Nicola was puzzled. “Why is the pope making war on Naples? I thought he divorced Madonna Lucrezia from her first husband so that he could link his family with Naples.”
“True, but then the King of Naples refused to allow his daughter to marry Lucrezia’s brother Cesare. So now the pope allies himself with France. The French have always claimed Naples,” explained Sister Beatrice.
“But didn't the pope chase the French king out of Naples, only a few years ago?”
The priora sighed. “The pope is caught in the middle between Naples and France. He goes with whoever is strongest.”
“Why do the French keep trying to seize Naples, anyway?” Nicola wanted to know.
The priora sighed again. “Naples was French from the time when the French were called ‘Normans,’ and roamed the oceans in long ships with dragons’ heads on the prows,” she explained. “When the last Queen of Naples died, the Aragona from Spain took Naples by force. The French are determined to get it back.”
But Nicola was no longer listening. Instead, she was wondering how the Normans attached dragons’ heads to the prows of their ships. She had thought dragons were mythical, but perhaps the Normans killed them off. Did they use nails to put the heads on their boats, the way Christ was nailed to the cross?
She was still puzzling over this question when Sister Beatrice tugged at her sleeve. It was time for them to leave.
* * *
The next day, Nicola again left the convent before dawn in its wagon, this time with the priora and Sister Beatrice. They followed the same route to the Vatican that the priora had taken to Madonna Lucrezia’s wedding. Nicola took comfort from the fact that she remembered nearly every building. If she ever had to make her way across Rome by herself—to flee from the French, for example—she was now confident that she could do it.
Once they reached the Vatican, they again headed for the Borgia wing of the papal palace. This time, however, the servants ushered them past the public rooms used for Lucrezia’s wedding, and into the pope’s private apartments.
Madonna Lucrezia was dictating a letter to a sour-faced priest in a large, high-ceilinged study whose walls were bright with frescoes of beautiful young women in white gowns, sitting on marble thrones. Over her head, on the vaulted ceiling, were biblical scenes, punctuated here and there with the Borgia bull. The floor tiles were as brightly colored and patterned as the walls and ceiling. The whole effect was a little dizzying, Nicola decided.
Madonna Lucrezia was dressed in a black camorra, striped with gold and violet satin, her golden hair caught in a jeweled snood. She looked older, prettier and happier than the last time Nicola saw her. She dismissed the priest, and rose to greet her guests.
“I am happy to see you, Priora; Sister Beatrice,” she said, kissing each on the cheek. “And this must be Nicola! How you have grown, child!”
“Is that a new baby, Lucrezia?” said the priora, gesturing towards a smiling servant with a bundle in her arms. “I had not heard. Congratulations! Boy or girl?”
“A boy.”
“May I?” said Sister Beatrice, taking the child from the servant. “See Nicola? This is a newborn—see how tiny his fingers are?”
Nicola stared at the sleeping baby, who looked nothing like the infants in the church frescoes. He was practically chinless, for one thing. And he had almost no hair on his round red head. “He is smaller than the baby Jesus,” she announced diplomatically. “Do you like this husband better than your first one?” she asked Lucrezia.
“Nicola!” the nuns said simultaneously.
Lucrezia smiled. “I love him more than I can say, bambolina. We are so blessed. It’s astounding for an arranged marriage--but it happened.”
“Is it a problem that he is from Naples?
“Nicola! I’m sorry, Madonna Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia sighed. “My brother Cesare thinks Alfonso is a spy, but my father would never let Cesare hurt him. I still worry, though.” She faced the priora. “Now, what new worries have you brought me? You must be here for a reason.”
“Perhaps we should sit down,” the priora said.
“Not good news then. Come, I am sitting now. Tell me.”
“I deeply regret to inform you of the death of Sister Gerolama. I wanted to tell you in person. I am terribly sorry.”
Lucrezia bowed her head, fingering the jeweled cross she wore around her neck. “I was afraid that was it, as soon as I saw you. Poor Gerolama. But she was so holy she was certainly better prepared for death than most. I wish I had known her better.” She crossed herself, then looked up. “How did she die? Did she suffer?”
