A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  Pinzon was used to frightening people. Ordinarily, he rather enjoyed it. Somehow it did not feel right, though, frightening a nun. At least, not an ordinary nun like this one, who probably prayed, and indisputably worked to relieve suffering.

  “Lord Valentino sent me to follow up on a number of things, including your letter.”

  “As you wish, Lord. How may I help you?”

  “What is wrong with this one?” he asked, watching as Sister Beatrice bathed a sweating nun's forehead with a wet cloth.

  “'Tis the mal aria. When it gets warm, the bad air comes from the swamps, and these fevers follow. This one refuses to close her window at night. She has had the fever, many times.”

  Pinzon was surprised that a nun could be so foolish as to leave her window open to the mal aria at night. “What do you give her for the fever? Have you tried pepper?”

  Sister Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. “I have tried many things. Sage. Lilac. Every fever remedy I have seen in our herbals. None seems to work very well, so I bathe foreheads.”

  She rinsed the cloth and reapplied it to the sweating nun’s head. “Pepper is a new idea to me.”

  Pinzon was appalled at her ignorance. “Pepper has been used for hundreds of years, since the time of the great medical school in Salerno. I always carry it with me. I will give you some, so you can try it. Grind it and make an infusion with other healthful herbs, like chamomile.”

  “Gràzie,” said Sister Beatrice stiffly.

  “Prego. You inspire me to good deeds, Suora,” he replied, trying to keep his voice solemn. “Now: I reviewed your letter, and I agree that both of the dead ones whose symptoms you describe were killed with a fast-acting poison. From the metallic smell you described, I suspect it was a large dose of arsenico, perhaps mixed with other poisons. I also examined the residue in the cup that poisoned Maestro Biaggi, Again, arsenico was definitely present. So, the poisons used on Sister Gerolama and Maestro Biaggi could have been the same. At least, they contained the same essential ingredient. I have reported this to Lord Valentino.”

  “Where would a nun obtain such a poison?” asked Sister Beatrice.

  “I am happy to be of service, if there are any poisons you happen to need,” he smiled.

  Sister Beatrice turned as white as her habit.

  “A joke, a joke, Suora!” protested Pinzon, seeing her reaction. Madre di Dio, how could she work with death and dying and not learn how to joke about it a little? Nuns, he decided, are probably not given to humor. “A nun would obtain such a poison by going to a Roman chemist, and claiming she needed it to kill rats. Who would doubt a nun?” he responded, this time seriously.

  “Would a chemist keep a record of such a transaction?” Sister Beatrice continued.

  “The chemists I frequent do not,” he smiled, again enjoying the look on Sister Beatrice's face.

  “I ask because Maestro da Vinci brought these packets to me to identify, which were found in one of our guestrooms,” she explained, gesturing towards the pile she had made of them. “Some I am able to identify—they are labeled inside as medicinals, and the labels appear to be correct. The ones marked with skulls are labeled as poisons, though, and I cannot say whether they are labeled correctly, or not.”

  She wrung out her cloth, then went back to bathing Sister Bartolomea’s forehead. “Maestro da Vinci has his servant visiting chemists in Rome, to see if we can find where these packets came from. I am just wondering whether they would keep a record of buyers.”

  “Probably not,” he responded, picking up one of the packets labeled with a skull. Inside it was marked, “la cantarella.” He stiffened with surprise. “La cantarella” was the name that the world had given to the poison employed by the Borgia family—a poison only Sebastian Pinzon manufactured, according to a formula which only he knew. He wished the pope's son hadn’t bragged about it. Many chemists, he knew, were trying to copy it. This one may have succeeded: the light green color was right. He sniffed it, and could detect no odor. Gingerly, he put a tiny amount on his tongue, then quickly spat it into a handkerchief. It also had no obvious flavor. Who could have stolen his formula?

  “I will take this one, Suora,” he said, pocketing the packet marked, “la cantarella.” “And I will speak to da Vinci’s servant, concerning his search for the chemist who created these packets.” He himself would take charge of this search, he decided. He needed the information for his own purposes. If it was important for da Vinci to know the outcome, he could be told.

