A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  “To my knowledge, she is alive and well,” Leonardo smiled. “Why did she irritate you?”

  “She was a bastard, and a whore.” Madonna Paleologus said these words dispassionately, as if she were stating facts, not making judgments. “You can ask the priora why I call her a whore,” she said. “You know why I call her a bastard—because she was one.”

  She smiled. “I have nothing against bastards, of course. I am surrounded by them, and I love many of them. But she was a bastard who was not hidden away in a convent—at least . . .well, she hid here for awhile, of course. But even while she hid, the pope was planning a huge, public wedding for her. Treating her like a princess.”

  “That was what bothered me,” she continued. “You see, I am a real princess, a legitimate one. My older sister Sophia is Tsarina of Russia, married to Ivan the Great. I was sure, when I was little, that I would be a queen like my sister Sophia: Queen Theodora. She smiled bitterly, her eyes sad. “That vexed me, somehow—that a bastard and whore had become a princess, while I—a real princess—was stuck in a nunnery.”

  Leonardo remembered suddenly that “Paleologus” was the family name of the Greek orthodox emperor who was deposed when Constantinople fell to the Turks. That had happened the year after he was born—exactly fifty years ago, now. This nun was descended from the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor of Rome. Constantine’s queen, he remembered, had been named Theodora.

  “How did you happen to come here?” he asked.

  “I was born in Rome. My family fled here after the fall of Constantinople to the Turks. But we always thought we would be able to return, so I was raised as a princess. I spoke only Greek until I was five. I had many suitors, beginning when I was ten.”

  Suddenly the cat Theta appeared at the Greek woman’s feet, and jumped into her lap. She stroked its ears absently. “In the early years, we still thought the popes would expel the Turks, so that my father could return to Constantinople as emperor. Every pope promised a crusade. None kept his promise.”

  “But Madonna, didn’t the last emperor in Byzantium break a treaty that would have merged the Eastern Church with Roman one? Surely you cannot blame the popes for abandoning Constantinople under those circumstances.”

  Da Vinci realized he had touched a sore spot from the look on her face. “Mi scusa, Madonna; I did not mean to offend.”

  She gave a regal nod, to indicate he was forgiven, or at least tolerated. “My people refused to accept the Roman church and I do not blame them—as you know, I have made the same choice. Had they chosen differently, perhaps Constantinople would not have fallen.”

  She shook her head in regret. “In spite of the broken treaty, pope after pope did promise to send a crusade to free Constantinople from the Turks. My poor father. Every pope gave him hopes, and every one disappointed him.”

  “As hope faded,” she continued, “my suitors disappeared, for the reality was, our family was not rich. We had a house and a yearly income, given to us by the Sacred College when my parents arrived from Constantinople. We knew that the income would disappear at my father’s death.”

  Her cat now leaped from her lap and sauntered away. She watched him fondly, before continuing. “Where do daughters go, if they come from prominent families but are not marriageable? To convents, of course. My sister still hopes that our family will be restored to the throne, but I have lost hope. Most of the Greek community has lost hope. That is why I hate the Borgias.”

  “What does your lost throne have to do with the Borgias?” asked da Vinci in surprise.

  “More than you would think. The popes who disappointed my father included two Borgia popes—and this present one is the worst! He promised a crusade at the time of the Jubilee three years ago—do you remember? The bells of Rome’s churches rang at noon each day, to remind us to say the Paternoster and the Ave Maria for the success of the crusade. He collected thousands of ducats from his cardinals for the crusade. Pilgrims at the Jubilee thought they were contributing towards a crusade. Has there been a crusade? No! He is using the money to fund his bastard son’s conquest of Italy!”

  She was visibly angry now, her voice low and cutting. “Some of the earlier popes had good intentions, but this one—he is a liar! In fact, he is the Sultan’s creature—he took Turkish money to hold the Sultan’s brother Prince Djem as a prisoner. The only good thing is, the pope poisoned him finally. One less Turk to worry about, at least.”

