by Sara Poole
Luigi nodded. “He said that it was up to me whether he helped Lux or harmed us. He wanted to know the time and place of our next meeting. He said only that every precaution would be taken to assure no one came to any harm. He seemed completely confident.”
“He always does. You must not blame yourself. His Holiness has a rare gift for discerning vulnerability and making use of it.”
Certainly, he understood how readily I could be manipulated when it came to the matter of making Morozzi pay for my father’s death.
“You are uncommonly kind,” Luigi said. He blinked and for a moment I caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. That so brilliant and successful a man could be so humbled by his dealings with Borgia made me consider the cost of my own association with the pontiff, but only briefly. This was not the time for such doubts.
“I wonder…,” Luigi ventured. “Do the others have to know about this?”
I had not considered that but as I turned the question over in my mind, I saw no good purpose in alarming all of Lux. At least not immediately.
“Events are presently in turmoil,” I said. “Let us see where we are when matters are more settled before we make any such decisions.”
He nodded gratefully. “It is a difficult situation for all of us but for you more than any. Given the danger, I cannot help but think that you would be better off out of the city. I have any number of residences where you will be safe. You might like Capri, for example. It’s lovely this time of year.”
The island was also almost two hundred miles from Rome. Luigi was not merely suggesting that I seek a place of greater safety; he was suggesting that I give up the battle entirely.
“That is good of you but I am not about to flee. Morozzi’s return to Rome gives me the chance I have longed for to avenge my father. But beyond that, we need Borgia’s strength and cunning to stop Savonarola and others of the same ilk. To that end, I am determined to protect His Holiness at all costs.”
Luigi looked unconvinced but he did not attempt to argue the point further. Instead, he said, “That may prove difficult. There are times when I think our pope is his own worst enemy.”
I frowned. The banker had contacts from the Grand Duchy of Muscovy in the frozen north to Constantinople and the inner circle of the Ottoman Turks. If anyone was in a position to know what dangers might be stirring in the shadows, he was.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He glanced toward the windows as though to be sure there was no one nearby in the gardens who might overhear us. Even then, he pitched his voice low.
“Their Most Catholic Majesties are not happy with the bull His Holiness signed. They want more.”
I swore softly under my breath. “He must have their support in the matter of Naples.”
“He must indeed,” Luigi agreed. “Rumor has it that they are sending an emissary who will lay out their demands but who will also”—he lowered his voice yet further—“who will reproach His Holiness for tolerating the presence of non-Christians within his borders. They will cite the Moors in particular but it is understood that privately they will tell His Holiness that he should follow the will of his predecessor, Pope Innocent VIII who, they will claim, was preparing to order the expulsion of the Jews from all of Christendom.”
This was worse even than anything I had imagined. If Ferdinand and Isabella were willing to make such a demand, they must be certain indeed of how precarious Borgia’s position was and how desperately he needed them. Even so, no one could expect him to take such a humiliation well.
“He will be enraged,” I said.
Luigi nodded. “Likely so, but what can he do? As you said, he must have their support.”
Which raised the possibility that the danger to Sofia, David, and all the Jews was even greater than I had thought. If Borgia decided to sacrifice them against all good sense—
“We must do everything possible to strengthen Il Papa so that he may withstand the challenges he faces. In particular, Morozzi must be stopped before this gets completely out of control.”
Leaning forward a little, I added, “It occurred to me that you might be able to help find him. His Holiness may have the finest spy network in Christendom, so it is said. But I doubt that much of anything can happen in Rome without your knowledge.”
To give Luigi credit, he did not indulge in any false modesty. Grasping my meaning at once, he said, “You are referring to my portatori?”
I nodded. Portia and all the others like her were the banker’s eyes and ears throughout the city. They knew better than anyone who was coming and going, who had secrets, who was committing indiscretions. I had no doubt that Luigi made good use of such information for his own ends but now I wanted him to put it to work for a higher cause.
“If they could be alerted,” I said, “to take note of newcomers to the city, particularly any who may have come from Florence, and most especially to be on the lookout for Morozzi, that would be a great help.”
“Of course,” Luigi assured me. “But you realize, he could be staying anywhere. Il Frateschi has sympathizers here. Unfortunately, we don’t know who they are.”
I had thought of that but it did not discourage me. “Wherever he is, he is not invisible. Someone, somewhere has had contact with him. Perhaps it has only been a matter of delivering food or carrying what seems like an innocent message or observing an encounter without understanding its significance.”