  “Is there anything further I can do for you, Lord?”

  “You can tell me where I might find Leonardo da Vinci,” he replied.

  * * *

  Leonardo blanched when he saw Sebastian Pinzon approaching. He was standing outside the convent guesthouse, finishing up one of the paintings of fortifications he owed to Lord Valentino, and enjoying a cup of the priora's good red wine. Beside him was one of his sketch books, which he hastily thrust behind his paints. Only minutes before, he had been sketching the white cat Alpha, now basking in the sun beside him. Dio be thanked that he was working on something for Lord Valentino when Pinzon approached.

  “You need not look so concerned, Maestro da Vinci,” said Pinzon, smiling in an unpleasant way. “I am merely here to assist you. Lord Valentino is disappointed that you do not wish to do further work on the handheld cannon. He asked me to encourage you to think further about this invention.”

  “I do not know much about guns, being a chemist,” Pinzon continued, “but I do know about gunpowder. What did you use in making the gunpowder which burned so disastrously when you tested the new gun?”

  Da Vinci cleared his throat. “It was the most modern gunpowder, Lord Pinzon. So my man Zoroastro assured me. I do not know its specific composition.”

  “Perhaps it was. . . a little too modern, since it blew up the gun. Do you have any of it left?” Pinzon asked, nodding toward the guestroom behind da Vinci. Along its walls were sketches and paintings of fortifications da Vinci was preparing for Lord Valentino, in various stages of completion. On a table in its center were various pots and crucibles.

  “What you see there are paints, Lord,” replied da Vinci, hoping it was so. “We have no place to safely store gunpowder here. I think we used what we had. I would have to ask Zoroastro to be sure, though.” Da Vinci silently vowed to find Zoroastro before Pinzon did, to warn him that he would be questioned.

  Pinzon smiled. “Lord Valentino told me you had an interest in gunpowder manufacture, but perhaps he was mistaken. I have brought some of my own manufacture. Perhaps we could try the experiment again, using my gunpowder?”

  “Of course, Lord Pinzon.” Madre di Dio, thought da Vinci, I should never have told Lord Valentino about my recipe for Greek fire. The man forgets nothing.

  “I have also spoken to Rudolfo,” Pinzon continued, “for whom Lord Valentino has the greatest respect. He has suggested that the gun needed a longer barrel. I have set him to work making such a barrel. You have no objection, surely, to trying his suggestion.”

  Da Vinci mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Of course not, Lord.” I am in trouble now, he thought. “This will take some days to assemble. Would you care to be present for the experiment?”

  “I would like that very much.” Pinzon replied. “In the meantime, see that you attend to your duties for Lord Valentino.”

  “Of course, Lord. Just as you see.”

  “I understand you are redesigning the barn for the nuns?”

  Da Vinci felt the color drain from his face. “What? Certainly not, Lord Pinzon. The nuns’ barn? It is possible I made some suggestion—I am an engineer; I do that, almost without thinking. But I don’t remember specifically.”

  “Nothing like what you are doing for Lord Valentino, then?

  “Like this painting here? Of course not. The nuns are hosting me, but they are not paying me.”

  “Bene. Lord Valentino wants to be sure he is getting his money’s worth from you. Now, show me the
book you hid behind your paints.”

  Da Vinci held out his sketchbook. Pinzon examined it. “The writing is backwards,” he said, frowning. “Why is it backwards?”

  “I am left-handed, Lord. It is easier for me. These are merely personal notes and sketches,” Da Vinci explained.

  “I can see that,” Pinzon mused. “These are very good drawings, Leonardo,” he continued. “I knew you could make maps, like the one you are painting here,” he said, gesturing at the easel, “and of course I have seen the sketches of your siege machines. But I had no idea you could draw like this.”

  “Some say I have a talent in that direction, Lord.”

  Chapter 40—Ugo’s Will

  Sebastian Pinzon stood in the office of Priora Picchi, to which the Biaggi family and Nicola had been summoned. Crammed together on tiny chairs, everyone, including the priora, looked apprehensive—as people usually did around him. Pinzon himself was amused.

