While Leonardo contemplated his future, Father Testa finished the burial mass from memory, successfully miming a sadness he did not feel. He had gotten good at this--as he had gotten good at servicing nuns, one after another, on the days he visited the convent. Today, he had made love to Sister Margherita in the stable, where she had neighed louder than the horses, then finished off scarcely two hours later with Sister Sophia in the sacristy. Not too bad, for a man his age. With the French Disease rampant, he was glad he did not have to resort to prostitutes.
Now he considered Caterina, as she cried quietly. She would be vulnerable soon, he decided. After the funeral was over, he went over to her outside the church, to offer his condolences.
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Madonna,” said Father Testa, positioning himself opposite Nicola—damn the brat-- so he could put an arm around her zia. He would visit her next week, he told her, if she was still at San Sisto.
Leonardo da Vinci left the funeral with a slight smile on his face. He had thought of a subtle way to sabotage the handheld cannon. Now if they could simply find the murderer, he could report success at one task Lord Valentino had assigned him, and abject failure at making guns. Then he could escape to life as a painter in Florence, with some assurance of safety from Il Valentino's wrath.
Chapter 30—A Threatening Kiss
After the funeral, Nicola spent a frustrating afternoon interviewing the kitchen staff, trying to find out who knew about Lord Valentino’s arrival, and who had access to the wine he was served. The short answer to both questions: everyone. The hallway to the cloister was a beehive of activity at that time of day, when the nuns went about their daily chores. The kitchen staff had watched the door on the day of the murder, hoping for glimpses of their illustrious guests. Still, they could not remember who had come and gone, except for Pia, and a couple of nuns whose appearance was unusual.
Nicola wondered, as always, why other people couldn’t remember the most obvious things. Even Zia Caterina, her own flesh and blood, had no better memory than average. It was incomprehensible.
After leaving the kitchen building, Nicola went to find her Zia Caterina, determined to apologize for her behavior the day of the murder. During an hour on her knees in the church, she had realized that she had no business questioning her aunt about the murder at such a time, much less accusing her of killing her own husband. Which she had come close to doing. True, Caterina was not the far-off angel she had always imagined—so what? Being a thief didn’t make her a murderer. And stealing the possessions of someone who fathered your child but refused to marry you was not the same as, say, stealing from the poor box in a church. Also, Caterina was an unlikely killer, and she couldn’t possibly have killed Sister Gerolama. All that was clear enough, now. But right after Ugo's ugly death, nothing had been clear. This was no excuse for rudeness, however—even though she had found a mother and lost an “uncle,” all in the space of an hour.
“I apologize for my insensitivity,” she was rehearsing to herself, when she heard a voice behind her.
“Nicola? Are you coming from the kitchen? Is Maria there?” It was Carlo, wearing the short brown tunic and tight leggings she had seen him in on the day he arrived. And looking just as handsome.
“She is there. How do you know her?”
He smiled. “She is saving food for me. Can I show you something? Come,” he said, taking her by the elbow around the corner of the building.
Curious, Nicola allowed herself to be led. After looking around, Carlo pushed her up against the side of the building, and kissed her.
For an instant, Nicola succumbed entirely. She had fantasized about being kissed by Carlo, and had also worried for years that she would go to her grave without being kissed by anyone. But he was not the gentle lover she had imagined. He shoved his entire body hard against hers, from knees to forehead, and kissed as if he were trying to eat her. When he stuck his tongue in her mouth, she struggled free.
“You said you were going to show me something,” she cried, as she ran for the cloister.
Behind her, Carlo was laughing. “I did.”
In the cloister courtyard, Nicola sat down on a bench in the greenery, newly verdant from winter rains, and burst into tears. She wept loudly until she felt a soft hand on her shoulder.
“Whatever is the matter, child?” said Sister Amelia.
