A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  Leonardo lowered Paolo to the ground and backed away, but not quickly enough. The sword snickered in the air, then thudded into flesh and bone. Francesco’s head glanced off da Vinci’s shoulder, spraying him with blood. Staggering sideways, Leonardo wiped his face with his handkerchief, then vomited into the ditch.

  When da Vinci looked up, the two headless bodies twitched as the horseman in front of them struggled to untether them from his nervous, blood-spattered mount. Paolo’s head lay in a red puddle almost at da Vinci’s feet, eyes closed, mouth agape. Michelotto was testing the sharpness of his newly-cleaned sword, looking pleased with himself. The air smelt like a butcher shop.

  “Now you know what happens to those who betray me,” Lord Valentino shouted. He and Michelotto spurred their horses, to return to the head of the column.

  Machiavelli was waiting to help da Vinci onto his horse when he returned. “I warned you, Leonardo.”

  “I have no regrets, Niccolò.” He wished, though, that he wasn’t shaking.

  “Why take risks for someone who is doomed? It’s not like buying a bird and setting it free, like they say you did in Florence. Francesco and Paolo’s lives could not have been bought at any price.”

  “How can you be so cold-blooded, Niccolò?”

  “It is my business to be cold-blooded. I have a treaty to negotiate. How can you be so affected? Didn’t you tell me that you have dissected corpses, and watched executions?”

  “Dissecting a corpse to study anatomy is one thing. Having a living body spray living blood all over your face is another.” Da Vinci gagged again as he remembered it.

  “True. You must have been worried about your own neck, as well. Michelotto very nearly took your head with Francesco’s. I was afraid you would be his third victim. Lord Valentino did not like what you did. He sees conspiracy everywhere, these days. Maybe you need a new patron, eh?”

  “Maybe so, Niccolò. Maybe so.”

  Chapter 25—The road to Rome

  South of Genoa, Italy

  A month later, February 1503

  Caterina Biaggi rode next to her husband Ugo, the servants and wagonloads of weapons they were escorting trailing behind, under guard. Partially hidden by her long cloak, she wore a split skirt specially made for this journey. Though her husband disapproved of it, she had ignored him. Lord Valentino was in a hurry for the weapons they were delivering, so the captain of his guard was pushing them to travel as quickly as possible. It was over three hundred miles to Rome, however, much of it through mountains—and it was winter. Seven hours a day in the saddle was hard. Seven hours sidesaddle would have been sheer torture.

  The weather had made misery out of what could have been a spectacular trip, along the ancient Roman road that ran through the mountains from Milan to Genoa, then hugged the coastline from Genoa to Rome. It had rained almost constantly, except in the Apennines, where snow drifted down in huge flakes from the forest-covered peaks. Thankfully, the inns were good, and always prepared for them. Fear in their eyes, the innkeepers gave them whatever they wanted, because their guards wore the livery of Lord Valentino.

  Caterina and Ugo paused at the summit of a hill covered with olive trees to await the wagons, the harrying voices of the guards now far away. The rain had stopped. Ugo took a drink from his wineskin, then handed it to his wife.

  “Soon you will see that niece of yours,” he offered in a tentative voice.

  “Soon, yes. I am looking forward to it,” Caterina responded. An understatement. Nicola was sixteen now. Had she known it would take so long to see her daughter again, she would never have let Niccolò take the child to Rome.

  “Then we will see if she would make a good wife for Carlo,” Ugo continued.

  “Ugo, I have told you many times, she is happy to become a nun.” Though Caterina had no idea how Nicola felt about marriage, she had no intention of allowing her to marry her stepson Carlo. Her daughter would be better off in a convent, than married to a man whose only interests were in gambling, drinking, and molesting the maidservants. Knowing what Ugo intended, Caterina planned to warn Nicola about Carlo as quickly as she could.

  “How can you be sure she wants to be a nun, Caterina?”

  “She and I correspond more often, now that the Vatican is a customer,” she responded. “The couriers are happy to drop letters at San Sisto. Nicola works as assistant to the infermiera, and wants to become a healer.”