“On this point, we must pray for your discretion. If the pope or Lord Valentino were to find out. . . .”
“The secrets of your convent are safe with me, Priora. We have long had an understanding there, have we not?” replied Lucrezia. “Now, tell.”
“She died in St. Peter's Square on Easter Sunday, after receiving the pope's blessing. Her suffering was brief, and she received last rites. But my child—I’m sorry to say it, but we believe she was poisoned.”
“Poisoned! Someone poisoned a nun? Is no one safe?”
“People in the crowd were sharing food and water, so it could have come from anyone. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Gerolama? A vendetta, perhaps?”
Lucrezia frowned. “No one would kill Sister Gerolama for herself. But a vendetta against my family? Si, that could happen. But almost no one knew she was still alive.”
“Who, outside the convent?” asked the priora. Nicola looked at Lucrezia expectantly. This, potentially, was the key to the whole puzzle.
Lucrezia bowed her head and tapped her forehead, as if willing herself to think. “In my family, only myself and my mother. We never trusted the men to have sympathy for her desire to remain in a convent. Even Cesare does not know.”
Lucrezia frowned. “My mother may have told some women friends. I told my two best friends: Giulia Orsini, my father’s current favorite, and Sanchia d'Aragona, who is married to my youngest brother Jofre.”
“But the Orsini have a vendetta against the Borgias, do they not?”
“Si. As do the Aragona, now that my father is making war on Naples. He sent Sanchia back home. She is furious with him, and not one for keeping quiet. What are you writing, bambolina?”
“We have tried to make a list of the families who might have vendettas against the Borgias,” explained Nicola, who had just scribbled “Aragona” on it.
“Let me see it,” said Lucrezia. “It will save time.” She took it from Nicola and scanned the names.
“The Sforza—si. Caterina Sforza already tried to poison my father by sending him letters that had been wrapped in plague blankets. But she is in the Castel Sant’Angelo, now. I am not sure her family would dare do anything as long as she remains alive.” Lucrezia put a “?” beside “Sforza.”
“The pope put Caterina Sforza in prison?” blurted Nicola, who then winced at the priora’s warning glance.
“Well, it was Cesare, really,” replied Lucrezia, shaking her head. “She fought him dressed in armor, and even tried to shut a drawbridge on him when he was carrying a flag of truce, so nobody thinks of her as very womanly.”
“Beatrice, explain your theory about the murderer,” the priora directed.
“Madonna Leonora Sforza is the likely killer,” said Sister Beatrice. “She and her retainers were next to Sister Gerolama after the murder, so they could easily have been sharing food and drink. We have established that she was aware of Sister Gerolama's identity--her sister is one of the older nuns at our convent, who let this information slip accidentally.”
“I know Leonora Sforza! She is half-sister to my first husband!” Lucrezia was silent for a moment. “I would need very strong proof to accuse her, because she will seek help from him,” she said slowly. “He has accused me and my family of terrible things in the past, after my father forced our divorce. Dio only knows what he will say if I
accuse his sister of murder. Leonora seemed a harmless enough person to me. Do you have any real proof against her?”
“No,” Sister Beatrice admitted.
“Then you must keep looking,” Lucrezia replied, going back to the list. I would cross out the Farnese,” she said, doing so. “They are allied with the Borgia, because of Giulia. But the Orsini--si, definitely. We have been fighting the Orsini for years.”
Lucrezia now began adding surnames to the list. “You should add the Colonna, now that the Pope has taken their fortresses at Sermoneta and Castelgandolfo. Also, the Gonzagas. They are angry because my father has imprisoned Guidobaldo and refuses to ransom him. And of course, the Aragona of Naples.”
Sister Beatrice looked at the list sadly. “We had hoped to narrow things -- but almost every great family in Italy is on this list. And from what you tell us, many enemies of the Borgia may have known that Gerolama was alive.”
“I am sorry I have not helped,” sighed Lucrezia. “To make matters worse, these are only the names I know. Cesare and my father tell me almost nothing about the actions they take that are not in the public eye.”
