The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

  “How long could you stay away from Rome?”

  Cesare shrugged.

  “Then you know the answer.”

  Dracula stole into the house while Ilona waited outside in the vines. He needed to find the one whom Cesare had bribed. Hiding in the shadows, he watched the servants at close quarters. Finally, he saw the man he wanted.

  The man still held the flask. Dracula reached out and grabbed him. The jolt knocked it from his hand, though Dracula caught it as it fell from his grasp. The man struggled beneath his grip, but the vampire kept a firm hand clamped over his mouth.

  “If you cry out, I shall kill you,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  The man nodded as best he could.

  “Good, let us take a quiet stroll in the gardens. We need to talk.”

  Dracula took him to a quiet spot among the vines, where Ilona joined them. The man looked afraid when Dracula released him, but he did not cry for help. His better instincts advised him it might be the last thing he did.

  He looked at his abductor, and then at Ilona. “Who are you people?”

  “I am an agent employed by the cardinal,” Dracula said.

  “What?”

  “He knows the Borgias want to kill him.”

  “We had but to discover how,” Ilona cut in.

  “We know what they intend to do.”

  “What has this to do with me?” the man asked.

  Dracula could not believe how cool the man was under pressure. “We heard every word said to you.”

  The man’s bravado did not last, and he shrank in fear. Already they had found him out.

  “Do not worry over it,” Ilona said. “There is a way you can save yourself.”

  “If you assist us,” Dracula added.

  “Assist you, how?”

  “Yes, should you elect to do so, you shall not be punished for what you have agreed to do for Signor Borgia.”

  The man had no choice but to comply, his initial composure all but gone. Knowing the gravity of his predicament, he had to struggle to fight back the tears. “Then what would you have me do?”

  “Ensure the Borgias drink the poisoned wine.”

  “You want me to kill them?”

  “You were keen enough to kill your master, for a pretty sum.”

  The man hung his head in shame. “I shall go to Hell for this.”

  “No, you shall not,” Ilona argued. “The Borgias are evil men.”

  “You would help save your master,” Dracula reasoned. “That would make you a hero. I shall allow you to keep the purse offered to you.”

  He raised his head. “You would?”

  “Yes, you need only pass the flask to the Borgias.”

  The man panicked. “The flask? Where is it?”

  “It is here,” Dracula said, holding it up. “You know what you have to do.”

  The man sighed with relief. He took the flask from Dracula and returned inside.

  ROME PROVINCE. THE VILLA OF CARDINAL

  ADRIANO CORNETO OUTSIDE ROME.

  AUGUST 11, 1503. THAT SAME EVENING.

  Shall we return inside and eat?” Corneto asked the Borgias.

  “Yes, the signs are it should be a good meal, Cesare,” the pope said to his son.

  Cesare smiled. “Yes, Father, it shall be that.”

  “Then come, let us eat.”

  “You go on ahead. I shall join you shortly. I need a breath of air.”

  The two older men sat down at the table.

  Alexander licked his lips. His mouth felt dry and he fancied a drink. “There is no wine ready for us?” he asked.

  He looked around to see if any of the servants had some in hand. His eyes fell on the man Cesare had bribed. He clicked his fingers to summon the man over.

  The man walked over with the flask. Every nerve in his body trembled, knowing he was about to poison the pope himself.

  “What is ailing you, man?” Alexander asked, his voice almost a growl. “Pour me some wine.”

  The man looked to his employer, to which Corneto nodded for him to pour. If it is what the cardinal wishes, then so be it.

  “Leave the flask.”

  He set it down on the table, and then bowed and left the room.

  “You need to use the whip more on your servants,” Alexander said to his host.

  “It is not like him,” Corneto said. “He must be a trifle nervous.”

  “But why? He knows who I am.”

  “Well, that might be the reason. You are the pope, after all.”

  The man returned with a second flask. In that moment, Cesare walked into the room and sat down. He watched the servant give the second flask to Corneto. The man was careful not to make eye contact with him. He bowed to Corneto and left again.

  Cesare smiled to himself. Soon Corneto shall be dead. Then my father can confiscate all that he owns. He would claim it for the Church, but everyone knew the pope kept these estates for his family.

  Alexander took a long swig of his wine, finding the taste quite strong. It brought tears to his eyes as it passed down his gullet. He belched out loud and poured some more.

  “Is it to your liking?” Corneto asked him.

  “Yes, it has a real edge to it, though.”

  Cesare took the flask from him, and poured a measure for himself.

  “Have some from my flask,” Corneto said, offering his.

  Cesare eyed the flask. “I thank you, but I have this one.”

  “As you wish.”

  Cesare watched his host guzzle down a good measure. He then took a swig of his own. “You are right,” he said to his father. “It is a little sour.”

  “Then drink this,” Corneto said again.

  For the second time, Cesare refused the offer. “I shall drink from this for the now.”

  “Yes,” Alexander said. “The wine is a little different in the hills.”

  Corneto began to wonder about the flask he was drinking from. It struck him as odd that Cesare did not want any of it. He put it to his nose to check it. It smelled well enough.