  “She can treat the scrapes and burns of our workers, then. Such a wife would be good for Carlo. Stop resisting me on this, Caterina,” he added abruptly. “If I leave my fortune to Carlo, Nicola would be a protection for you.”

  “If you leave your fortune to Carlo, he will drive your business into the ground, and his wife will suffer even more than I will,” she retorted, spurring her horse to end the discussion. She was tired Ugo’s threats of disinheritance. She envied English widows, who were entitled to a forced share of their husbands’ estates, regardless of the terms of the will, she had heard. Lucky English ladies! In Italy, a widow who was disinherited was only entitled to recover her dowry--if her husband hadn't already spent it.

  Carlo, who had ridden ahead of them, was waiting at the next bend. His handsome face wore a sullen expression.

  “What’s taking so long? I’m hungry.”

  Caterina sighed. “Have you eaten all the sausage I gave you this morning?”

  “Long ago.”

  Ugo joined them. “You need a wife, to keep you fed,” he told his son.

  Carlo glared at him. “I need food. I will take a wife when I’m ready.”

  * * *

  “I have happy news for you, Nicola,” said Priora Picchi. “Your Zia Caterina and Zio Ugo should be arriving soon. They have asked permission to stay and conduct certain business meetings here, and I have granted it.”

  “Thank you, Priora! You are generous. I am so happy!” responded Nicola, tears springing to her eyes. From Caterina’s letters, she knew that a visit was likely, but she hadn’t realized it was imminent. Finally, finally, she would meet her mother!

  “Generosity had nothing to do with it. I dared not refuse the favor, considering who benefits. But we must be very careful. I am fearful.”

  “Why, Priora? Who are they meeting?”

  “Lord Valentino, child. Cesare Borgia.”

  Chapter 26—A Reunion

  Convent of San Sisto, Rome

  February, 1503

  “Your zia is there, Nicola,” said Vivos, gesturing towards the woman standing in the convent garden, then bustling away.

  Nicola gazed at her mother in amazement, realizing she was seeing her own future. They shared the same dark eyes and hair, the same heavy lashes and arched brows, the same smiles and generous figures. Caterina was slightly taller and obviously older, but the resemblance was still remarkable.

  Caterina's smile began to tremble and tears poured from her eyes. “Do not cry, Zia,” said Nicola, who burst into tears herself. They fell into each other's arms.

  Later, alternately sobbing and laughing, they strolled arm in arm through the garden. Nicola answered her mother's questions about her studies, her fondness for the poetry of Petrarch and the Commedia of Dante, her mastery of Latin, her work in the infermeria, and her purchasing and accounting skills. After thanking Caterina for the beautiful camorra, she patiently described the camorra and sleeves worn by Pia at her wedding. She confessed to hiding from the dancing, then recounted her vigorous defense of her virginity against the inept attempts at seduction by Pia's cousin Federico.

  They sat down on a bench near the well. Caterina looked around carefully, then said quietly, “We don’t have much more time, for now, Nicola. Listen: my husband still thinks you are the daughter of my sister Fabbia--who never existed, Nicola. But as far as he and San Sisto are concerned, that is the name of your mother. For everyone's sake, you must continue to keep my secrets. You will meet him soon--he and his son Carlo are taking care of the horses and baggage.”

  Cater
ina glanced nervously around them again. “And I must warn you about Carlo. My husband is thinking of a match between the two of you, but it is a bad idea; trust me. Now, while there is time: do you also have questions for me?”

  “Many. Tell me about my father.”

  “You are named for him, of course.” Caterina began, after looking around again to ensure they were not overheard. “We were your age when we met. His friends call him 'Il Machia,' which in the Florentine dialect means 'jokester.' What a charmer he was! He could talk about anything--he had read everything that was ever written, and he was very interested in politics. But he was not overly scholarly or serious, understand. In fact he was very funny, or so I found him at that age.”

  “Was he handsome?”