“Speaking of actions that are not in the public eye: I have an awkward problem, which requires your assistance, Madonna,” said the priora. “Giulia Orsini has written to ask me to accept her daughter Laura as a pupil. While I would be happy to have her, I cannot guarantee her safety until we are certain the Borgia family has no enemies in the convent. I have told her that Laura is too young at present, but I cannot put her off for ever. At all costs, however, I do not want my concerns to be relayed to the pope.”
“Of course,” said Lucrezia. “Dio only knows what my father or Cesare would do, if they thought that San Sisto housed the killer of one of our kin. Laura is a dear child. I will suggest other plans for her.”
She reached into a chest next to her, and handed the priora a bag of gold ducats. “Use this to have masses said for Gerolama. And please continue your inquiries with the utmost discretion. If I hear anything, I will let you know. Thank you for coming.”
“We were glad to come. I have missed you,” Nicola said.
Lucrezia sighed. “And I have missed you, too. When I was in the convent, I longed to leave. Now, life is so complicated that I sometimes wish I could go back.”
The priora made the sign of the cross. “You are always in our prayers.”
* * *
After seeing Madonna Lucrezia, Sister Beatrice and Nicola revised their list to include the families Lucrezia had named. They came up with ten nuns, two pilgrims (both since departed) and four students who were present in St. Peter's Square when Sister Gerolama died:
Nuns from families who hate the Borgia
Sister Anna (Orsini)
Sister Elisabetta (Orsini)
Sister Beatrice (Orsini)
Sister Ignacia (Sforza)
Sister Sophia (Gaetani)
Sister Francesca (Colonna)
Sister Amelia (Orsini )
Sister Patienza (Aragona)
Sister Domenica (Gaetani)
Sister Paolina (Gonzaga)
Students:
Pia Gaetani
Angelica d’ Aragona
Pilgrims:
Leonora Sforza
Luisa Gonzaga
Sister Beatrice threw up her hands when she saw the size of the list. “I still think Madonna Sforza is the killer. We cannot report a solution to the priora when all we do is add more suspects. I cannot devote more time to this!”
“I can,” said Nicola. “I have an idea.”
Chapter 15—Niccolò in Motion
Florence,
July, 1500
“Any good news, Niccolò?” Machiavelli’s secretary was a dark shadow in the doorway.
“None.” Machiavelli took his candle and walked wearily to his office fireplace, where he deposited another letter in the embers. “Cesare Borgia is mowing through Italy like a scythe through ripe wheat. Those new cannon of his go through old city walls like dry bread. Then his army does the usual—looting and burning, raping the nuns and children. Et cetera.” It was hard to make his voice flippant, he was so tired.
“It’s late. Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Gràzie, Agostino. No. These letters are for my eyes only. I have to get through them--I leave for France at dawn.”
“And will the French king help us?”
“Maybe. France and Florence are old friends. But we may still have to bribe Il Valentino.”
“Bribe him to leave us alone? What has the world come to?”
“We shame our ancient Roman ancestors, don’t we, Agostino? I blame it on the Church—teaching us to turn the other cheek instead of doing brave deeds, then robbing us blind when our heads are turned. Il Valentino’s father bribed his way to the papacy, and now sells church offices like a butcher sells meat. How can we expect any better of his son? With that kind of example from our Church, it is amazing there is an honest man left in Italy.”
Agostino smiled. “Well, I know one. Arriverderci and buona fortuna, Niccolò. Be careful of those French women! Try to find one who isn’t diseased.”
“If she exists, I’ll find her. Ci vediamo.” Machiavelli raised his candle in salute, and returned to his desk.
A letter with an unfamiliar seal lay near the bottom of the pile. Weary and distracted, Niccolò opened it, and stared at the signature. Why was a nun writing to him? Then he smiled –this was about his bastard, Nicola. Who must be getting old now—fourteen, maybe? Apparently his little chatterbox had grown into an attractive and mischievous young woman. As a toddler she had resembled her mother, he remembered. Now, it sounded like she was her mother all over again. Remembering them both brought him sudden pain.
