. They drew back, wide-eyed and gasping, and made no attempt to impede me as I crossed the space to stand before Alfonso’s throne.
Il re sat slumped in the gilded chair, his raw-boned features suffused with grief. The dead girl’s twin knelt beside him, weeping.
Glancing up, he saw me and for a moment I thought he might be overcome with horror. But any such capacity had been leached out of him by what he had witnessed. He simply shrugged.
“Have you lost your way to Hades?”
“No, although I can understand why you might think so. I am very sorry for what happened.”
“It would not have if I had not made common cause with you.”
There was no denying the truth of that. I had, however inadvertently, had a hand in the girl’s horrible death. Yet another sin for which I could never make amends.
“There being no consolation for such grief,” I said, “I have brought you something else that I hope you will find useful.”
He looked at me with his better eye. “What would that be?”
“Morozzi did not act alone. He had help from six members of Il Frateschi who are resident at the guesthouse adjacent to Santa Maria. They are disguised as merchants from Florence come to discuss renovation of the basilica.”
Alfonso stirred a little in his chair and looked at me more closely. “How certain are you of this?”
“Entirely certain. It should be a simple matter to confirm that.”
“Yes,” Alfonso said, “it should be. What about the priest?”
“Leave him to me.”
“I would rather not.”
“I understand that but you have no choice. I do not presume that my claim on him is greater than yours but he is mine nonetheless.”
Alfonso considered that. Finally, he said, “Do you think she suffered long?”
“I think the smoke suffocated her before the flames could do very much.”
It happened like that sometimes, but burnings can be done with green wood, the better to stretch out the torment of the condemned and be sure that death comes only after great agony. I could only hope that the girl had been more fortunate than that.
“I want him to suffer,” Alfonso said. Just then he sounded very young, a child’s voice coming out of one who seemed aged far beyond his years.
“He will,” I promised, and knew that within the ledger of my soul, the torment of the girl and the grief of her compatriots had been added to all the other harm Morozzi had done and sought to do. The reckoning, when it came, would have to be very great indeed.
I left the way I had come, confident that Alfonso would act to eliminate the allies who might yet help Morozzi. As I emerged back into Trastevere, the fading rays of sunlight were turning the rooftops red-gold. Cesare’s house was on a corner near the river. Not much smaller than the building where I lived, for all that it was home to only one man and his servants, it was also three stories tall, with a sloping, tiled roof and small barred windows facing the street. Only the fineness of the carvings around each window and beneath the roof, as well as the presence of armed men at the ornate entrance, declared it to be the residence of a great lord.
I approached it by a circuitous route and stood for a little while deep in the shadows of a doorway on the other side of the street, from which I could watch the house. Servants came and went through an entrance to one side. I waited until a page went in, then slipped quickly behind him before the door could shut. Scarcely had I taken half a dozen steps inside than I was seized from behind by the nape of my shirt and lifted off the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing, brat, prancing in here like you’re the lord’s own get?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I gasped in as servile a tone as I could manage. “Message for Signore Borgia from Signore d’Amico.” For good measure, I added, “To be delivered personally, sir.”
I was dropped, only just managing to land on my feet. The guard pointed a beefy arm toward the stairs. “Present yourself to the sergeant-at-arms next time, whelp, instead of skulking around. Not everyone here’s as patient and kind as myself.”
Pursued by guffaws, I scrambled for the stairs and quickly made my way to the main floor of the house. The loggia bordering lush interior gardens was elegantly designed with pane
led walls, marble columns, and a selection of statues I recognized as having been taken from some of the many excavations going on all over the city. I walked past a naked warrior with a bow strung across his back, a youth strumming a harp, and a young woman bare-breasted in all her glory who might have been Venus herself.
A steward, accepting my claim to come from Signore d’Amico, brusquely directed me up another flight of stairs, where I proceeded down a hallway. My eye caught a door designed to blend in with the wall and meant for use by servants. I opened it and found myself in a narrow corridor running the length of the house. Steep steps led to the uppermost floor where half a dozen doors led off the passage. Opening one, I discovered what was likely Cesare’s private office. Another led to what I assumed was his bedroom.
The spurt of energy that had carried me along since the discovery that I was still alive was waning fast. I stared at the bed in longing only to decide that a message boy making himself at home so daringly was likely to earn himself a beating from outraged servants. Glancing around, I spied another door, which upon examination led into a small chamber with windows facing the garden. An immense silvered mirror in a gold frame took up one entire wall. The others were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and finely carved wardrobes. The room was filled with clothing, everything from velvet doublets, wool capes lined with silk, fine linen shirts, brocade collars, soft leather jerkins, hose of every description, and a truly astounding quantity of footwear from shoes to boots and back again. In addition, several locked chests held what I assumed to be jewelry—chains, rings, and the like. No wigs, though. Cesare had a marvelous head of hair and would never have dreamed of concealing it.
Too weary to do more than sigh, I slid down onto the floor, leaned my back against one of the walls, and was about to close my eyes when I heard shouting.
“Where in hell is he then, this boy you say brings a message from d’Amico?”
Murmur, murmur, placating sounds …
“For God’s sake, I’m surrounded by incompetents!”