  Caterina laughed. “Truthfully, no. He is a little man with short hair, which made his ears look enormous. His eyes were close-set, his lips too thin, his nose on the big side. . . .I am making him sound ugly, and that is certainly wrong. But handsome? No. It was not his looks that won me. It was—his charm, and the way he treated me.”

  “Did you meet through your parents?”

  “No, no. That was part of the problem. My mother was dead, Nicola, and my father ignored us. My brothers’ tutor often took us to the lectures at the Platonic Academy, founded by Cosimo de’ Medici to teach the ideas of the ancient Greeks. I was supposed to focus on my needlework and ignore the lectures, but I didn’t—at least, until I met Niccolò. He treated me like an intelligent person, which was a new experience for me. Cupid’s arrow hit hard.”

  Caterina stopped and sighed. “I loved him almost to distraction. I hope God spares you that kind of love, Nicola. It is almost a sickness. There is nothing I would not have done for him.”

  “Why did you never marry?” Nicola asked gently.

  “His parents would not let him marry me because I had no dowry. My father disowned me, as soon as he found out I was pregnant—tried to put me in a convent. I asked Niccolò to run away with me but. . . he would not do it. His father would have disinherited him. He is practical down to his fingertips. He worried about how we would live.”

  Caterina paused, remembering. “”His father wanted to pay one of his servants to marry me--the usual thing in these circumstances--but I refused. Niccolò, his father and I negotiated an agreement that would take care of you, Carina, and settle a little money on me, too. Old Bernardo, Niccolò’s father, gave me an old building he owned, and I made a business in it, designing and sewing dresses. You and I lived there for your first three years, and Niccolò visited when he could. Do you remember?”

  “A little. I remember your voices, but little more,” said Nicola. No wonder Caterina had taken such an interest in the dresses at Pia's wedding. “But why did you send me so far away from you? And how did you get the priora to agree to take me?”

  “That was your grandfather's doing, Nicola. Your existence threatened his family with scandal. Worse than that--he feared that Niccolò might actually marry me, because of his growing fondness for you.”

  Caterina paused to give her daughter’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “The nuns of San Sisto had been looking for a lawyer to obtain a bequest that was being held by the Dominican monks in Florence. No one would take the case, though, because Savonarola was the head of the Dominican monastery, and everyone feared him. He was a law unto himself.”

  Here Caterina sighed. “Your grandfather was a well known lawyer. He took the case, on the condition that the convent accept you as a student, Nicola. He wanted to get you as far away from his son as possible. He knew we would agree, because Niccolò and I wanted to give you the best education possible. We were also worried about what would happen to Florence when Lorenzo Il Magnifico finally died, which he did not long after.”

  Nicola nodded, happy that her history was finally beginning to make sense. She had always wondered why she had been placed so far from her family and birthplace.

  “Also, my father was scheming to take my property from me. He might have managed it in time, which would have left you without a home! Florence is particularly hard for women alone. They cannot represent themselves in court. They must have a man as a kind of guardian, called a mundualdus. That would have been my father, who was out to deprive me of what I had built.” Caterina frowned at the memory.

  “So, off you went to San Sisto, to stay for life if you want. And when I received a generous offer for my property, I took it. I regret to admit, I also took everything that Niccolò had left with me, by moving out while he was taking you to the convent. That is partly why I asked you not to reveal my location to him.”

  “Why did you go to Milano, Zia?”

  “To get away from my father, and far enough away from Niccolò that I would not be tempted to return. I never grew tired of him, Carina, but I did grow older. I realized that I wanted to be respectable, which I was not. I was also terrified of becoming pregnant again. Florence was becoming more and more straight-laced, as Lorenzo Il Magnifico grew older and more religious. Savonarola had begun to preach that Florentines were damned by their worship of money and their loose morals. The whole city flocked to hear his sermons, which were so frightening that people wept in the streets. Folk who had once ignored me began calling me ‘whore.’ ”

  She paused. “I chose Milano because it was wealthy and stable when Il Moro was the Duke. At that point, I had enough money to hire seamstresses to do the sewing. Il Moro's spies discovered my library—really, it was your father's library—and Duchess Beatrice invited me to join her ladies' reading group. I began designing gowns for her. And I met and married Ugo.”

