A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  Now the room was flooding with nuns. The infermiera was evidently giving the man a purgative. A priest rushed in and began praying over him, as he flopped in agony on the floor. Above him, his hysterical wife was being comforted by a younger woman who looked very much like her.

  Cesare considered both women with interest. He remembered that the older was a beauty when not red-faced and weeping. However, she was presently quite unattractive. The younger was still lovely, but an obvious innocent, dressed in a shapeless black camorra. Cesare had no patience with innocents. He had raped women to punish them, but it was not really to his taste.

  “He is dead.” the infermiera called out. The man's bluish skin and frozen grimace confirmed her assessment. All eyes turned to Cesare.

  He knew he was almost as horrifying as the corpse on the floor. His face was pockmarked with ugly, weeping pustules from an eruption of the French Disease, the short beard he had grown to hide it now sufficient only to add to his satanic appearance. In public he appeared masked, or not at all. Here, he hadn't bothered to hide his deformity.

  “You suspect me?” he smiled. “If I had poisoned him I would not hesitate to admit it, Priora. I have nothing to fear here. But why would I poison a man with whom I was doing business? I needed him to manufacture the weapon he was showing us. You had best look to your own household for the author of this deed.”

  “You are suggesting that a nun would poison a merchant?” asked the priora incredulously.

  “I am suggesting that one of your nuns tried to poison me, as she poisoned my sister Gerolama,” he replied.

  “But Lord Valentino, all know that you do not drink wine supplied by others. Therefore, the poison could not have been intended for you, “ protested Leonardo da Vinci.

  “You know that, Leonardo. Which is why I do not suspect you of trying to poison me.” Cesare's eyes dwelt momentarily on da Vinci, whose face turned as white as his hair and beard.

  Cesare then looked back at the priora, whose fear of him was written on her face. “I know you suspect me of poisoning Gerolama, too--my sister Lucrezia accused me of the deed. But the fact is, I did not do it. Though I want to know who did.”

  Rudolfo Giamatti, his armorer, now spoke up. “Lord, there were five cups of wine. Perhaps we should see if the others are poisoned?”

  Cesare sniffed the remaining cups, then picked up the fifth from the floor and sniffed the residue. “I can smell poison only in the wine on the floor. A clumsy sort of poison, to have a smell. My own chemist produces a much better product than that. See what you think, Suora,” he said to Sister Beatrice, handing her the cup.

  Sister Beatrice grimaced, then obeyed him. “It does not smell right to me, either. His symptoms were the same as Gerolama’s, Priora. We must find out who poured these cups of wine, and who had access to them afterwards.”

  “Certainly you must,” agreed Cesare. “But your main suspects are right here,” he added, nodding at Caterina and Carlo, both of whom had been present when the wine was drunk. “Which of you inherits under the terms of this man's will?”

  Caterina ceased crying and gasped. “I do not know who inherits, Lord Valentino!” She glanced at Carlo. “Do you?”

  “You know I do not,” replied Carlo, who knelt beside the body of his father, wiping tears from his eyes with the palms of his hands. “He would never tell us, Lord.”

  “Pardon, but that seems unlikely,” Cesare responded. “Priora, you will send to Milano for the answer to this question.” Cesare nodded at Carlo. “Meanwhile, both you and your mother are confined to this convent. If you leave I will know, and you will not survive the day. And you will not either, Priora. Young man, you will help Leonardo and Rudolfo with Leonardo's invention while you wait. You will be paid for your work--assuming you are not executed for murder.”

  Then Lord Valentino turned to Priora Picchi. “I am leaving valued members of my retinue here, even though there is a poisoner in your midst. You, Priora, will personally taste all food and drink served to all of them.”

  “Our fare is plain, Lord, and it is Lent. . .” the priora responded uncertainly.

  “Would you rather I reported what has happened to the pope? He does not know of Gerolama's residency and death here---yet,” Lord Valentino interrupted impatiently. “I would prefer to tell him when these mysteries hae been solved. He has much on his mind.”

