Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  "You'll be leaving those coppers with me."

  Betta paused, a hand on the wall whose boards had been worn smooth by the passage of a thousand hands. Her family’s work, not his. Never his. “Half," she said. "The rest in food that I'll leave with Angela next door. She will see that Ginevra is fed."

  "Can't steal enough from that whore to see her fed? That's what I told your mother should happen. A woman like that...she doesn't know what she has."

  She did not reply, only waited. There was little use in explaining to him that Vannozza dei Cattanei knew the contents of her home down to the last grain of salt.

  "Fine," he grunted, then waved her off. "Only until I find another wife, mind. I'll not be needing you then."

  Chapter 12

  A single candle burned low in the center of the table, spilling into a puddle of stinking tallow. The dim light allowed the occupants to maintain a measure of anonymity, throwing heavy shadows over their faces. The tavern was a hum of activity; in the corners, girls shrieked and laughed. Men in dusty brown leathers crouched over tazas of wine, the smell of the beverage thick in the air. When a piece of bread or morsel of food fell to the floor, it was quickly snatched up by the dogs and cats who roamed freely, snarling when one or another came to close.

  "He will be the next pope."

  The younger man smiled, still looking into his cup. The deep hood of a cloak fell across his eyes as he tucked his chin close to his chest and drummed his fingers on the table. "I doubt it."

  The Frenchman nodded, the movement solemn and somehow graceful despite the amount of wine he had consumed that evening. His portion had been well watered, of course, a service secured before the meeting even began, but the young man who drank with him had been supplied with undiluted wine. From experience, Berenger knew better than to conduct important matters with a sodden head. With a hand adorned by three rings, the Frenchman patted his hair, making sure that it had not become mussed during the hours of drinking.

  The first contact with the young man had been days before, in another wine shop, and they had struck up a conversation. After the boy had left, he had learned his name, information that had sent a thrill pulsing through his veins. If he could acquire this dissolute young man into his king’s service, it would be the coup of a lifetime. Information would flow into his hands like water from spring rain. All that was required was patience. And coin.

  "No, I am certain, and I have followed these matters long enough to have a feeling for how it will proceed. His age is a mark in his favor, as are his many decades as Vice-Chancellor."

  "Sixty-one? There are times he seems on the verge of senility, panting after a girl young enough to be his granddaughter." The young man’s voice was heavy with amusement.

  Berenger laughed. "The Bella Giulia? Even that is something to be commended that of all the women in Rome, he chooses only the most dazzling." He lifted the wine to his lips and took a small swallow. "Horse piss," he shuddered. "Giuliano della Rovere would like the crown for himself, of course, but he is too young, not yet fifty. No one wishes a pope that will last for the next thirty years, yes? And Giuliano recognizes this. He, and those cardinals in the college who follow his example much like hounds following a bitch that is in season, will support either Costa, the Portuguese, or Zeno."

  "And the Sforza's? Do you not think they will support their own candidate?"

  "Who is to say that Rodrigo Borgia will not be just such a one? His election will leave the post of Vice-Chancellor absent, and who better to fill it than Ascanio Sforza, brother of Il Moro?"

  The young man pursed his lips, and the Frenchman thought what a handsome face the boy had. Beautiful, finely drawn features and a sensual mouth, pouting and leering by turn. Were there more time, perhaps he could continue to meet with the boy. Pleasure would be found in breaking that proud spirit, in making him learn who was indeed his lord and master.

  Without taking his eyes from the wine, the boy withdrew a dagger and pressed it into the wood of the table. Placing a single finger on the hilt and using his fingers, he began twirling the blade.

  "And should this... most fortuitous election come to pass, what would you wish of me, in exchange for the gold you have offered?"

  The Frenchman smiled. He had him now.

  "The gold I have given is yours to keep, of course, and my master is very generous. Young men have so many needs, horses, wine, coin for the ladies," his voice trailed off suggestively. "But should information that could benefit my lord come to your ears, we would pay handsomely for it."

