The unlaced hose was not an insult, as Betta had thought, flagrantly displayed the endowment given him by God. In only the open, closely cut garments, it was clear that Micheletto had no blades on his person. He was helping them, standing acquiescent as they searched the room, not fighting back when they struck him.
That realization spawned another and then another. Micheletto had known they would come, which meant that the cardinal knew they would come. The city guard would not arrest Cardinal Borgia’s favored servant without permission. The most powerful man in the world suspected that she or Micheletto had killed his son.
Despair crushed her. He had not kept her in the room because he cared for her, because the heat between them, seeming to grow with every coupling, was more than pleasure. He had kept her there so that she could not flee if they discovered Micheletto had been a party to the Duke’s disappearance.
She was doomed, and Micheletto had delivered her up for the slaughter.
Chapter 71
The Castel San’Angelo had once been a mausoleum, the final resting place of one of the emperors who had overseen the city a thousand years before, when the vast tracts of the land within the walls had not been deserted ruins or weedy fields, but homes and shops and palaces made of marble that marched over the seven hills.
In the years since it was constructed, the circular tower had become a fortification, a refuge for the popes during times of crisis, and a prison. Few who entered the lower levels of the Castel emerged, and there were whispers of torture and punishment meted out by the Papal Army.
Betta crossed over the arching bridge leading to the Castel and knew that she would never leave alive. The same soldiers who had tied her hands behind her back held her shoulders, urging her faster, through the walled enclosure and into the courtyard. Long ago, she had lost sight of Micheletto. He was treated more gently, allowed to put on his boots and doublet and to walk through the streets instead of being bound; the Cardinal’s henchman could still prove a danger to them if his master secured his release.
She was given none of the same courtesies. Taken to a long room filled with dozens of other prisoners, her hands were held above her head by chains, the iron weights knocking against her bones. She soon lost feeling in them.
Her skin became a tapestry of pain: the pain of her wrists, bound tightly so that she could not slip her hands through the iron bands, pain from her legs and feet, the cramping of being forced to lie in the same position for days and days, until she lost track of the time, and could only mark its passage by the water they brought to the prisoners once a morning, the food once a night. There was pain from the shame, of being forced to piss herself and feeling the warm wet sliding down her legs into a puddle, where it soon grew cold.
Gossip flourished in the dungeon, growing into a clamor as the days passed; many of the imprisoned were Orsini. They laughed to see the Pope’s beloved son missing. When his body was finally pulled from the river, the laughter ceased. Many of those imprisoned had family outside of the Castel, wife and lovers and children, and the murder spelled evil for them if it was done by an Orsini.
The guards came, carrying her from the long cell into a private room where she could be questioned. They grimaced as they pulled her along, repelled by the stench. A black-robed cleric with sad brown eyes asked her the same things, never varying in the repetition.
Had she seen Micheletto kill the Duke of Gandia? No.
Who was she, and why had she been with him? She was Lady Lucrezia’s servant, and she had become his lover. She could no longer remember why the need had been so fierce with him, the memory had grown dim, thrust from her mind by pain.
Had Micheletto told her that he had killed the Duke of Gandia? No, and no and no. The true answer trembled on her tongue, longing to escape. What would the cleric do if she confessed, she wondered even as his lips formed the words of the same questions he had asked a dozen times before.
Had Micheletto killed the Duke of Gandia? No, I killed him, she thought, he was evil and mad and he would have killed me, so I stabbed him with my knife over and over again and then we put his body into the river and the feeling of it was so good that Micheletto took me against the guard tower in the Circus Maximus and I cried out with pleasure so that I scattered the birds from the trees and laid his back open with my fingernails.
“I asked,” there was annoyance in the little man’s voice, that she had drifted off again, immersed in the seething web of her own thoughts, “If Micheletto told you that he killed the Duke of Gandia?”
“No.”
Two guards with somber faces came; Betta wondered if it would be the last time. Prisoners said that there was a scaffold outside in the yard, where she could be hung or burnt or cut open at the pope’s will. The end mattered little; she would be dead, and she would not confess even to spare herself. There was strength enough left in her body for that. None that had seen the crime, and for Micheletto to admit his part would mean his death as well. Silence might cost her a quick end, but it would save her sister.
They took her to the courtyard. Betta set her teeth, biting down until she feared that her teeth would shatter from the impact. She would not cry. What she had done was done. Her sister would be safe. She had to believe that, or else she would be unable to control herself, and she would go to her grave howling and crying and confessing all and her sister would enter the grave with her. It could not end like that. Ginevra would be happy; she would marry her baker, and they would have many fat, red-headed children.
“Strip,” the guard said, letting go of her arm so that she slumped to the stones.
“What?” She blinked away tears in the bright light. How long had it been since she had seen the sun?
“Strip,” he said, and instead of waiting for her to obey, the guard reached forward, grasping the neckline of her camicia and wrenching it in two.
“Wash.” They commanded, gesturing toward a bucket that she had not noticed before.
She was so grateful for the opportunity to cleanse herself that she ignored them. Scoping up handfuls of water, Betta rubbed it into her face, swished the liquid through her teeth and spitting. The water turned brown as it met her skin, the rivulets of it leaving streaks that she washed away.