  “Is something wrong?” Cesare asked him.

  “I do not know. Is there?”

  Alexander sensed the tension between them. “Cesare, I have good news.”

  His son looked to him. “What is that, Father?”

  “Adriano is looking to make a donation for your campaign in Napoli.”

  Cesare did not look at Corneto. “That is good. It is nice to have a new friend.”

  “A friend would toast from the same flask.”

  He handed it to Cesare.

  “I am content with what I have,” Cesare said, still not looking at him.

  “Then would you toast with me, Rodrigo?” Corneto said to the elder Borgia.

  “Very well,” Cesare said, reaching for the flask.

  He did not want his father to drink from it. In his haste to grab it, he knocked it over. “I imagine we shall have to toast from the other flask.”

  “It is all but gone,” his father said. “You shall have to get another.”

  The servants entered with the food. They laid it out along the centre of the table for the men to eat what they pleased. The elder two spoke while they ate. Cesare did not join in. Later in the night, he did not feel too well, and neither did his father. They retired early to bed.

  By morning, they were stricken with fever. Corneto sent word to the city, and also for the physician. The news spread all over the Vatican. It did not take long for the cardinals to gather together. They set off at once for Corneto’s villa.

  “Does he have the fever from the city?” Corneto asked the medic.

  “I am not certain,” the physician replied, looking a little confused. “It is similar, but not quite the same.”

  Alexander heard them and opened his eyes. When they saw this, they moved toward him. He looked pale and weak and his body burned with fever. “Help me,” he said, his voice as feeble and as weak as his ailing torso.

  “I may have to
bleed you,” the physician prognosed.

  “Then do it,” Alexander said.

  He raised his hand, but dropped it again. The physician turned to Corneto once more. “We have to remove the Holy Father’s robes. I shall need help.”

  The cardinal summoned his servants to undress the pope. They received strict orders not to look upon him. The one who had given him his wine could not resist. Guilt consumed him inside. He had poisoned the pope.

  Corneto scolded him. “What are you looking at, Roberto?”

  The servant quickly looked away from the bed, and was ushered out of the room when the physician returned. Only Corneto remained, and he watched him make several small incisions. Into each, the physician pushed a pin attached to a small device.

  The physician bled the pope of thirteen ounces of his blood. With that done, he left the room to return home. A maid stayed with Alexander. She dabbed his body with cold compresses to try and keep his fever down.

  Alexander spoke on the odd occasion. When he was coherent, he said he was feeling a little better.

  Cesare did not fare so well. By morning, his fever burned him from the inside out. He cried out often with the pain, and was prone to the occasional rant. “Corneto! You fiend! You have poisoned me!”

  Word reached Corneto of the things he said. He went alone to Cesare’s room, his anger boiling within. “You say I have poisoned you?” he said as he shut the door.

  “Look at me!”

  Cesare looked seriously ill. His whole body was soaked in sweat, and even his skin looked red from the fever that burned inside him. He lay back against his pillow and looked up at the ceiling. His chest heaved while he struggled for breath.

  “I say you did it to yourself.”

  Cesare did not look at him. “You are mad.”

  “You and your father drank from a flask you had designed for me.”

  Cesare could not deny it. He did not try to.

  “I welcomed you to my home,” Corneto said, his words tinged with bitterness. “And you do this? If you are to recover, then you best leave and never return. I withdraw any offer I made to your father.”

  Three days after falling ill, the physician bled the pope again. As before, he felt a little better after the ordeal. The cardinals sat around the villa playing cards and chatting. They thought that it was only a matter of time. Alexander looked very ill. His face was ashen, and the sockets of his eyes were black and sunken. Death was ready to claim him.

  Some of Cesare’s men came to the villa, though Corneto refused them entry. When they then decided to force their way in, he could do nothing to stop them. The cardinal feared for his safety. They did not speak, but he sensed their ill feeling toward him.

  “Watch over me,” Cesare told them. “Lest I may not walk out of here.”

  His men looked grim. Ponti nodded that he would see to it. “You think Corneto wants to kill you?”

  Cesare rose slightly from his pillow. “Look at me!” he choked. He paused while he coughed up large amounts of phlegm. “And my father.”

  Ponti nodded again. “But Corneto has also been unwell.”

  “Then it is something different that ails him. How is my father?”

  “He is worse than before.”

  “Has he asked for me?”

  “I do not know. No one has spoken of it, if he has.”

  “Where is Michele? Why is he not here?”

  Michele de Corella was Cesare’s most loyal captain. Cesare very rarely went anywhere without him. However, de Corella’s wife was stricken with the fever that plagued much of Rome. Cesare had allowed him to remain with her, but since falling ill, he had sent word for de Corella to come.

  Cesare eased back down on his pillow. Ponti and the others left him to rest. De Corella arrived soon after. He heard Cesare scream the moment he entered the villa.

  “What is wrong?” he asked Ponti.

  “The fever has a strong hold on him.”

  “Is the physician with him?”

  “No, he is with the Holy Father in the main.”

  He pushed his way into the room, which stank of stale sweat. There, he saw Cesare clutching at his head with both hands. “I am here, Cesare,” he said.