  The boy nodded again, then his shoulders slumped, and he leaned against the wall. "A very generous offer, but nothing different than I have heard twice this week." His eyes brightened, eyebrows shooting up as a thought occurred to him. He pulled back the hood, exposing a fashionable turban that concealed his hair. "Let us leave it to chance, shall we?" He stopped twirling the knife. Holding it upright, he met the Frenchman's eyes over the hilt and gestured with his hand. "If the knife falls this way, I will do as you have asked and every dirty little secret of the Borgia family will be your master's, to do with as he wishes. If it falls this way," he gestured toward himself. "Then I will use this knife to fuck your eye, as you thought about fucking me earlier."

  Berenger had been engaged in his current occupation for over twenty years. During that time, he had endured three knife attacks, a poisoning attempt, and had the brother of one of his lovers hunt him through the city, screaming for blood after the young man had become too much of a hindrance to be allowed to live. In all that time, he had never encountered eyes that unnerved him as the boy’s now did. They were beautiful, the shape of a nut, titled at the corners, colored like a polished jewel. But cold. Utterly, unbearably cold.

  He did not even think of denying the accusation. A denial would serve no purpose except to enrage the young man, to fan the light of madness he could see burning in his eyes.

  "I meant no disrespect," he said, bowing his head.

  The boy smiled; the effect was chilling. "There is no need, but that is something that I always know, you see, when someone wants to rut with another. And as to men... I have tried it a time or two, but men are much harder to make scream. And I do cherish the screaming." Another smile emerged, this one full of joy. "Then let us test!" he said, releasing the knife.

  Berenger watched the knife fall to the side, not even daring to blink less the motion interrupt the momentum. He found himself praying to the Virgin as the sharpened tip held the knife aloft for one moment, then another. The knife fell all at once, landing with its hilt pointing in his direction. Berenger de Gany released his breath as a cold sweat broke out on his arms and legs.

  The boy wrinkled his nose. "A pity, this is a new blade. I have not had a chance to whet it." He laughed, a joyful, bubbling sound that caused heads to turn in their direction. It was time for Berenger to go. More than the other meeting that beckoned, he wished to be quit of this strange man, no matter that engaging his services as a spy could prove a masterstroke.

  "Until we meet again," he said, gathering up his belongings. He had come to the tavern unarmed, an action that he bitterly regretted now. Had the knife fallen the other way, he had no doubt his blood would have cooled the fine steel of the dagger before the night was out.

  "Leaving so soon? A shame. I have something that should interest you. If there is sufficient gold to make it worth my effort.”

  The Frenchmen felt his pulse quicken. "Oh?" He asked, already reaching into his doublet to pull out the purse that was there, awaiting another meeting like this, only in a different part of the city. Despite what he had told the young man, experience had taught him to think of all possibilities, including that another besides the Borgia Cardinal would become pope. The Venetian, Zeno, had a mistress with an insatiable appetite for gold, and he had spent weeks cultivating her. He tossed the gold onto the table.

  The young man tested the weight of the purse. "It will be worth more than this."

  Sw
eat was beginning to bead in the Frenchman's beard. This was important; the instincts that had seen him through the last years screamed it.

  "I will double it, should the information prove of sufficient merit."

  "It will, I assure you. When the times comes, and should my father become Pope, it will be worth all of the gold you can lay your hands on.”

  Chapter 13

  "Get in, girl," Ruberto mumbled, keeping his back turned to her while adjusting the harness of the mule. The cart and the animal which had pulled it to Ostia were let from a stable, and the expense had been such that Ruberto had whipped the animal into a frenzy as they traveled, trying to speed their journey.

  He had not told Betta what he intended, only that he should accompany her on the journey. Ostia. The name had rung in her ears like bells, a place by the sea, where perhaps she could steal a few moments of happiness, playing in the water with her sister. The knowledge of why Ruberto had undertaken the arduous trek came slowly, creeping upon her as they ate the meal provided by the older couple who looked at Ruberto with resignation. When they looked at Ginevra, however, their faces were avid with hunger. Especially the woman, who was beyond childbearing years.