  “And do you love him the way you loved my father, Zia?” asked Nicola.

  Caterina hesitated. “A love like that, you feel only once. But I am fond of him, and not simply for his money.”

  Nicola was silent for a moment, as she absorbed the news she hadn’t expected: her mother had stolen from her father, and used the money to join Il Moro’s court— a corrupt place, according to the nuns. Then, she had married for money. Or at least, partly for money.

  The information hurt, and the hurt squeezed a painful question from her: “When I asked why you went to Milano, what I meant was, why not Rome? So you could be close to me?”

  Caterina gazed at her, a guilty expression on her face. Then she put a warning hand on Nicola’s arm. Vivos, who had grown even fatter over the years, was puffing her way across the garden to talk to them.

  “You have another visitor, Nicola,” she announced when she reached them. “It seems to be your day.”

  Nicola turned to see a dark-haired woman in a bright orange camorra. It took her a moment to recognize the figure-- someone she hadn't seen in over three years.

  “Pia! What are you doing here?” she cried, running to her friend and hugging her. “And what happened to your hair?” she whispered. Pia’s hair, now crowned with a caplet, was a foot shorter than before, and black as ink.

  “I am here because Antonio sent me, to keep me safe. The castello at Ceri is about to fall to Cesare Borgia. When it does, most of the other Orsini strongholds will fall as well, and Il Valentino's soldiers will rape and kill the Orsini women,” said Pia, in the tone of voice she used for particularly juicy gossip.

  “As for my hair,” she continued, “Antonio loved it blond, but his mother would not allow me to spend the hours drying it in the sun, or the money needed to buy saffron. So I finally dyed it back to its original color, or as close as I could get, anyway. My mother-in-law--she is a tyrant, Nicola!” she finished, petulantly.

  “You are forgetting your manners, Nicola,” interrupted Caterina.

  “Mi scusi! Pia, permit me to introduce my zia, Caterina Biaggi,” said Nicola. “It was she who sent me the beautiful camorra for your wedding.”

  “I am so pleased to meet you!” Pia responded, with a broad smile. “You should have seen Nicola at the wedding. She was so beautiful, my mother was afraid she would draw attention away from me!”

  “N
ow it is my turn to make introductions,” said Caterina, who had been watching two men approach from the garden entrance. “Nicola and Pia, permit me to introduce my husband and stepson, Ugo and Carlo Biaggi.”

  Nicola turned and curtseyed to her new uncle. As she turned to his son, she felt herself freeze, mouth open, as if she were turning to stone. Carlo appeared equally dumbstruck. They spent several seconds simply staring at each other. Nicola saw a handsome young man with the light brown hair and hazel eyes of a northerner, barrel-chested and fashionably dressed. Her body responded as if she had received an electric shock, which startled her into blushing. She curtseyed again to hide her confusion.

  When she felt the blush fading she stood, and blushed again to see Caterina, Ugo and Pia exchanging knowing glances. Behind them, Priora Picchi approached in haste.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but others have arrived for your business meeting, Maestro Biaggi: Lord Valentino, his armorer, and his chief engineer, Leonardo da Vinci. I did not think you would want to keep them waiting.”

  Pia looked in horror at Nicola. “Lord Valentino here? But Antonio sent me here to escape from him!”

  Chapter 27—Another Poisoning

  Convent of San Sisto, Rome

  March 1503

  Sipping wine, Cesare Borgia idly watched the man die. As many poisonings as he had ordered, this was the first he had actually witnessed. It was obviously poison. The fellow had been drinking the priora's wine, then began to gasp, choke and turn blue. His eyes bulged and his tongue stuck out as though he were being garroted, but there no was wire around his neck; no knee against his back. His screaming wife and his son flanked him, the son shaking his shoulders. It would do no good.

  “Try to vomit, my friend,” Cesare called out. Briefly he considered sticking a finger down the man's throat, but the thought revolted him. He had covered himself with the gore of many men and bulls, but he drew the line at vomit.