  The priora crossed herself. “I will obey you in all things, of course, Lord, and I agree that the pope should not have to be concerned with these matters. I merely point out that our fare is not the finest, at present. . . .”

  “This will not trouble Maestro da Vinci. He eats no meat anyway.” He turned to Leonardo and Rudolfo. “You will eat what is served you, and nothing else. Strict observation of Lent will be good for your souls.”

  “I need access to my forge to make parts for the handheld cannon, Lord,” the armorer protested.

  “Of course, Rudolfo. You and Leonardo are free to come and go as necessary.”

  Cesare then focused on da Vinci. “Leonardo, your place is here, unless Rudolfo needs you at his forge. You will help the priora with her inquiry while you complete your work on the paintings of fortifications you owe me, and on the small cannon –which you will now have to complete, without help from this fellow,” he said, gesturing at the corpse on the floor. “I want to know who the poison was intended for, and most of all, who administered it.”

  Then he scribbled a brief note on a piece of paper, handing it to Sister Beatrice. “I also want to know who poisoned my sister Gerolama. This is a letter of introduction to my chemist, Sebastian Pinzon. You will confer with him regarding the symptoms you have observed. I will take this cup to him, to see if he can determine what it contained,” he concluded, handing the cup to one of his retainers.

  Cesare now bowed to the priora. “You will report on your progress in writing to messengers I will send to you. Now you will excuse me. I am besieging the castello at Ceri and must return there. “

  His eyes swept the room. “Rest assured, if you do not find an answer to these mysteries, you will regret it.” He turned and strode out, leaving behind the corpse and its horrified attendants.

  Da Vinci mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “God help me,” he muttered. “I am going back to painting.”

  Chapter 28—Recriminations

  Convent of San Sisto

  March 1503

  Caterina, still weeping, found herself inside the church with Nicola, who helped her sit in one of the pews.

  “Tell me you did not do this terrible thing!” the girl whispered urgently.

  Caterina was dumbfounded—so much so, that she stopped crying. “You suspect me of killing my own husband?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You told me yourself that you stole from my father, and married for money. As Lord Valentino says: you might have killed your husband for his fortune. I just want you to look me in the eyes, and say it is not so.”

  Caterina raised tear stained eyes to her daughter. “It is not so. There were times I wished Ugo were dead, but I would never kill him. And I do not know the terms of his will. If I did, I would have told you, because your future depends on it! Ugo’s death may bring me nothing but disaster. Why would I do such a thing?”

  Caterina saw the doubt in Nicola’s face. “Dio, we have a lot of lost time to make up.” She shook her head, then wiped her eyes. “Please believe me.”

  “I am trying to trust you—but how could you bring an evil man like Lord Valentino into this convent? He may destroy this place—and it is my home, and the home of everyone that I love. Except you, of course,” she added hastily.

  “Mercy, child. Haven’t I been hurt enough for today? How was I to know that Lord Valentino would threaten a convent? My only thought was to see you.”

  “If you wanted to see me, then why did you move so far away?” Nicola’s face was hostile. Caterina burst into tears again.

  As she sobbed, she felt an arm around her shoulder. �
�I’m sorry, Mother,” said Nicola. “I am always asking questions at the wrong time.”

  “Call me ‘Zia,’ remember?”

  “But why must I call you Zia’ now that. . . is it really necessary?”

  With effort, Caterina calmed herself enough to respond. “You must not give Carlo any means to contest Ugo's will. If he finds out that his father was deceived, he will undoubtedly use it against me. Things are bad enough already. If I inherit—even if it is a pittance--Cesare Borgia will think I had a motive for killing Ugo.”

  “Si, he will.” Nicola paused for a moment. “Allòra, I will believe you, at least for now. If you didn’t do it, we must find the real killer.”

  Here was a new thought—a way out. But surely, a hopeless one. “That is easier said than done,” Caterina responded slowly.

  “Then we must get started! Now, think carefully: who brought the wine?”