  And Betta said nothing. There was nothing to be said, and much as it pained her, she thought that this might be the best path for her sister, to be left with another family. It grieved her, the idea that years might pass before she could see the girl again, but there was joy in it, that Ginevra would live in the little cottage by the sea that was surrounded by nets and the smell of fish, that each evening she would see the waves lit to golden by the setting sun.

  A hand landed on her shoulder. The woman, her face lined from exposure to the sun. There was a mole on her chin with three long hairs emerging from it and many gaps in her smile where the teeth had fallen away, but Betta found the face reassuring. And between the man... Boetio, she thought his name was, and the silent wife, there was an ease, a sweetness of long marriage. Kindness showed in the woman's face when she had served the meal, simple fish stew, and bread, and she kept casting concerned glances at Ginevra, who ate little and spoke even less.

  "No!" Ginevra cried, her voice muffled. Her head was buried in the folds of Betta's skirts. Her whole body trembled, stick thin arms and legs grasping her sister with all the strength they possessed.

  A hot fist had lodged inside of Betta's throat. Tears were standing in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She cast an apologetic gaze at the man and woman who waited in front of their home.

  "No, no, No!" Ginevra began to sob, her voice rising to a shriek. The line of Ruberto's shoulders tightened, and he shifted, casting an annoyed glance back at them.

  Betta knelt, placing arms around Ginevra's shoulders. They were tiny, little bird wings. She was a wisp of a child, near the same weight she had been two years past; suddenly, she felt a sense of gratitude toward her stepfather, that he had thought to safeguard his daughter and find a better home for her.

  "Shush, shush," she whispered, rocking Ginevra back and forth as she had when the child was still a babe with a cap of flaming hair. The tears were burning in her eyes; she blinked them back, knowing her tears would only make it worse. Over her shoulder, Betta looked at the woman, finding her face soft, her mouth firmed into a line to keep tears in check. "They will be kind to you," Betta whispered, voice like crumbled stone. "They will feed you bread and butter and honey and let you play in the sand."

  The woman’s head bobbed up and down. The knowledge nearly broke her, grief rising to the surface along with a thread of jealously that she could not quell. Her sister would not be forced into service as she had been.

  "It is a good place here. They are kind."

  Wrapping her arms around Ginevra, Betta stood, staggering under the weight. The muscles in her legs had grown strong over the years, and her back. All that was weak was her heart; she felt it racing as she walked to the old man and woman, preparing to give up the only thing she treasured. A step away from them, she reached down and lifted Ginevra's chin so that she could see her sister's face once more. The features were the same and yet new, something that she desperately wished to remember. Beneath the snub nose and deeply shadowed eyes, she could see the flicker of what would one day be beauty. The echo of it was in the color of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, and yet she could see the stain of the child that Betta had cared for all the days of her life- the gap between her front teeth, the small red scar of an injury that had split her eyebrow in two, bleeding so much that Betta had felt her heart stop.

  Ginevra was hers, she thought, emotion swelling in her that was part tenderness and part fierce protectiveness. Not Ruberto’s, nor her mother’s, whom death had stolen away. This child was her own, and she would see her happy, even if it caused her grief. Walking the last step, she held out her hands and smiled. Her cheeks were dry. As though from a great distance, her voice sounded. "We will see each other soon, sister." Then she turned away, ignoring the pained cry that emerged from Ginevra and the strained scuffling. She did not turn to look again; she concentrated on keeping her back straight, her breathing even as she walked to the wagon and climbed into the back.