  Her face was controlled, but her eyes flashed. She obviously hated Alexander IV. Moreover, she had just admitted that poisoning another human being did not offend her, da Vinci realized. This was hardly surprising: she had been raised to be a princess of Byzantium, a place synonymous with intrigue. But did she really hate the Borgias enough to poison two of them herself?

  She seemed to understand his thoughts. With visible effort, she calmed herself. “There will never be another crusade,” she asserted quietly. “I did not like watching my father die of disappointment, but there is no guarantee that a crusade would have put him back on the throne. In fact, the Turks are so strong it was probably hopeless. I am content enough here. And I am not a poisoner.”

  The bells were now ringing the nuns to Vespers, and the girls to supper. Madonna Paleologus stood. “I need to return to Girl’s House, Maestro. If you have further questions, you know where to find me.”

  Chapter 36—The Mona Lisa and the First Musket

  Nicola found Leonardo da Vinci beside the convent barn the next day, working on a strange-looking device. Propped on a tripod was a heavy piece of iron pipe, attached to a complicated brass mechanism adorned with two curving snake's heads. Da Vinci and two assistants were fitting paper screens around the device, which was pointed out into the fields beyond the barn. Carlo stood to one side. Watching him from a bench outside the barn was Sister Elena.

  Leonardo bowed to her. “Madonna Machiavelli. You know Rudolfo, of course—but have you met my famiglia?” he asked. This is Zoroastro,” he said, nodding at the short figure in black beside him, “and over there is Salai. You may call them Maestro Tommaso and Maestro Giacomo, if you are not comfortable with their nicknames.”

  “Is this Il Machia’s daughter?” asked the one called Zoroastro, as she curtseyed to him. “Scusi, Madonna; there is something behind your ear,” he said, reaching into the air beside her head. “Here it is: it is a florin your father gave me for good luck, after I pulled it from behind his ear.”

  “May I keep it?” she responded, grinning with delight. She realized that she had no token from her father, and that she wanted one. “I will ask my zia to pay you back.”

  “As you wish, if she will pay me back! There are more where that came from,” he replied, grinning back. How now pulled two more Florentine coins from behind her other ear.

  “Basta, Zoroastro. Back to work,” said da Vinci. “Come meet Salai, Madonna.”

  Salai was standing at the opposite end of the barn, in front of an easel which bore a drawing of city walls and fortifications that had been partially outlined with dark paint. Around him were several students from Girl’s House, admiring the work he was avoiding as he flirted with them. Behind all of them, Sister Paolina watched in mute disapproval. Salai was plainly enjoying himself.

  Nicola was excited about meeting Salai. Now, she would be able to join in the debate that currently preoccupied Girls’ House: which of the two young men was handsomer, Salai or Carlo? Her vote was for Carlo, she decided instantly. Salai was beautiful, more than he was handsome; with long, curling hair and big, soulful eyes. Also, she didn’t like bleached hair--and his, undoubtedly, was bleached. Carlo’s looks were more rugged and more exotic. They attracted Nicola for reasons she would never be able to explain, even to herself.

  “Salai, this is Madonna Machiavelli, Niccolò Machiavelli’s daughter,” said da Vinci. Salai took off his hat and gave her a courtly bow.

  “Maestro Giacomo,” said Nicola, curtseying to Salai. She was not used to being called
Madonna Machiavelli. It made her feel very old.

  “Did you find the missing cup, Nicola?” da Vinci called out from behind her. Glad for an excuse to leave the group around the easel, she turned and walked over to him.

  “Si. It was in the storeroom, as my Zia predicted. Still full of wine—good wine. What are you doing?”

  “We are about to test my hand-held cannon.”

  “Nobody could hold that in his hand!” Nicola protested, mystified by what she saw.

  “Si. It is so heavy it needs legs, but a man could carry it. We are trying to devise a way to test it so that we will be safe if it blows up.”

  Nicola nodded. It was common knowledge that even full-sized cannons were prone to this problem.

  “I came to show you the revised list of suspects.” She held it out to da Vinci, who ignored her.

  “Are you ready for the test?” he asked. “Stand back!”

