Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Rodrigo Borgia’s body was a mound beneath the covers, wide chested and strong-legged, a match for his face, the harsh lines of which did not betray his years. He turned to Cesare, focusing all of his attention on him. Cesare felt his nerves tighten at the power of the stare, which combined a formidable intellect with decades of experience. No matter that he was of the age where most men had already been placed in their graves, the Holy Father was a man to be reckoned with. Many had made the mistake of underestimating him. Cesare never had.

  “How is she?”

  Cesare took a step closer and rubbed a hand across his face. The night had been a long one; exhaustion lay heavy on his shoulders.

  “Well, your Holiness. She sleeps and the child with her.”

  “Praise be to God,” the Pope uttered, crossing himself, displaying the rosary threaded through his fingers; not the golden ones he used for official occasions, the plain wooden ones that had been gifted to him by his uncle in Jativa when he was a boy.

  “God has worked a miracle this night.” Cesare blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. He must be sharp, clever. Tiredness must not hamper the working of his mind. “Have you given some thought for her disposition? And the child?”

  The Pope looked down, still fingering the beads; his lips pressed together. “No.”

  Cesare jerked his head at the page. The boy left the room with a bow. It was not until his steps had receded into the hall that Cesare stepped closer, leaning against the curtain of the bed; he lowered his voice to a whisper. “She must be sent away, Holy Father. To keep such a woman, a Moor, is madness. It could be your ruin. All of our ruin, for we are nothing without your guidance.”

  Rodrigo Borgia looked up, and Cesare was startled to see the sheen of tears in his eyes. “I know it. But my heart cries out for her as it has never before done. Sarifye is the flower of my old age, as sweet as honeyed wine and as delicate as the drop of dew on a rose petal to my eyes. To have such a woman, and send her away…The thought rips at my heart. Have you ever loved, my son?”

  “Holy Father?”

  “Have you ever loved a woman?”

  Cesare looked away. “Perhaps.”

  “Could you send her away?” His hands were frantically moving through the beads; he was looking, Cesare thought, for reassurance of his rightness. There was no reassurance to be had. The Pope could have lovers, a score of them if he wished. But the head of God’s church on earth could not love a woman of another faith.

  “If I knew that it was the only course open to me.” Cesare looked away, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Once, I loved a woman, and I sent her away. She belonged to another. If I had kept her close as my heart desired, it would have meant disaster.”

  Blonde hair surrounding both of them, the love in her eyes like candleflame, or the heat of the summer sun.

  Cesare.

  A tear trickled from the corner of the Pope’s eyes. The Borgia Bull cried easily; he was a man prone to excesses of emotion, laughter and tears, lust and fury. And vengeance against those who wronged him.

  Cesare laid his hand on the bed. “I will claim the child as my own. He will be raised here, among the Borgia. Lucrezia will look after him. Let it be known that its mother is a woman of Rome, nothing more; the gossips will say what they will.”

  The Pope nodded. “And Sarifye?”

  Cesare could not help but smile at the hope in his father’s voice. Sarifye would not survive the birthing; he had already discussed the matter with Mother Nuca. The old witch would see that she met a quiet and painless end. Though an innocent in the intrigues that threatened the Borgia family, she was too dangerous to be allowed to live.

  “She will be kept somewhere in the city. I will find a place for her. In time, perhaps you will be able to see her again. When it is less dangerous.”

  Joy lit the Pope’s face. “It is well, then. Find your bed, Cesare. You have done well for me this night.”

  “Yes, Holy Father.” Cesare bowed and began walking toward the passage.

  “Your brother, has he returned yet?”

  “No, Holy Father.” Cesare chose his words with great care, knowing they would be remembered later. “He went off after some woman. An ill humor affected him this night.”

  The Pope chuckled. “With Juan, it is always an ill humor…and a woman.”

  Cesare could not restrain his yawn, and the Pope waved him toward the door. “Go, find your bed. You have served me well this night, Cesare. A more dutiful…son I could not hope to possess.”

  The hesitation in the words was slight; Cesare heard it, echoing back through his childhood, the doubt expressed a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Dutiful, but not his son, never his son.

  “Thank you, Holy Father,” he said and closed the door.

  Chapter 70

  There was no hurry to their steps now. The moment of greatest danger had passed; together, they walked north, trailing the curving edge of the river as the dawn of a new day broke through the sky.

  The morning sun shining on the stone buildings and streets soon dried the water clinging to Betta’s skin. Already, she had grown accustomed to the way the men’s garments felt on her body- she marveled at the increase in her stride, the way her breasts shifted with the movement.

  “What now?” she whispered, peering up at him.

  “We say nothing, not to anyone. Not to your sister, not to the Countess, not to the women you whisper with at the convent. It never happened. When they ask, you have no idea that he disappeared.” He spoke through his teeth, the line of his jaw cut like stone. “You go back. Tell them you followed the woman and lost her. You hid until morning. No one will suspect anything.”

  “What about Pantasilea?”

  His eyes shifted to her, dark blue; she could see them in the light, the midnight color deep and drowning.

  “No one will miss her.”