  Caterina stared at her daughter, re-living the shock of finding a mirror image of her younger self where she had expected a child. Now, she was being mothered by her own daughter, who looked as Caterina did as a young mother. To this very child. The whole thing was like a nightmare full of mirrors, but she knew she was awake.

  Caterina did not know what to make of this woman-child who was now cross-examining her, but she had no energy to do anything other than answer. She wiped her eyes, grateful to put the horrors of the last hour and her fears for the future out of her mind.

  “The wine was there when we arrived,” she replied. “I remember--there were not enough cups, or chairs. I supposed my presence was not anticipated.”

  “Do you remember who sat where, and how the cups were placed?”

  Caterina shook her head, then tapped it several times with her hand, to clear the cobwebs from it. She closed her eyes in concentration for a few seconds, then faced her daughter. “Here is the problem, Nicola: Lord Valentino sat in the head chair, of course. Wine was placed at every seat. But the first thing the men did was move the cups aside so they could fill the table with Maestro da Vinci's drawings. Eventually, they began to drink the wine, but I cannot remember who took each cup, or where it came from. Lord Valentino had his own wine, which he poured into his own cup.”

  “Stop and close your eyes and think through the entire meeting,” Nicola requested. “You will remember.”

  Caterina did as she was told, her eyes closed and brows knit. “It is no use, Nicola. I was focused on the meeting, not on the table,” she concluded. She wiped her eyes again. “I believe that none of the others knew which cup he took--unless he was the murderer, and had watched carefully when the cups were moved,” she concluded. “So the poison could have been intended for any of us, including me!”

  “So it seems,” responded Nicola thoughtfully. “Can you think of anyone who would want to poison you or Carlo?”

  Caterina smiled wanly. “I am sure Ugo thought about it from time to time! He was very controlling. We both angered him when we did not follow his instructions. But`really, I do not think he would have poisoned either of us. Nor was he stupid enough to poison himself by mistake.”

  “Carlo, on the other hand. . . .you really must watch out for him, Nicola.” she continued thoughtfully. “I saw the look that passed between you when you first met. He is very handsome, but there is something evil about him. He was without a mother for many years—maybe that is why. And he is not very intelligent. He would be stupid enough--and evil enough--to poison his own father by mistake, thinking instead to poison me.”

  “But why would he want to poison you?”

  “He has never liked me. And, he would gain his father’s fortune.”

  “But you said that neither of you knew the terms of Uncle Ugo’s will.”

  “So I did, and so I believe. But if I were dead, Carlo would be sure to inherit.”

  Caterina placed her hands gently on her daughter's shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “No matter what happens, I promise you, I will find you a better husband than Carlo. I could go out into the street right now, and find you a better husband than him.” She began weeping again. “I’m sorry, Nicola. I’m not normally like this, but so much has happened, and I am so tired.”

  Nicola rubbed her back. “Zia, you must rest,” she said gently. “Sister Beatrice will give you something to help you sleep. When you are rested, you will feel better.”

  There it was again, Caterina thought. She was being mothered by her own child—the same child who had first accused her, then interrogated her. Who was the adult here? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe, for the moment, she had to let go of that role.

  “I do need rest,” she conceded. “I needed it, even before all this happened. Take me to Sister Beatrice.”

  * * *

  Once Sister Beatrice had given her new patient a sleeping potion and tucked her into one of the cots in the infermeria, she motioned to Nicola to join her outside, closing the door behind them.

  “The priora has ordered us to renew our search for Sister Gerolama’s killer. As much as possible, we are to do Maestro da Vinci’s work for him, to prevent him from asking too many questions. She says to share information freely with him, unless it concerns secrets of the convent,” Sister Beatrice whispered.

  “Secrets of the convent? What secrets?”

  “I don’t know, Nicola. But if we find any, God will show us what should be done.”

  Chapter 29—Another Funeral

  Convent of San Sisto,

  March 1503

  Ugo Biaggi was buried in a closed coffin in the convent graveyard the following day, his corpse already so swollen and fearful-looking that the nuns counseled against waiting any longer.