  Ruberto did not speak to her as they made their way along the road, the cart rolling from side to side on uneven wheels like a drunkard along the pitted stone path that ran from east to west, linking the harbor to Rome. Trees threw shadows across it, and Betta gradually relaxed, allowing the movement of the wagon and the patterns of light and dark passing in front of her eyelids to lull her into a dreamlike state. When sounds alerted her to the presence of others that crossed their path, Betta allowed her eyes to follow them, painting their stories inside her own mind as she whiled away the hours- a thin man with a ragged straw hat became a cardinal in disguise, visiting the poor. A young man and woman on horseback wearing the luxurious garb of the wealthy and surrounded by men at arms became young lovers, each married to someone else, stealing away a few moments of happiness. And she was a knight, off to battle a wicked prince.

  "We'll rest here." Ruberto pulled the cart off the road, rousing Betta from her dreams. He had found a secluded spot, surrounded by towering trees that threw a little clearing bisected by a stream into shade. The water was transparent as glass. It fascinated her, the vivid line of blue that caught the water and fish swimming in its depths, turning them into something as beautiful as the paintings that decorated the Palazzo. Ruberto watered the mule, cursing impatiently as the animal drank deeply, filling its stomach with the water. When it had consumed its fill, he tied it in the shade. Immediately the animal began to graze, nibbling at the pale-yellow stalks of grass. The breeze, still tinged with the salt from the ocean, caressed them, drying the dark sides of the mule where sweat had accumulated.

  Ruberto ignored the beauty of the spot; Betta could not understand why he had chosen here to rest, when the side of the road would have suited him just as well, allowing them to continue their journey. He stalked back to where she sat, the basket of food at her feet. Betta felt a stirring of unease. Ruberto was watching her. He seldom acknowledged her; even those days when she returned to the bodega, he barely acknowledged her presence except to sweep her coins into his palm before departing, leaving her to care for Ginevra and the chores which had accumulated during the week. His eyes on her made her nervous; her stepfather said that she had evil eyes, and she worried that he might be right.

  As he got close, Betta looked down, only to be startled by his hands, wrenching the basket from her grasp. He sat a few steps away, leaning his back against the same log. Setting the basket between his spread thighs, he rummaged through the contents, stuffing bread into his mouth, then a bite of sausage before dropping them carelessly back. With a contented noise, he pulled back, a jug of wine in his hand.

  Watching him swallow enormous gulps, Betta wondered who had packed the basket for him. Perhaps Nencia, wife of the pie seller who had died a year past in one of the fevers that had swept out from the swamps. Of all the women
her stepfather had pursued in the years since her mother had died, Nencia was the only one that seemed amenable. It would have been like her, to have suggested that Ruberto get rid of his young daughter and then pack him a basket of food to speed his journey. She hoped the woman would marry her stepfather; she was only slightly less horrible than Ruberto himself, having invited a new man into her rooms every time her husband went to the market to sell his wares. It was only when her last child had been delivered that Nencia had seemed concerned, for the dark shade of the little boy's skin had been too marked to be explained away. Perhaps the man would have repudiated her, but only a few days after the birth, both the pie seller and the new baby were dead. Poison, it was whispered, and Betta believed it. Watching the grease and wine slide down her stepfather's chin, Betta smiled, imagining their wedding.

  "What’s so funny?" Ruberto asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Betta froze, realizing that in her relaxation, she had allowed too much to show. A mistake.

  "I.I.I was thinking about Ginevra, playing in the sand," she improvised wildly. "They seemed kind people."

  Ruberto nodded, then passed her the wine. "Drink," he commanded.

  Betta shook her head. She had a small jug of water in the back of the wagon; it was sufficient to quench her thirst, and she hated the taste of Ruberto's sour wine.

  "I said drink." His voice had gone hard, a dangerous sign. Without another word, she reached for the wine, taking a small sip.

  "More," he ordered. When she complied, he nodded, extending his hand. "They are. They raised me."

  Betta felt her eyebrows lift. Her expression must have been amusing because Ruberto chuckled. "You thought I sprang straight from the bowels of hell?" He took another drink, slopping it a little, dribbling the wine down his chin. "Beotio found me on the beach where some slut had left me. Probably one of the whores down by the harbor. He and Grana raised me until I could be sent off to find a trade."