  “We have received a copy of your husband's will, Madonna Biaggi. Together with an explanation from his lawyer,” said the priora. “ Lord Pinzon and I have spent a great deal of time going over it. I think he understands it better than I do, so I will ask him to explain it to you.”

  Sebastian Pinzon smiled at Carlo and Caterina. “ First, let me congratulate both of you, on being heirs to a comfortable fortune. This testamento gives both of you motive for murdering Ugo Biaggi,” he continued, enjoying the discomfort in Caterina and Carlo’s eyes. “Nonetheless, it does not point clearly to either of you.”

  “Your husband was a clever man, Madonna,” he said, nodding at Caterina, “and he obviously valued you as a clever woman. He has found a way to ensure that you use your cleverness to help his son.”

  “Under the terms of his will, you, Carlo, receive all the family lands, as is proper, since you are the male heir. The will relinquishes all claims to property you, Madonna Biaggi, hold in your own name. I understand from Priora Picchi that these properties are committed to the convent on your death, assuming Nicola takes vows as a nun. So you, Nicola, have nothing further to worry about.”

  “The will,” Pinzon continued, “gives you, Madonna Biaggi, 5,000 ducats outright. Now, some would say that is too generous a gift for a widow with property,” he continued. Carlo nodded appreciatively. “Your husband's will, however, states that this gift represents a conservative estimate of value you added to the family business from your own labors.”

  “Truthfully, Lord, it is a very conservative estimate,” said Caterina.

  “Now is where it gets complicated,” Pinzon continued. “Your husband appears to believe that you are the best person to run the family business, Madonna. The will gives you the option to continue to run his armament business at a very handsome salary, plus 50% of the yearly profits, the rest going to Carlo. You are also given the option of investing up to 5,000 ducats from the residue of the estate in expanding the family business outside of Milan, for which you will receive a second yearly salary, plus 50% of the yearly profits, for each location.”

  “Carlo, you are to take no part in running the business,” he continued. “The testamento is very clear on this point. However, you can suspend the arrangement after three years, if your stepmother’s efforts do not generate enough profits.”

  He now turned to Caterina. “Madonna Biaggi, you can resign at any time, but you keep your profits for one extra year, if you find and transition the business to a worthy successor.”

  “What happens if I do not want to run my husband’s business?” asked Caterina slowly.

  “Then I will sell it,” said Carlo promptly

  “To whom would you sell it, Carlo?” asked his stepmother. “I do not know of anyone who would step in as buyer.”

  “If you do not choose to run the business, the firm goes to Carlo outright,” Pinzon explained. “Also Madonna—if you remarry, you forfeit your right to run the business, and your earnings and profits after that date.”

  “I will not remarry,” Caterina said flatly.

  “What happens if I marry?” Carlo asked.

  Pinzon laughed. “You make babies, of course. Nothing happens to your rights under your father’s testamento, if that is what you mean.”

  Carlo shot a triumphant look at Caterina, who did not see it. Her eyes were closed, as if she had a headache.

  Pinzon watched them in amusement. Ugo had obviously trusted neither his son nor his lawyer to get a proper price for his business. In effect, the dead man had made his son into a passive business partner to his more able wife, who was given a strong incentive to care for the boy, whether she wanted to or not.

  “One more detail: Carlo, if you contest the will, half the estate goes to Caterina outright.”

  “What does it mean, to contest the will?”asked Carlo.

  “Go to court, to fight over how the estate is divided,” explained the priora.

  “Why would I do that? What you said is fair,” said Carlo. He laughed. “I make money, and she does all the work.”

  “Caterina, if you contest the will, you lose your 5,000 ducats and are prohibited from participating in the business any further,” concluded Pinzon.

  “I, too, think the will is fair. I will not contest it,” she said.