  Carlo stood sullenly between Nicola and her mother during the funeral. He hated them both, because he found their bodies luscious, and because they looked down on him. Actually, only his stepmother looked down on him, as far as he knew. But he hated Nicola, for looking like her, and for knowing too much. Just like Caterina.

  His father had said he should marry Nicola. It would be like marrying my stepmother, he had protested. His father had laughed, and he had been angry. It was practically the last time they spoke. He wished his father had understood just how much the idea scared him. He could not control a woman like Nicola. She was too much like Caterina.

  If only his bitch of a stepmother had died, instead of his father. Now, they would blame him. But he hadn't wanted his father to die. Only his stepmother.

  He was sure his father had taken care of him in his testamento. He had hinted at this, more than once. Caterina, he had said, can take care of herself. You, Carlo, are my only son.

  After the testamento was read he would sell his father’s business, somehow. The lawyer would know how to do that. Then he would find a quiet wife with big tits. And they would move to the family farm, and raise chickens and vegetables and wine grapes.

  Once he had his money, he would throw Caterina out in the street. He was looking forward to that. Maybe he would rape her, too. But she repulsed him as much as she attracted him these days, so maybe not.

  Raping her would also be dangerous. At least now he could threaten her, without worrying about her telling his father. He found himself smiling at the thought.

  Next to him, Caterina alternately prayed for her departed husband, for Nicola, and for herself. Dio, please accept my husband into heaven. And please forgive me for all my sins against him, which I do sincerely repent. And thank you for letting me see my child Nicola. Maybe it is too much to expect her to forgive me—but Dio, please let her trust me. But she should not trust Carlo—please, Dio, keep her away from Carlo. And from Maestro da Vinci, too—he was eyeing her; I saw him. He is too old for her. Da Vinci is no good at designing cannons, that much is obvious. One more egotistical male to work around—Dio, give me patience. I am not complaining, Dio; I know that is Your Will.

  And speaking of wills: Dio, please, see to Ugo’s will—please make sure he left me enough to support myself and Nicola. But not enou
gh for Lord Valentino to think I murdered my husband.

  Nicola’s prayers were centered on two subjects: the murder, and Carlo. Dio, she prayed, please don’t let my mother be the murderer. If I am wrong to suspect her, please forgive me. And please forgive me, Dio, for lusting after my cousin. Are You testing me somehow, by making me lust after him? All the coupling I saw at Lucrezia Borgia''s wedding: it was Your Will that I saw it--but could I please stop thinking about it? Dio, please don't let Pia be the murderer, either. And make her leave me alone about Carlo; I see in her eyes that she is plotting some kind of matchmaking. As if I didn't have enough problems already. And most of all, Dio: please help us find the murderer! And Dio, if we don't--please, please, please save us from Lord Valentino!

  Leonardo da Vinci closed his mind to the funeral mass, concentrating on possible methods for sabotaging his own invention in a way that no one could detect.

  How had he gotten into this morass? He had never wanted to be a weapons designer. He should have avoided helping Il Moro fortify Milan. That was what led him in the wrong direction: it had built his reputation as an engineer, when he should have concentrated on building his reputation as a painter.

  Now, he was in real peril, for Lord Valentino would surely kill him if he left without completing his assignments. He was doomed if he went to work for any rival of Lord Valentino. Even if it was only to paint a portrait!

  He now hoped that the siege weapons he had built for Valentino would prove a miserable failure. And the handheld cannon—it hurt his pride to make it fail, but perfecting the thing would simply lead to more demands. Better to pretend incompetence at everything but painting. Lord Valentino had no patience with incompetence, and he didn’t really need a painter.

  Too bad that Caterina Biaggi had pinpointed the mistake in his design for the handheld cannon, after only a short look at his drawings. She understood the weapons business infinitely better than that simpleminded stepson of hers. It was positively frightening. The best hope for his own safety lay in persuading Lord Valentino that Leonardo da Vinci was harmless and useless. Fooling Il Valentino would be hard enough. Now, he had to fool that woman, as well, while trying to find out if she killed her husband. She had wept and wailed as he was dying, but who knows? It could have been an act.