  Cesare looked up. “I cannot bear this for much longer,” he gasped.

  “You are hot?” de Corella asked him.

  “I am burning like a furnace.”

  “My wife has a fever unlike yours. She is bitterly cold, even though her body burns.”

  “I do not have the fever. I have been poisoned.”

  The captain opened the shutters so a cool draught could blow in. “That might help.”

  Dracula lurked outside in the twilight. He listened with great interest to the things they said. In truth, he did not care if Cesare lived or died. He only wanted Alexander gone.

  “I need water.”

  De Corella poured some into a cup from a jug on a table and handed it to Cesare.

  “No! Not to drink! I need to lie in it. Water as cold as the ice in winter.”

  De Corella placed the cup down. “I shall see to it.”

  The servants prepared a tub, and filled it with water from the well outside. When it was full, de Corella and Ponti helped Cesare from his bed.

  They had to carry him most of the way as he was too weak to stand. He groaned the whole time, his body aching from head to toe. Every muscle pained him. His stomach churned and rumbled. The stabbing pains doubled him up in agony.

  He cried out when they lowered him into the cold water. It rose up all the way to his neck. He clutched at the rim of the tub with both hands. His men stood close by to ensure he did not go under.

  It did not take long before Cesare had to get out. The pain was just too much to bear so his men lifted him back out of the tub. Almost right away, he grabbed at his stomach again. They lowered him to the floor, where he vomited hard.

  “Take me back to my bed,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  They laid him on the top of the blanket.

  “How do you feel, Cesare?” de Corella asked him.

  “A little better,” he gasped again, closing his eyes.

  De Corella turned to Ponti. “Find someone to clean up this mess!”

  Roberto was the one handed the task. He came into the room with his head bowed. Seeing Cesare with his eyes closed, he dropped to his knees quickly and began to scrub the floor.

  De Corella pulled up a chair close to the bed. He was not going to leave Cesare’s side now that he was here. At once, he realised his master had different symptoms to those of his wife. That told him they did not have the same illness. His wife had shown signs of a recovery before he left Rome. Cesare looked very ill and as though he was getting worse. If there were any chance that someone had tried to kill him, he was determined they would not get a second go at it.

  Cesare reached out feebly with a hand. He touched it against the thigh of de Corella. “Thank you, my friend,” he whispered. “I am glad that you are here.”

  “You rest, Cesare. I shall not leave your side.”

  ROME PROVINCE. THE VILLA OF CARDINAL

  ADRIANO CORNETO OUTSIDE ROME.

  AUGUST 15, 1503.

  Roberto continued with his task. All the while, he gazed over at Cesare on the bed. De Corella spotted this, and it angered him that the servant did not have his mind on his job. “What are you looking at, boy?” he asked, his tone threatening.

  The servant looked down, glad that he was almost done. Cesare opened his eyes and looked over. At once, he recognised him.

  “What is it, Cesare?” his captain asked, seeing the look on his master’s face.

  He pointed at the servant. “That man.”

  De Corella stood up. His eyes shot back and forth between the two men. “What of him?” he asked his boss, though focusing once more on Roberto. “Stand up, boy!”

  Roberto stood up with his cloth in hand. His eyes, he kept trained on the floor.

  “Look at me when I address
you!”

  “I gave him a flask,” Cesare said. “It contained wine I laced with poison.”

  “For Corneto? But you and your father are the ones who are ill.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Roberto looked around, the fear in his eyes clear to see. He would have bolted for the door if Ponti had not been standing there. De Corella drew his sword. Roberto felt a lump build in his throat when he saw it.

  De Corella peered over him to Ponti. “Remain with Cesare. You,” he said to Roberto, “can take a short stroll with me.”

  He led the servant through the villa by the scruff of the neck. Roberto cried out at his rough treatment. When the cardinals saw this, they stood up.

  “What are you doing?” Vicenza asked.

  “This man poisoned the Holy Father and Gonfalonier Borgia!”

  “Do you know this for certain?”

  “Yes,” de Corella glared. “He can divulge the details of his plot lest I shall gut him like a fish!”

  He dragged Roberto outside. When they reached the quiet of the vineyard, he threw him down. The only sound other than the crickets was that of the servant sobbing.

  “You have one chance to speak!” the captain warned. “How did the laced wine reach the Borgias?”

  “I beg you, do not hurt me.”

  De Corella kicked him hard in the gut, leaving Roberto to gasp for breath. His face pressed down into the dirt as he clutched at his stomach with both hands.

  “Why did you do it?”

  Between gulps for air, he managed to speak. “I had no choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He threatened to kill me if I did not do it.”

  “Someone forced you to do this?”

  “Yes, signor.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I do not know his name. He did not give one.”

  De Corella kicked him again. This time, he caught his thigh. “Wrong answer.”

  Roberto whimpered in fear. “I do not know him. I had never set eyes on his face before this day.”

  Dracula stood only ten yards away, and watched the two men with interest. If Roberto gave too much away, he would kill them both.

  “Well? What can you say of the look of him?”

  “He was a gentleman.”

  “A noble?”