Nicola continued to sob. How could she possibly confide in this nun? How could she possibly confide in any of the nuns? Or even in her Zia Caterina? They would surely scold her, for letting Carlo touch her and lead her to the back of a building. They had all cautioned her, either about men in general or Carlo in particular, and she had ignored everyone’s advice. She couldn’t even tell Pia, who would be gleeful instead of sympathetic, and tell everyone else.
Sister Amelia was now sitting beside her. “Remember that your uncle is in a better place. Life must go on. Try to stop crying—you will feel better if you do not weep endlessly. Believe me, I know.”
Obediently, Nicola swallowed her sobs. When she was at last calm, she patted Sister Amelia on the knee. “Thank you.”
Sister Amelia smiled, and glided wordlessly away. Nicola rose, feeling better, and headed for the infermiera, always her refuge and now a place where she might find Caterina. She didn’t dare leave the cloister, for fear Carlo was lurking outside.
“Here she is,” Sister Beatrice said as she entered. “You saved your tears until after the funeral, I see,” she added as she saw Nicola’s face. “You were good to be brave for your aunt. I will leave the two of you to visit,” she added, and bustled out the door.
Caterina, her own face tear-stained, was perched on one of the infermiera cots, sipping a hot tisane redolent of chamomile, Sister Beatrice’s usual remedy for melancholia.
“I apologize for my insensitivity after your husband died,” Nicola began.
Caterina smiled wanly. “You were not at your best, but neither was I.”
“I virtually accused you of killing your husband. That was wrong.”
“You weren’t the first,” she answered slowly. “Lord Valentino did the same. Everyone suspects me, I suppose. Why shouldn’t you?”
“And I asked a lot of hurtful questions—I’m sorry.”
Here Caterina stirred. “No, no. The questions were necessary. And helpful. If I’m going to stay alive, I need to shake this sadness and answer them.”
“I agree the questions are necessary. When you are ready, I have plenty more.”
“As do I.” Caterina’s face was grim. “Sit down. I can’t afford to wait. Let’s get started.”
Chapter 31—At Sister Annaluisa's Grave
Convent of San Sisto,
March 1503
Nicola went the next morning to the nun's graveyard, to place spring flowers on Ugo's grave at the behest of her badly-shaken mother. There she saw Rudolfo the armorer standing at the grave of Sister Annaluisa.
He was short but heavily muscled from his years at the anvil, his head too small for his massive neck. His dark features were also small, buried in a fleshy, clean-shaven face that reminded Nicola of a pig. The dark curly hair protruding under his black berretta was shot with streaks of grey. Despite this he was not bad-looking, she decided.
Nicola was elated. She walked rapidly to his side. “Did you know her, Maestro? Sister Annaluisa?” she demanded.
“Si, Suora.”
“Was she a relative of yours?”
“No.”
“Do you know other of the nuns here as well?”
“No others. I have much work to do.” He began walking quickly away.
Undeterred, Nicola jogged beside him. “You know she was murdered?”
“Si.”
“Can you tell me anything about her murder?”
“How would I know anything about her murder?”
“I have vowed to find her murderer. Can you help me?”
Rudolfo stopped and stared at her. “I wish I could.”
; “You were not at her funeral.” Nicola stated this as fact. She knew she would have remembered him, if he had been there.
“I was not invited.”
“Where were you when she was killed?”
“How do I know? I was not even aware she had left the convent. Then she was missing. Then I found out she was dead.” Rudolfo had stopped in his tracks and was looking at her in mute misery. Nicola realized she was handling things badly.
“I am sorry, Maestro. Let me start again. How is it that you knew her?”
“We were childhood acquaintances. She came to Rome to this convent. I came to apprentice to an armorer. Neither of us knew anyone in Rome. I used to visit her here occasionally.” Rudolfo was now twisting his cape, as if to wring water out of it. His sadness was palpable.
“You and your wife visited her?” Nicola asked, noticing his wedding ring.
“No, no, Madonna. This was before I was married. This was before I even met my wife,” he replied defensively. “I had hoped Annaluisa would become my wife.”
“Was she running to you when she left?”