  As none would have missed her, if their fight had gone the other way. The thought struck her low in the stomach, how close she had been to death, that her sister would have been left alone, with no one to care for her. It could have been her weighted in the river. The trembling shaking started, beginning in her hands, moving to her arms and shoulders. Her lips felt numb. Exhaustion was a deep ache in her stomach, swimming through her mind, darkening the edges. She tried to conceal the motions by wrapping her hands around her middle.

  They walked towards the sun as it burned off the mists of the morning, freeing the air from its heavy moisture. The sky bloomed bright and blue above their heads, the color of the Virgin’s cloak. Birds began to rise from the rooftops in enormous clouds, darting to the left and the right, swaying with the gusts of wind.

  Stone blocks littered the ground on either side of the path, and above, Betta could see the upright shape of a tower far in the distance that darkened the land around it. Their walk had taken them from the barren ground of the city. Gardens quilted the earth, beans and squash opening their blossoms.

  They were in the Circus Maximus, the long track where the ancient Romans had raced their horses, now a ruin. They had walked through half the city, away from where their dead polluted the river. There was danger here, as well, though different from what they had left. The gardens in the circus were home to robbers and bravi, but they could not touch her. Even with no Micheletto at her side, she was a lion and could protect herself.

  The thought made the shaking begin again.

  “Stop it,” Micheletto hissed, looking ahead. “Stop crying.”

  She turned towards the sun, letting the warmth bath her face. Her mouth spread into a wide grin. “Crying?” she covered her mouth with a hand. “I’m not crying, I’m laughing. I’ve never felt so… alive!”

  Betta looked up at him then, drinking in the sight as though she would imprint it on her mind: Micheletto. His hair hung long, still damp from the river. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and a thick growth of beard hid the cleft in his chin. He was leather and steel, the st
ain of blood on his doublet, rough and dangerous and damaged, as she was. He was like her.

  Warmth pooled in the pit of her stomach and the muscles in her thighs weakened. Feelings were building inside of her, hot and aching and yet joyful, that she could feel this way, that she could look at Micheletto and see in him someone who would soothe the restless need.

  “What..” he began and then stopped. A hand reached out, tracing the line of her jaw. Never dropping his gaze, she caught his hand and sank her teeth into the flesh at the base of his thumb.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, the flames in his eyes burning white hot; she was in his arms, then. Whether she had moved first or he had, it did not matter, they came together in a clash of steel, his hands beneath her buttocks, and he was lifting her astride his hips as he walked towards the square tower.

  His hands found the binding of her hair, and he pulled at the knot until it tumbled down, enveloping them in the black strands. Her back felt the hard press of stone as his mouth found hers, his lips pressing her open. His tongue speared between her lips as they strained, trying to find a way closer together, nipping, sucking. The taste of him gained a hint of copper, blood flavoring their kiss.

  His hands, rough and unsteady, pulling at the laces on her hose until a gap appeared, and he could slip his hand through, finding the bare cleft between her legs. Through the heat haze, she braced herself for the pain of intrusion, fingers ramming into her, the splitting open as the way inside was prepared.

  Gentleness was a shock, making her back arch, striking the stones. The tips of his fingers slipping through, touching, caressing, mimicking the motions of his tongue as it thrust between her lips. The taste of him, wine and pepper and something else that was him alone rested on her tongue; hunger rose in her.

  “Now,” she hissed, hands delving between their bodies until she could find the hardness of him pressing against the woolen codpiece, straining for release. She squeezed until he groaned. “Now.” There was no time, she had to have him inside of her before the madness passed and she learned to fear again. At this moment, there was only heat, the way he ground against her, passion coating the inside of her thighs, the ache that only he could fulfill.

  He held her aloft with one hand as the other unlaced his points; he was free, hard and huge and pressing against the wet heart of her. The tendons in his neck grew rigid; she soothed them with her fingers, following the line down, letting her hands discover the slabbed muscles of his chest. The hilt of a small dagger met her fingers, the sheath strapped to his chest.

  A sound rose from her throat, a scream mixed with a command. Betta tilted her neck back, surrendering to him, begging. And answering growl rose from him, and his mouth painted a line of heat as they moved up, stopping as he took her lips again. Hands tilted her hips forward, adjusting the angle of their bodies, and he was there, slipping inside of her, moving slowly so that she felt every span of him. It was as though she dissolved, and she could feel only that part of her that melted as it surrounded him.

  Micheletto stilled, allowing her body to adjust to the sensation. “It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered against his lips, rearing back so that she could look at his face; joy and wonder were bubbling inside of her, that she could be like this and not feel pain.

  His teeth were a flash of ivory as his fingers reached under, finding the spot where her body cupped his thrusting shaft. Fingers pressing, searching, finding the place that made her cry out.

  “It will,” he groaned, swiping a thumb over her in time with his movements. “You will hurt and hunger and cry out for me before we are done.”

  He did not take her back to the convent.

  After a quick stop at one of the markets set up along the streets and an exchange of coin, Betta located a deserted alley where Micheletto’s bulk provided cover enough for her to pull a voluminous wool gown over the hose. She discarded the doublet in a rubbish heap, the fine cloth a treasure for any who would find it.