  He wound a small key at the side of his invention, replaced the paper screens, and then ran with the others to stand well behind the device, pulling Nicola with him. As he did so, the key unwound noisily and the device exploded in smoke and the sulfurous smell of gunpowder. The girls shrieked; chickens squawked and flew in all directions. A small ball flew from the barrel into the nearby weeds. The paper screens around the device smoldered, then caught fire.

  Zoroastro and Rudolfo ran forward to put out the fire with buckets of water they had set aside for the purpose. “It is a good thing we thought of this.” said Rudolfo. “Otherwise, the whole yard might be aflame!”

  “Si.” Leonardo replied. “Look--the barrel has exploded! Rudolfo, I think we should abandon this experiment. It is as I expected: even with the legs, the device is too heavy to hold. If a man braces it against his body, he would burn himself with gunpowder. It needs an even heavier barrel to avoid explosion. I do not think this device is practical. I do not want to take Lord Valentino's salary for no good purpose.”

  “I am going back to the guesthouse,” announced Carlo, throwing a triumphant smile at Nicola, who quickly placed herself between Leonardo and Rudolfo. Sister Elena dropped her rosary beads and followed him silently.

  Nicola smiled nervously. She was ashamed that she could still feel Carlo’s kiss on her lips when she thought about it, which was entirely too often. Carlo hadn't said a word to her since.

  “Did you have to frighten the chickens?” came an irate voice from behind them. “They make no eggs when they are frightened.”

  Leonardo turned to face a sunburned nun in muddy sandals, peering at him from under a straw hat perched incongruously atop her habit. “I am sorry to frighten your chickens, Suora. It was on orders of Lord Valentino.”

  “I saw him arrive,” she spat. “Hasn’t he done enough harm already?”

  “You know him, Suora?” da Vinci asked.

  “My husband hid him—and died for it--when he escaped from the French during their last invasion. I see the Borgia bastard has the French Disease, now. He deserves it.” She stomped off.

  “Who is that one, and why is she so angry?” da Vinci asked Nicola.

  “Sister Francesca,” she responded. “I heard that the pope’s armies have seized her family’s lands. She is angry all the time, now.”

  “What was she talking about, hiding Lord Valentino? Was that when he was hostage to the French the first time they invaded? He used to tell the story of his daring escape—how it freed the pope to fight the French.”

  “Maybe her husband died helping him--I don’t know, Maestro. Can I give you my list now?”

  “What list?”

  “Of the nuns whose maternal and paternal families have vendettas against the Borgias.” Smiling brightly, Nicola handed him the list.

  “Priora Picchi and Sister Beatrice called together the oldest nuns, the ones who knew everyone's families. We gave them the list of those who were in Saint Peter’s Square with Sister Gerolama when she died. From that, they made a list of any nun or student whose paternal or maternal family might have a vendetta against the Borgia family. Both families are listed, where both had reasons for vendetta. The maternal family is on the right. Zia Caterina asked me to show it to you and ask if you recognize any names, or have any suggestions.”

  Leonardo looked at the list:

  Nuns

  Sister Anna (Orsini/Savelli )

  Sister Elisabetta (Orsini/Savelli)

  Sister Patienza (Orsini)

  Sister Beatrice (Orsini)

  Sister Margherita (Colonna/Orsini)

  Sister Bartolomea(Colonna)

  Sister Amelia (Orsini)

  Sister Prudenzia (Aragona)

  Sister Ignacia (Sforza/Savelli)

  Sister Sophia (Gaetani)

  Sister Francesca (Colonna)

  Sister Bernina (Gaetani)

  Sister Paolina (Gonzaga/Savelli)

  Pilgrims:

  Leonora Sforza

  Luisa Gonzaga

  Servants:

  No information

  Students:

  Pia (Gaetani/Orsini)

  Laura Colonna

  Angelica (Aragona/Savelli )

  Sister Domenica (Gaetani/Savelli)

  While da Vinci studied the list, Nicola looked through one of his notebooks. “Who drew these pictures?” she asked. “They are marvelous! How do you remember faces so well? Could I keep the ones of my zia?”

  Da Vinci laughed. “Too many questions! I drew these pictures. Yes, you may have the drawings of your zia. I have trained my visual memory. My first job was as a painter.”