“It is possible. It was not easy for us to communicate--but I will never know, for sure. That is all I can tell you,” he concluded miserably.
Nicola nodded, while she reevaluated her theories concerning Sister Annaluisa’s death. If Rudolfo killed her, it had certainly made him unhappy. Despite herself, Nicola felt sorry for him.
“Tell me about this invention of Maestro da Vinci,” said Nicola, hoping to erase the sadness in the man's face. “Of what possible use is a small cannon? Surely they must be very big to break through walls.”
“The idea is to build a handheld weapon, something small enough to replace the lance and crossbow,” Rudolfo explained, a look of relief on his face. “Warfare would be revolutionized if foot soldiers were equipped with such weapons.”
“But how can you possibly produce a cannon that one man can carry? Surely they must be very heavy?”
“That is one of the problems we must overcome. To kill a man, a ball need be no bigger than the tip of your thumb. But the muzzle of a gun big enough to shoot such a ball is heavy indeed.”
“Well, I know nothing of warfare, but surely the crossbow is sufficiently deadly for any soldier's need,” Nicola pronounced. Madre di Dio! she thought. This Leonardo da Vinci seemed rational enough, but he must be pazzo. Handheld cannons. What an idea!
“I was skeptical, too--but you should see the things Leonardo has invented for Lord Valentino! He has invented a firing mechanism for the small cannon that does not need a fuse. He has created a huge, sloping platform that allows soldiers to attack ramparts without risk. Also ballistas, and false guns, and powerful catapults. . . .the man is a genius!” enthused Rudolfo.
“Does his small cannon work?” asked Nicola.
“Not yet,” admitted Rudolfo. “Lord Valentino had us build a model from the drawings Leonardo sent, but it failed. But he says he puts mistakes in his drawings, to protect his inventions.”
“A genius indeed.” Nicola said, not believing it for a minute.
As Rudolfo hurried from the graveyard, Nicola paused for a moment to say a prayer for Sister Gerolama, whose grassy grave lay close to the nuns’ gate. Pia soon joined her, dressed completely in yellow, her black hair jutting defiantly from her matron’s veil. There was a conspiratorial smile on her face.
“How was your meeting with Rudolfo? Do you find him handsome?”
“We weren’t meeting, Pia. We were just in the graveyard at the same time. I came to put flowers on Zio Ugo’s grave. Rudolfo is married, Pia.”
“Married? Too bad. I hadn’t heard. But he is handsome, don’t you think?”
“That is not what I am thinking about.”
“But this isn’t your zio’s grave. Who is this?” Pia asked, looking down at the grassy mound with its quiet white cross.
“Sister Gerolama. Do you remember her?”
“Of course. Did you know she was the pope’s daughter?
Nicola was dumbstruck. She had never shared this secret with Pia, who had never given any indication of knowing it herself. “What are you talking about, Pia? Who told you this?”
“My mother. She says Sister Gerolama was Lucrezia Borgia’s sister. That’s why Lucrezia came here.”
“How could your mother know such a thing? And why didn’t you tell me before?”
“She said it was a great secret. It was a long time ago, Nicola. Let’s not worry about it now. Are you ready to leave this place? It gives me the shivers.”
Nicola followed Pia from the graveyard, quietly reevaluating whether her old friend could be involved in the murders.
Chapter 32—New Suspects
Convent of San Sisto,
March 1503
Two days after Ugo Biaggi's funeral, Leonardo was invited to join the priora for dinner, to begin the task of finding the poisoner. A task he had not thought much about, having spent those two days happily sketching and studying mathematics. He had needed a break, after all those months under Lord Valentino. Now, regrettably, it was time to get back to work.