  Now respectably attired, Betta walked without fear through the streets, her arm resting on his elbow. The splendid new palazzos of the Borgo were a bustle of activity, servants scurrying as they headed to the market, the churchmen in their robes walking to the Vatican.

  The Palazzo where he stopped was more elegant than the others, sparkling with newness, and nearly deserted. The servants who remained in the whispering halls watched with suspicious eyes as he walked to a chamber on the first floor near the door to the kitchens. The room possessed only a narrow bed and chest, a stand where a washbasin rested, and blades. Knives of all descriptions, long and short, edges curved and serrated, tiny for hiding, long for display, littered the surfaces.

  “Bring water,” he called over his shoulder.

  Betta breathed in the scent of the place, finding it familiar and comforting, the lye tingle of soap, oil polish and road dust. Micheletto’s hands were at his laces.

  “What will I tell my lady?”

  There was a lazy smile on his face as he stripped off the doublet and unlaced the shirt, leaving him bare-chested. The first time, she had not been able to appreciate his body in the light. The sight of him transfixed her, the way that the line of hair narrowed as it approached his waist, the strong muscles beneath his arms and shoulders that made his chest flare, and the scars that added to his beauty rather than detracting from it. Red formed a haze around the beds of his nails, matching a streak that ran from his temple down to his jaw.

  The sight made her shiver.

  “Tell her whatever you wish. That I have chained you in a dungeon or locked you in my rooms.” He took a step closer. “Tell her I committed unspeakable acts on your body and want more.”

  Moisture pooled in her stomach as he stripped off the hose, one leg after the other. Naked, he prowled toward her, his every move that of a predator stalking her, expecting her to run. He thought that he had conquered her, but Betta knew the truth.

  “Will she believe you?” Her eyebrow cocked as he took another step forward and tugged the linen strip from her hair. His fingers tangled in the strands, bringing her face up for a kiss.

  “Why not? It will be the truth.”

  “I do not love you.” Her voice was a whisper in the dim brightness. Sunlight peeked through the slats of the latched shutters; outside, the bustle of Rome sounded, the striking of steel, the whisper of a thousand voices. Within the Palazzo, other noises had intruded on their interlude, the scandalized murmurs of the servants as they cleared away the remains of their bath, soap and water splashing the tile floor as heat rose between them again. Then, finally, sleep as they tangled together, still damp from the bath as exhaustion became a warm tide, dragging her under.

  “I’m glad,” he whispered, surprising her. She had thought he was still asleep. “No good ever came from loving me.”

  Betta scraped her nails down his chest; she felt small prickles emerge on his skin, an explosion of sensation. “But this...I like this. I’m glad to have tasted it, before…”

  He heard the words left unspoken. In an explosion of movement, he rolled her beneath him, caging her slim strength with his chest. “You are not going to die for this.” He did not mention the Duke’s name. “Keep silent, and none will harm you. I swear that…”

  She touched his lips with her finger. “Don’t make vows you cannot keep.” Her legs rose, wrapping around his hips. The place between her legs ached; their couplings had been fiercely passionate, his strength something she gloried in, and the need for it was rising again.

  "What Bernaldino said about me..."

  “What he said does not matter.”

  Micheletto lifted his head and propped it up on a hand. The lines on his forehead creased as he frowned. "You do not care?" Disbelief colored his voice.

  Betta shook her head. "No. You have secrets, as do I."

  His fingers stroked her back, tracing the ridges of scars that striped her back, marks of the lash when she had rebelled. "Many, many secrets." At his gentle touch, her nipples pebbled, sensit
ive when released from their wrapping. His eyes found them, and whatever he had meant to say faded away, replaced by a look of barely suppressed hunger. His hand curled around her knee, lifting and positioning her leg across his hip.

  “I can’t be other then I am. If I could…” he whispered, and it was an apology.

  Betta laid her finger on his lips. "No," she said, then leaned forward so that her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. "No excuses between us. No lies, no regrets. Only this," she reached back and touched the hard muscle of his hip, curving her fingers around his manhood until the nails dug in, hearing him hiss.

  "Fucking and steel? Little one, you make me think that perhaps there is a God, and he has created you for me.”

  The Papal army came, as she had thought they would, and she watched in silence as they forced their way through the bolted door and pointed their long weapons at them, curled together on the bed.

  “What?” Micheletto began, only to have his mouth stopped by the butt of the mace slamming against his chin. Bone crunched, but he did not cry out, only watching the captain with deadly intent.

  “Bring him,” the captain said, gesturing to Micheletto. Then he looked at Betta, naked on the bed. “Bring them both. The woman may know something.”

  “What is my crime?” Micheletto asked through clenched teeth. He tossed the stained camicia at her; she pulled it over her head, thankful that she would not be marched through the city naked. He pulled on hose, letting the laces dangle.

  The captain spared him a searching glance, measuring the breadth of his shoulders, the hard muscles that corded every inch of his body.

  “The Duke of Gandia had disappeared. On the pope’s order, you are to be kept in the Castel San’Angelo until you can be questioned.”