Luigi was nodding before I finished speaking. “It will be difficult but you may be right. I will see what can be done.”
I thanked him and lingered a little while longer as he was eager to speak of other matters, less touching on his shame. Having managed to save Juan de la Cosa’s map in the escape from the villa, he showed it to me again. Together, we marveled at what, more than ever, I hoped truly was Novi Orbis, the New World.
Tracing the novel coastline with one finger, Luigi said, “Colombo claims that all the men and women in the islands he visited were handsome beyond compare and that all went naked except for leaves covering their privates. They were of gentle demeanor and had few weapons, but dwelt in a state of sin nonetheless, lacking as they do all knowledge of the One True God.”
I was skeptical that any place could be such a seeming Eden but however well-disposed its people might be, I did not envy them their encounter with us. In my observation, we are all too adept at clothing the most venal acts in righteous intent.
I left the palazzo a short time later, intending to return to the Vatican. It was all well and good for Vittoro to increase the guard around Borgia but that would afford us little if poison managed to slip through. I would have to redouble my vigilance.
Thinking about the best way to do that, I came around a corner and walked into a crowd gathered in front of a building. Men and women alike were pointing and laughing at some recent piece of graffiti. I squeezed closer to get a look, only to regret instantly that I had done so.
The artist—I am loath to call him that but he was undeniably skilled—had done an all too credible job of depicting a naked young girl with golden hair arranged in ringlets around a heart-shaped face. She was smiling over her shoulder at an unmistakable figure arrayed in the crimson and gold raiment of a pope, his chasuble pulled open to reveal an enormous penis aimed at her raised rump. Lest anyone be left in any doubt as to the object of His Holiness’s attentions, the young girl wore a pendant dangling between her small breasts in the shape of the entwined letters L and B.
Shock roared through me, followed hard by disgust so intense that I feared I would vomit. A shrill whistle sounded in the distance. The crowd began to scatter as a troop of condottierri came on the run. I managed to slip away and continued on toward the Curia but with every step the bright day seemed to fade further. A chill stole over me. In the chatter and laughter of passersby, I feared that I heard the stirrings of a mob only waiting to be unleashed upon the bidding of the fanatic Savonarola, who concealed within his bosom the viper I was sworn to crush.
13
Several days passed during which I busied myself checking every item of food and drink intended for Borgia or his family with even more than my usual care. So, too, did I inspect every object that might come into contact with them. The work was tedious but necessary.
I was occupied with this task one afternoon about a week after my encounter with Luigi when I received a message from him. It was delivered by Renaldo, who found me in the cavernous kitchens beneath the Vatican Palace. The day was warm verging on hot and the kitchens, their immense fires lit for preparation of the evening meal, were sweltering. I had worn the lightest clothing I possessed, a thin shift and a simple linen overdress, but even so I could scarcely breathe.
In the past, it had been my custom to pass on food under my seal to the kitchen staff, confident that every member had been thoroughly vetted and understood the dire consequences that would befall them should any dish engender illness. But given the attacks on Borgia as well as the nearness of the wedding, I thought my presence a useful reminder of the need for meticulous care.
The kitchen stretched the entire width of the palazzo but was divided by broad archways into separate sections. At the far end, bread was baked in beehive-shaped brick ovens tended by panettieri who wielded their long-handled wooden paddles with grace and agility. Besides the flour that tended always to cling to him, a panettiere could be recognized by the smoothness of his arms, the hair having been singed from them by repeatedly reaching deep into the hot ovens to place and retrieve dough.
In the next kitchen over, apprentices worked diligently preparing the vast array of fish and shellfish brought to the palazzo daily from the boats that docked in the nearby port of Ostia. Several were laboring over a pile of squid, carefully removing the ink sacks while others filleted trout, plaice, and whiting, and still more scrubbed the mussels and oysters that would shortly be simmering in a nice broth.
Nearby, in the cucina di carne, skinny, sweat-drenched boys turned rotisseries heaped with capons intended for the evening meal. The birds’ golden skin dripped fat into the fire below, often sending up bubbles of hot oil that burned the boys even as they were stoically ignored. Above their heads pungent Spanish hams, introduced to Romans several decades before by Uncle Callixtus, the first Borgia pope, hung from rafters as they awaited the carving knife. His Holiness’s fondness for the heavily salted flesh of pigs fed solely on acorns and allowed to age several years escaped me. I found the flavor overwhelming and avoided it whenever possible. But then my taste in food has always been very simple, influenced as I am by professional concerns.