“Not bad.” The first guard said, cocking his head as he watched her.
“Too skinny,” the other said. “Good tits, though. Say we have her after they are done?”
“We are not to touch her, that’s orders.”
When she was cleaned as well as she was able without soap, the first guard held out another camicia that although still filthy, was much cleaner than the one the guards had torn from her body. They returned to the Castel. The water had revived her. She could walk again, though her legs felt loose and she could not stop stumbling.
Instead of the long cell, they took her up the stairs, past the cavernous hall where guards mingled with robed officials who spoke in whispered voices. More stairs, until it seemed that they would touch the roof of the sky, they had walked so long and her strength was gone, and she could continue no longer. Betta collapsed into a crumple; with a muttered oath, the larger of the two guards picked her up and carried her up the last steps and into a chamber.
Gold and stink. The twin impressions assaulted her, and she reeled back, almost knocking the guard off balance as she struggled. There was death in this room, rotting death that made her want to be sick, to return to the coldness of the cell and the smell of her own shit and sweat and dirt.
The arms holding her released, and she fell to the floor. The marble was cold against her legs and cheeks; it calmed her stomach. Gradually, she was able to put her horror at the pungent smell of death aside. She lifted her eyes from the mosaic floor and looked around, aware that she was not alone. Several other figures stood silently by, watching the man at the center of the room. He possessed a prominent hooked nose and carved chin, but the distinctive face was gray and hollow-eyed. Tears fell wet upon his cheeks. It was several mo
ments before Betta recognized the Holy Father, whom she had not seen since their return to Rome; he had aged a decade in that time, appearing at last his true age, an old man close to death’s embrace.
The other central figure in the room was instantly recognizable. Cardinal Borgia wore his official scarlet; his face was pale and pinched at the nostrils; he stood near one of the tall incense burners that sent fumes of vapor through the room, trying to conceal the stench of the body, which rested on a low bier draped with a white cloth.
The Cardinal opened his mouth, but what he would have said was lost as the door behind opened. Surrounded by guards, Micheletto emerged. They were only feet apart, and his eyes immediately sought hers. Rage flared, hot and bright in his dark blue eyes, and he shoved away from the clutching arms.
“God’s breath, what did you…”
“Silence!” The bellow came across the room; they froze at the anger in the Holy Father’s voice. “Bring him forward and then depart.”
Arms grasped Micheletto and propelled him forward. The Pope left his place by the bier to sit in a chair that was positioned against the paneled wooden wall. Micheletto knelt, the movement his own rather than forced by the guards.
The Holy Father would not look at him; instead, he waved to another cleric that had stood waiting in the corner, clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle to his chest.
“Bring it forward.” The cleric hurried across the room and bowed before the Holy Father, holding out the bundle with trembling hands. The Pope laid it across his knees. Only then did he look down at Micheletto.
“You see before you a broken man.” Though stricken by grief, the voice of the Pope was beautiful, as golden and rich as his son’s had once been. “The light has gone out of our life, all about is darkness. Our son, our most precious treasure, has been taken from us, cut down with vicious hands and tossed into the river as though he were no better than…” The Pope’s voice trembled and stopped. He pressed his fist against his lips, trying to gain control of his emotions.
When he spoke, the pontiff’s voice was hoarse, his eyes red-rimmed with tears. “Micheletto de Corella, did you kill my son?”
“No, your Holiness.”
From her place across the room, Betta watched the Cardinal, resplendent in his red robes and standing as though untroubled by the stinking corpse of his brother.
“Did Cardinal Borgia order you to kill our son?”
“No, Holiness,” Micheletto spoke softly, meeting the Pope’s eyes without flinching.
The Pope leaned forward. “Would you swear to it?” With the look of a man who has captured a prize, the Pope uncovered the cloth wrapped bundle in his lap. Even in the gold and red splendor of the room, the cross glowed like a star setting in the night sky. Close in size to her crossed arms, it was surrounded by large square gems that caught fire in the light; in the center, a row of massive pearls surrounded a smaller cross.
“The Crux Vaticana,” the Pope said, holding it upright in his lap. Across the room, Cardinal Borgia crossed himself, face shocked. “The cross of Justin, containing within it fragments of the True Cross. Swear upon this, the holiest relic of our Mother church, that you did not kill my son. Swear on your hope of heaven, and be damned to the bowels of hell for all eternity if you swear falsely, for we will know the truth.”
His words filled the room, reverberating with power. His eyes had grown enormous as he spoke, and the cross trembled in his grip.
Micheletto reached forward and placed his palm against the circular gray cross at the center of the relic. “On my hope of heaven and at pain of eternal damnation, I swear to our most Holy Father that I did not kill his son.”
The Pope drew the cross back with a hiss. “You make a mockery of this holy object. To be as a ghost, absent from Cardinal Borgia’s side on the very night that our son was killed? And Juan’s page, sent back to retrieve the armor that could have saved his dear life, cut down as well before he had a chance to utter a word against his attacker? Do you think to convince me that this is mere…chance?”
