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.”
Chapter 37
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?”
“Yes.”
“What was his accent?”
“I do not know.”
De Corella raised his sword. “Was it familiar?”
Roberto raised his arm, and cowered behind it. “It was not an accent I know. I do not think he is of this province.”
The captain lowered his sword. He thought about the answer Roberto had given him. “Perhaps he was a Spaniard. There are enough of them in the city.”
“His skin looked too pale,” Roberto offered.
“He had pale skin?”
“Yes, as though he had never seen the light of day.”
Dracula felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. The servant had a keen eye and a loose tongue. He poised himself to swoop should the servant reveal too much more.
“And what were you to gain from this?”
“My life.”
“That is all?”
He knew Roberto was masking the truth. The servant did not hide his guilt well.
“You had best speak the truth to me,” he warned.
“I was promised the thousand ducats your master offered me.”
De Corella curled his lower lip in temper. “You sold your soul for coin?”
Roberto did not have a chance to respond. De Corella brought the sword down across the side of his head. The servant fell against the dirt again. A large wound oozed blood from above his temple, to form a thick pool on the ground beside him. His eyes stared into space.
De Corella spat on the ground beside him. “That is for your part in trying to kill my master.”
When he turned, he saw Cardinal Vicenza standing there.
Vicenza gasped in horror. “What have you done?”
“I meted out justice,” he said, his anger still clear. “Someone has to.”
The captain brushed past him and returned to Cesare’s side. Vicenza knelt down beside the dead servant. He made the Sign of the Cross and said a quiet prayer.
Cesare lay face-down on his bed. He had not dressed in the hope that his body might cool down. The sight that met the eyes of de Corella stunned him. Huge blisters covered Cesare’s entire body.
His master heard him gasp. “What is wrong?” he groaned.
De Corella did not want to say. Cesare raised his head an inch or two from the pillow and looked at him. He saw de Corella put a hand to his mouth. The skin about Cesare’s face hung in lumps from his jawbone. It had come away completely from his flesh.
Ponti saw it too. He ran to the open window and puked on the ground outside.
“What is wrong?”
“Your skin is shedding,” his good friend told him.
“What?”
“Your skin is falling off.”
“He is going to die!” Ponti cried.
“Hush, you fool,” de Corella warned. “Go and find the physician.”
When Ponti left the room, Cesare called de Corella close to him. “I want more of our men brought here.”
“Should they not remain where they are? Guarding your interests in Rome?”
“If the word leaks out that I am close to death, then others might come here to make sure I meet it. I want protection.”
De Corella nodded. “Very well, but I shall protect you.”
“Do it.”
The pope’s condition grew worse over the next three days. His slow and laboured breathing suggested he did not have much fight left in him. Soderini and Corneto had both been ill, but had recovered. They had picked up the tertian fever ravaging the city. Their good diet and better care ensured their recovery.
Holy men from the Vatican filled the villa. They held a small service for Roberto, and then no one spoke of him again. The group held a vigil outside the pope’s room, sharing the opinion that his end was near.
He could not keep any food or water down. His fever grew worse, and it began to affect his mind. Every so often, he shouted out. Nothing he said made any sense to any of them. They did not pray for him. Instead, they continued to chat and play cards. Some of them even harboured hopes that he would die sooner rather than later. Owing to their status, their stay there was mandatory, but few wanted to stay away from Rome a day longer than they had to. On top of that, the prospect of a new pope held appeal for many of them.
Corneto stayed at his bedside. He knew the Borgias had tried to kill him. Yet he was the one who did pray for Alexander’s lost soul. He held rosary beads between his fingers and said a quiet novena.
In the early evening, the pope awoke again. He looked at Corneto, who still prayed for him. “You are a good man, Adriano.”
Corneto raised his head. “How are you feeling, Holy Father?”
“I am not well. I know my end is nigh.”
“Then I shall pray for you.”
“I fear it should not be enough. I have been an unjust man.”
“God listens to all our prayers.”
“I know, but I doubt He favours me.”
“His door is open to one and all.”
Alexander tried to raise a smile. The moment he parted his lips, he broke into a cough. He eased back against his pillow when it subsided. “I have to confess that I do like you, Adriano. You have a good heart.”
“I am still a man of God.”
“Yes, I know. In spite of what I have done, you still pray for me.”
“Why would I not?”
“This could have been you lying here in my place.”
“If God had willed it for me, then so be it.”
“I fear it is as much as I deserve. That I drank that which was meant for you.”
Corneto did not answer. He picked up a wet cloth and wiped the thick film of sweat from Alexander’s brow.
“Might you forgive me?”
“Yes, I forgive you.”
The pope emitted a happy sigh and eased back on the pillow. Corneto thought it strange that he had not asked after the welfare of his son. Much of what he had done in his life had been for the benefit of Cesare.
“It seems that Cesare should make a full recovery,” he said.
The pope smiled, “Good.
” Then he drifted back off to sleep.
Cesare was fortunate in that he drank very little from the poisoned flask, his father having consumed most of it. The freezing bath, although causing him to shed his skin, had helped to arrest his fever. And being only twenty-seven years of age, he had the strength to fight the alien substance in his body.
Dracula rose soon after with Ilona, and headed with her straight back to the villa. Right away, they sensed the atmosphere inside. He knew the pope was close to death. “I must go in there,” he said to his wife.
“You cannot,” she said, offering a sharp look.
“I shall alter my form. I want to see his condition.”
“Can you not determine that from here? You need only to listen to him.”
He moved away, and Ilona watched him disappear into the vines. She heard him cry out a few times and then silence. A baboon soon appeared in his place. It hissed at her and then ran to the open window of the pope’s room.
Corneto saw it on the window ledge. It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He picked up a stool and waved it in the air. The baboon hissed at him, not turning to run away as he had hoped.
“I am coming! I am coming!”
Corneto jumped out of his skin with fright. He turned to see the pope awake.
Alexander looked straight at the baboon at the window. “It is just, but wait a little,” he said, before relaxing again.
His words stunned Corneto. What is he saying? Does he think the beast has come for him?
The door of the room had been open a little. Most of the cardinals heard the rant of the pope. A few of them ran to the door to see what was going on.
“I shall drive it out, Holy Father,” Corneto promised.
“No, do not. Let him go. Let him go. It is the Devil.”
Corneto dropped the stool to the floor, and it shattered on impact. He looked at the cardinals, and they returned his blank stare. Then all eyes fell on Alexander, who had drifted back off to sleep. He did not even know they were there. The baboon hissed at the group and then left.
“He said it was the Devil,” Vicenza said, still in shock.
“They have always been in league with each other,” Soderini sniped.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 173