  Pinzon was aware of one further fact which he chose not to share: neither Carlo nor Caterina knew the contents of the will, the lawyer had assured him. Ugo had insisted on secrecy. Since neither heir knew how Ugo’s estate was bestowed, neither had a clear financial motive for killing him. To the contrary, the uncertainty of their financial futures gave them every motivation for keeping Ugo alive. Pinzon had decided that he would report this to Leonardo and Lord Valentino, but not to the Biaggis. Better to keep them frightened, to force them into working harder to find the murderer.

  “You will report to Lord Valentino on this matter?” the priora asked Pinzon.

  “Si. I will tell him that all of you had motive for murdering Maestro Biaggi,” he said, enjoying the confusion in the eyes of Nicola and her family. “I trust this will motivate you to move more quickly towards resolution of these deaths.”

  Carlo did not appear to be listening. “Can I leave this place now?” he demanded. “I am tired of having nuns following me around all the time.”

  Lord Pinzon was amused. The priora had already told him of Carlo’s misdeeds, and begged for his help. “You should be in paradise, Carlo—one young man, among all these women? Why do you want to leave, and where do you want to go?”

  “It might be paradise, except for the damned nuns,” Carlo responded. “I will go anywhere, as long as it is not here.”

  “You may leave the convent during the day, if you are escorted by Maestro Leonardo or Maestro Rudolfo,” Pinzon told him.

  “I will go find one of them,” Carlo responded, then abruptly rose and left the room.

  “Evidently we are finished,” observed Pinzon sardonically.

  “May I read my husband’s will?” Caterina asked. The priora glanced at Pinzon, who nodded. Bowing, he left.

  * * *

  Looking happy for the first time since her husband’s murder, Caterina coaxed Nicola from the infermeria later in the day.

  “Come walk with me in the courtyard,” she said, taking Nicola’s arm. “We have much to talk about. I read my husband’s will and did some thinking. If I can keep his business going, I think there will be enough money to provide you with a good dowry.”

  “Do you really think you can keep his business going?”

  “I know I can—if I am not executed for murdering Ugo! What I need to know is, how do you feel about marrying? Would you rather be a nun?”

  They walked in silence while Nicola considered her answer. “How would I know? All I know is being a nun. It is a safe and tranquil life. Better than marrying a total stranger, I think,” she said slowly. “Maybe better than marrying at all. I know marital happiness is possible, but so is great misery. So, I don’t know! You will have to guide me.”

  “I am
thinking of starting a branch of our business here, with the money Ugo left me. That will take time. But once we have established ourselves here, men will flock to you: artisans like Rudolfo, who are well-established and well-off. I can make you a much better match than Maestro da Vinci or any of the others in the guesthouse. Understand, I would not approve of any of them as a husband for you—especially not Carlo.”

  “It’s a good thing none of them are interested in me, then. Why would you even think of Maestro da Vinci? He is easily twice my age. And a little bit pazzo, too.”

  Caterina stared at her, in seeming disbelief. “I see how he looks at you. Maybe it’s just as well you don’t.”

  Nicola blushed. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. I enjoy his company, but if he--not if he. . .”

  “I may have jumped to conclusions, Nicola. Da Vinci has the best manners of any man I have ever known; you need not fear him. Understand this: if you decide to marry, I will help you find a suitor. And it will not be one of the men you now know. You should meet many more, before you decide. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. One thing--I don’t know how long the priora will let me wait to decide whether to take my vows. I am already older than many who have.”

  “I will talk to her. But she will want to know your wishes.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to think about it! Let’s concentrate on finding out who murdered your husband, for now.”

  “So we must. Until my name is cleared, I can’t move forward with my life. Because I may not have one.”

  Chapter 41—The Confession

  Convent of San Sisto

  March 1503

  Sister Sophia, the sacristan, sat down beside Rudolfo Giamatti, who was praying in the convent church during the hour before Mass.

  “I saw you at the grave of Sister Annaluisa, Maestro,” she said. “Did you know her well?”

  “Well enough to mourn for her,” he replied cautiously.

  “Were you her lover?” Sister Sophia inquired calmly. She had considered many ways of asking this question, concluding that bluntness was best.