  “Who is this lady, with the mysterious smile?” asked Nicola, who was looking at another sketch. “She is very beautiful.”

  “Mona Issa,” whispered da Vinci, looking at the picture.

  “Mona Lisa?” repeated Nicola.

  “No, no child. This is a sketch of Isabella d'Aragona, wife of the Duke of Milan. I made a painting of it, which I carry with me. Would you like to see it sometime?”

  “The wife of Il Moro?”

  “No, Nicola. Sister-in-law to Il Moro. Widow of his older brother, Duke Gian Galeazzo.” Leonardo responded.

  “I would love to see your painting of her! But why do you keep it with you? Didn't she like it?”

  “I asked to keep it . . . partly to remember her, and also as a sample of my work. I think it is my best painting, so far.”

  Leonardo took the notebook, carefully pulled out the sketches of Caterina Biaggi, and handed them to Nicola. “I will show it to you, along with some other of my drawings and paintings, sometime soon. Va bene?”

  “Si, Maestro da Vinci. Thank you, a thousand times, for the pictures of Caterina!” Nicola started to leave, but suddenly remembered her task. “What did you make of the list?”

  “It tells me nothing, except that we have too many suspects.”

  Chapter 37—Leonardo the Lutenist

  The next day, Leonardo persuaded Nicola to sing with him in the grape arbor where nuns were permitted to receive male guests, while he accompanied on the lute. He had detected Nicola's clear alto voice during Mass, and learned from her that she read music. It had been years-- decades in fact-- since he sang with a young woman. What he had missed! A beautiful young girl, seated on an ancient stone bench, amongst dappled shade from newly-leafed grape vines; yellow primula, the first flowers of spring at her feet. What could be more perfect? Nicola seemed to enjoy it as well.

  Her aunt joined them, now dressed in the black of deep mourning. Her grief was no longer written on her face, but something else was: hostility, perhaps? Or disapproval? Whatever it was, it stopped Leonardo’s song in his throat.

  “I did not know you were a musician, Maestro da Vinci.”

  “To be truthful, Madonna, my first job in Milano was as a lute player and singer to Il Moro,” he replied, continuing to pluck his instrument.

  “And then he promoted you to engineer?”

  “Engineer, builder, painter, sculptor, costume and stage designer, room decorator, and inventor. Wha
tever he asked me to do, I did.”

  “And teacher of music, evidently. Is this really an appropriate song to be teaching a young girl in a convent who has just lost her uncle?”

  “Oh, si, Madonna. It is a very sad song. Can you not hear the sadness?” he continued as he played, smiling.

  “The singer is sad because his lover spurns his attentions, is what I heard,” Caterina replied acidly.

  “I am not responsible for the poetry, Madonna, but I do take credit for the tune,” he responded, continuing to play with a smile on his face. He played a little riff on his tune. Too bad he had never written down any of his melodies, he thought to himself.

  “You must forgive me, Madonna,” he continued. “Yesterday I went to buy works for my library. Rome is famous for its printing presses. I have always been eager to visit them. The new Roman font is a work of art: beautiful, but still easy to read.” He stopped to tune his instrument.

  “At any rate, I also found a newly-printed copy of the masses of Josquin des Pres, a composer and musician who preceded me in Milan, and whose work I therefore knew. He is a true genius of music, who writes in the latest style. I could not resist buying it, and then of course, I wanted to hear it—but it calls for five voices, and even with a lute I am only two. I asked Nicola to help me. Do you, perhaps, sing and read music?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, Maestro,” Caterina said patiently, as if he were a misbehaving boy.

  “Zia, you must look at this music! Even without being able to read it, you can tell what is happening. It is like nothing heard, ever before.” Nicola opened the book of masses. “You see, he takes a simple melody which we all know, and then makes it into the melody of the mass. It first appears here,” she pointed, “then there,” she pointed again, “then here, in each voice in turn. When one voice sings the melody, another has an accompaniment. ”

  “Five voices singing the same melody at different times? It sounds awful,” said Caterina.

  “No, really, it is very beautiful,” Nicola insisted. “You will have to hear it.”