“Porca Madonna! Too bad she wasn’t a boy,” he said to himself. He could use a spare heir. His wife had produced none as yet—not even a girl. At least Caterina Sforza has left the child alone, he reflected. As promised, he had made sure La Sforza’s children were safe in Florence, while their mother battled in vain against Cesare Borgia.
He frowned at the priora’s request that he write to Nicola. Leaving his weeping, clinging child in the arms of a stone-faced nun was one of the hardest things he had ever done. For years, every pretty toddler and every crying child had reminded him of Nicola. He had methodically thrust these memories aside, and eventually they ceased to trouble him. Now, despite himself, he had a mental picture of an older child—a girl who looked like Caterina. A girl who could now read. He knew she would haunt him.
He dismissed the thought as he unsealed the next letter in the pile. Here, finally, was something good: a substantial bribe, offered for a simple service that would not harm Florence. Smiling, he took up his quill to reply.
Chapter 16—Bullfights in St. Peter’s Square
Convent kitchen
Late June, 1500
Nicola was helping Cook knead bread, having been excused from morning prayer on Tuesdays by the priora for this purpose. She preferred kneading to praying, and was hoping for clues concerning the deaths of Sister Gerolama and Sister Annaluisa.
“Put more muscle in it, Nicola!” barked Cook, a short-tempered, gaunt woman who was never called anything else. Her flattened nose and broad, toothless jaw and mouth reminded Nicola of a frog, but in temperament she resembled something meaner—a stray dog, perhaps. Rumor was, that a cardinal had passed her along to San Sisto because he could not forgive her manners. The good-natured nuns tolerated her outbursts, because of the succulent dishes she prepared.
Nicola wanted to talk to the kitchen staff present at St. Peter’s Square the day that Sister Gerolama died. Short, plump Maria reminded Nicola of a large-breasted bird in the way she hopped about, chirped her words, and cocked her head when she spoke. Maria did not suspect she was being questioned, Nicola was sure--but that was because she had a mind like a sieve, which made her a poor witness.
Maria loved talking about Sister Gerolama's death throes (“She turned blue
and flopped around like a fish!”) but her other information was contradictory. She insisted that “all the nuns” had been around Sister Gerolama when she died, but “most of the nuns” were helping Vivos and Mortuos control the younger students at that time. La Greca was with a man and paying no attention to the students. Madonna Sforza, apparently, was everywhere. The other pilgrim guests were nowhere: Maria did not even remember their existence. Sister Joanna, the Spaniard, had knelt beside Sister Gerolama and whispered to her. Mortuos, whom Maria disliked, had helped Sister Beatrice tend to Sister Gerolama, helped the priest, helped the younger students and prayed for Sister Gerolama on her knees--all simultaneously, it seemed. About Sister Gerolama's wineskin, Maria knew nothing. Neither had she seen Gerolama eat or drink before she died.
“You should have seen all the blood!” said Maria, who had just been to a bullfight in St. Peter's Square, part of the pope’s Jubilee. “Cesare Borgia personally killed five bulls from horseback! He is soooo handsome!” she sighed, her pudgy hands clasped to her expansive breasts.
“Disgusting, all that blood!” said her friend Simonetta, another servant in the kitchens. “How could you stand it?”
“Bullfights are not disgusting. The pig races--now that was disgusting!” she giggled. “And the whores racing half-naked through the streets!”
“Pah. The honest courtesans are always doing things like that. Running around in costumes, juggling, holding races,” said Simonetta.
“Honest courtesans?” asked Nicola.
“Si, the ones who pay their tithes to the Vatican,” explained Simonetta. “They are legal, so they can advertise themselves.”
“Did you hear about the fifty whores who danced naked for the pope?” she continued. Both girls nodded. This event was the talk of Rome. The pope and his guests had tossed chestnuts, and the courtesans had crawled after them like dogs.
“And did you see the transvestites?” asked Simonetta.
“Cross-dressers?” asked Nicola, who knew her Latin. “What is that?”
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