A silent nun welcomed him into the cloister, which he examined with curiosity. He had always wondered what the inside of a nunnery looked like. But of course, it looked exactly like a monastery, with the usual layout—courtyard beside the church, covered atrium around the courtyard; refectory, library, and other working rooms around the courtyard; dormitorium above. There was something indefinably female about this place, however. For one thing, the frescoes around the perimeter of the courtyard—recent, and passably done--all had female subjects. Also the carved crucifix on the priora’s whitewashed wall was abstract and modestly clothed; an unmanly, almost feminine Jesus. And the priora’s otherwise colorless dining room had elaborate, imaginary flowers embroidered on the chair cushions. Did monks even have chair cushions? Certainly not like these.
He had never in his life been around this many females at once. It was daunting.
The other guests were arriving. “You know the Biaggis, I think,” said the priora. “They are most eager to hear how our investigation proceeds.”
Da Vinci bowed to Caterina and Carlo. “Permit me to offer condolences. I didn’t even have an opportunity to greet you properly, and then—events overtook us. I am sincerely sorry for your loss, as is Lord Valentino. Your husband's skills were unsurpassed. It will be difficult to go forward without him.”
Caterina’s lovely face now wore grief like a death mask. “I wasn’t even sure you remembered us, Maestro da Vinci.”
“But of course I did! In fact, I recommended your husband’s firm to Lord Valentino, to manufacture the small cannon I designed. I well remember the outstanding job he did on the cannon he cast for Il Moro. He was an excellent craftsman.”
“Yes,” Carlo nodded.
The priora interrupted. “Maestro da Vinci, permit me to introduce Nicola Machiavelli and Sister Beatrice. I have instructed them to assist you in determining who committed these poisonings.”
Leonardo bowed, and looked at Nicola with interest. This was the first time he had heard her surname. “Would you, by chance, be related to Niccolò Machiavelli of Florence?”
“He is my father,” replied Nicola, evidently surprised. “Do you know him?”
“Very well. He was sent by Florence to negotiate a treaty with Lord Valentino, and we were naturally thrown together, as fellow Florentines. I liked him very much. He and I spent much time talking and joking. It helped us keep our sanity, with death and betrayal going on around us. He told me he was married, but nothing about a daughter.”
“He is married?” Caterina repeated, sounding stunned. “I suppose it is not surprising. Nicola is his acknowledged child from before his marriage, born to my sister Fabbia. Who is now dead.”
Leonardo froze, regretting that his careless words had hurt a grieving widow. “You have suffered many losses, Madonna. I’m sorry if I opened an old wound at such a time. Mea culpa.”
&nbs
p; Caterina forced a pained smile. “It was kindly meant, Maestro. Nicola should hear about her father. I am glad you are here to give her tidings.”
He nodded solemnly, pulling a chair out for Caterina and another for Sister Beatrice, while Nicola and Carlo seated themselves opposite each other. This left him a chair at the foot of the table, facing the priora and beside Nicola.
She interested him. Da Vinci had a soft spot for bastards, being one himself. Machiavelli had provided well for this particular by-blow, ensconcing her in this comfortable female enclave. In looks she resembled the maternal side, rather than her father--grazie a Dio. But had she inherited Niccolò’s brains? It was rather a frightening thought, but as a nun she would at least have access to a library, and a vocation. Maybe being a bastard would be the making of her, as his own illegitimacy had freed him to apprentice as an artist.
“You are fortunate in your father, Madonna Machiavelli,” he said when he was seated. “He is a man of many interests, many talents. And a great admirer of Lord Valentino.”
“An admirer of Lord Valentino?” echoed Nicola loudly. Both the priora and her mother sent her warning glances, to Leonardo’s amusement.
“I am tired of fish,” Carlo pronounced. “Could I have bread and cheese, like Maestro da Vinci always does?”
“As soon as I have tasted it,” the priora responded patiently. “Those were Lord Valentino’s orders. Perhaps you should report while I taste and serve the food, Beatrice.”
The old nun gestured to Nicola, who nodded and glanced at her notes. “Cook reported that she sent Maria to the priora's dining room with wine as soon as she heard that Lord Valentino and his party had arrived, which was around midday. Maria confirmed this. The wine was the priora's best. We ourselves smelt and tasted from the tun. The remainder is fine.”
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