Micheletto let his hand rest against the cross for a moment longer. “I swear again on my hope of heaven that I did not kill your son, Holiness.” He withdrew his hand.
The Pope leaned forward, dark eyes enormous in the smoky room. “Where were you the night that our son was killed? On what task did the Cardinal send you?”
“Cardinal Borgia sent me on no tasks that night, your Holiness. I was bidden by another’s will.”
“Who?” the Pope shouted, banging his fist on the arms of the chair as his voice filled the room.
“Why did you not ask me these questions, Holy Father? They seem simple enough, nothing that you could not have asked me. Where was my henchman on the night that my brother was killed?” Cesare Borgia spoke from across the room, his voice carrying. “Of course, I know the answer. You ask my servant to speak the words which you already believe in your heart, that it was I who killed my brother.”
The Pope looked away, hiding his face with a trembling hand.
Cesare stalked forward, his movements lithe, a predator even in the robes of a churchman. Sinking into a kneeling position beside Micheletto, he extended a hand and placed it against the center of the cross.
“Upon this holiest relic and at risk of my eternal damnation, I swear to you that I did not kill Juan. Nor did I order my henchman to do so.” He withdrew his hand. “Another task filled my thoughts that night.”
For a moment, the Holy Father’s face softened before it grew dark again.
“You wished for nothing but his death from the time he was born. “
Cesare placed his hand upon the cross once again, steadying it when it seemed that the Pope’s hold would falter.
“No. I loved my brother. What happened when he was a child was mischance.” His voice thickened with emotion; he swallowed, the muscles in his throat moving. “I would have given my life to see it undone.”
The Pope withdrew back into his chair, holding the cross to his chest like a shield. His voice lowered, becoming a harsh rasp. “Are we to have no answers? Is the murder of our precious child to go unavenged?”
Micheletto’s head fell forward, face hidden by hair. The strands were greasy, as though he had not been allowed to cleanse himself before the audience. He was still sitting before the Pope, though he had drawn back when the Cardinal approached. His face remained expressionless.
“We will have this one, at least. Who gave you a task the night that our son was killed?”
Micheletto looked down, his mouth pressed into a hard line.
“It was I.” The soft, musical voice of Lucrezia Borgia floated over them like a calming breeze. She had entered the room silently and stood, waiting, it would seem, for the moment to speak.
“Lucrezia,” Cesare glanced toward the bier. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “I told you not to come.”
“And yet, here I am,” she said. Silk skirts swished as she walked forward, crossing the length of the room toward the body of her brother.
The Pope held out a hand as she passed, catching hold of her fingers. "It is not fitting that you should see him..."
There were deep shadows beneath the countess’s eyes, and her skin had gained an ivory pallor. "I will bid him farewell." She withdrew her hands from the Pope’s grasp and crossed to the cloth-draped figure.
Candles and incense could not disguise the rot that bit deeply into the corpse. The flesh had begun to pull away from the eyes and mouth, and beneath the layer of paint that had been used to render the flesh more lifelike, a gray, moist pallor emerged.
Lucrezia did not shrink from the sight; she kissed his lips and smoothed back his hair, emotion visible only in her hands, which trembled. Bending close to his ear, her whisper was clearly audible throughout the room. "Goodbye, dear brother. May you find the rest in heaven that you were denied in life."
Straightening, she turned her back to the corpse. Betta had watched the unfolding drama from beneath a bent he
ad, out of the corner of her eyes. Delicate slippers poking out from beneath her gown as she walked, Lucrezia strode forward, not stopping until she had cleared the length of the room, coming to a stop in front of where Betta knelt.
Betta felt the beat of her heart, like thunder in her ears. The depths of the betrayal that she had wrought...there were no words, only the quiet hollow of despair. Almost worse than losing her life was the idea of losing the position of trust she occupied in Lady Lucrezia’s household.
Hands touched her chin, lifting it, the grime of her skin brushing against softest cloth. "My poor Betta, how you have suffered. Be at peace; it shall all be over soon."
The Pope opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again when Lucrezia left her side and crossed to the chair where he still sat. Frown lines had grown between his eyes. At her approach, Micheletto and Cardinal Borgia rose to their feet. Micheletto came to stand by Betta, helping her to stand and sliding an arm around her waist to keep her upright. The warmth in his eyes was like a tonic, filling her with strength.
Cardinal Borgia remained within arm’s length of his sister; for the first time, fear showed on his face.
Lucrezia knelt upon the floor, her skirts a puddle of crimson and gold edged with blue. She wore her hair bound back severely, without curl or adornment, and covered with a blue veil. The pointed edge of her chin stood out sharply when she lifted her face to look the Holy Father.
“My brother Cesare seeks to protect me, as he has always done. It was I that sent Micheletto out that night.”
“You?”
“Yes. You have not asked me to swear, Holy Father, though I will willingly do so. It was not by my direction that our brother met his death that night.” Reaching forward, she touched the cross with her fingertips. “It was another’s death that I ordered, and my fault that your suspicions have found fertile ground in the person of my brother’s henchman.”
“Who?” The Pope seemed incapable of anything but whispers.
Servant to the Borgia Page 41