I made my way through each of the kitchens in turn, greeted politely by the maestro della cucina even as the lesser cooks, apprentices, and kitchen boys scrupulously avoided looking at me. I understood their reluctance, especially considering the rumors about me—that I was strega, of course, for how could a young woman endowed with the dark knowledge of the poisoner’s art be anything other than a witch? But it did not stop there. The more imaginative claimed that I could kill with a single look—the times I wished that I could! Or that I could judge the guilt or innocence of a person simply by looking into his eyes. Again, if only that were true. Inevitably, there were also whispers about the exact nature of my relationship with Borgia, the role I had played in his ascension to the papacy, and so on. I ignored them as best I could and tended to my duties.
I had finished at last and was sipping chilled lemonade and wiping my brow when Renaldo appeared.
“There you are,” he said on a note of exasperation. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I can’t decide whether I’m working or hiding,” I admitted as I lifted the beaded carafe and poured a glass for the steward. Borgia had been incessant in his demands of late, seemingly requiring my presence half a dozen times a day. It had been all I could do to slip away long enough to see to my actual duties.
And that did not even take into account the matter of Cesare, who, unless I was very much mistaken, had moved in with me. Officially, he was still supposed to be in Spoleto, but he had a house in Trastevere not far from where Juan also resided, and there was talk of an apartment in the Vatican being prepared for him adjacent to his father’s. Even so, he showed no inclination to go elsewhere. His clothes were all over my chamber, his guards stood duty outside my door, he continued to charm Portia at every turn, and Minerva—shameless hussy—ignored me completely when he was present, preferring to crawl into his lap and have her ears rubbed.
Ah, well, I could understand that urge readily enough.
“I can’t say that I blame you,” Renaldo said when he had emptied his glass and held it out to be refilled. “These are hardly the best of days.”
“God willing,” I said, “we will see better. What brings you here?”
“A message came for you from Signore d’Amico.” He held out a folded paper.
I broke the seal and read swiftly, only to sigh with disappointment. Luigi was making every possible effort to help me but so far his portatori had discovered nothing of use. No one had seen so much as a hint of Morozzi. Nor had Guillaume been able to discover any trace of him, although he did say that the Dominican chapter house was in an uproar over the disappearance of a friar. Whether that had anything to do with Morozzi, he could not say. I was beginning to fear that my foe truly was invisible.
To distract myself, I asked, “What is the mood in the city?” Between spending so many hours at the Curia each day and being occupied with Cesare each night, I had no opportunity to judge the disposition of Rome’s citizens.
“Tense,” Renaldo said succinctly. “His Holiness has men out scrubbing every inch of wall but they can only do so much.” So did he delicately refer to the continuing proliferation of obscene graffiti libeling Borgia as an incestuous father and Lucrezia as his whore. Grace to God, she seemed to have no awareness of what was happening, or so I concluded from our conversations during the rare moments I was able to visit her.
“Has anyone been caught?”
He shook his head. “Not that I have heard. Rumors abound, each wilder than the last. Della Rovere is on the outskirts of Rome. He has raised an army of angels. Borgia has fled and sought refuge among the Moors. Or he has been caught in the arms of an incubus sent straight from Satan.” His voice dropped a notch. “Or he is Satan, sent to torment us in the end of days when the pure shall be separated from the sinful.”
I rolled my eyes but as much as I would have liked to dismiss all that as the ramblings of the ignorant, I suspected that they were far more. Someone was embarked on a deliberate campaign to paint Borgia as a figure of unrivaled evil, the better to justify his expulsion from the papacy. I had no doubt as to who that was.
“What are the touts saying?” I asked.
Renaldo shrugged. “Around the Campo, odds are five to three that Borgia will survive. But in Trastevere, it’s three to two that he’ll be gone by autumn.”
“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, aren’t these things typically decided ahead of time?” By which I meant the general understanding that the touts of Rome formed an unofficial guild, in which they did not compete against each other in the matter of setting odds.
“People may just be responding differently to what they are seeing,” the steward suggested. “Some of the graffiti has been particularly … imaginative.”
I did not care to think what could be worse than what I had seen. Moving on quickly, I asked, “Is there any news of the Spanish envoy?”
Don Diego Lopez de Haro had yet to arrive in Rome, but if Luigi’s information was correct, and I had no reason to think otherwise, he could not be far off.
Renaldo glanced around to be sure no eager ears lurked nearby. Sotto voce, he said, “He is en route but seems to be in no great rush. Perhaps Their Majesties are giving our master time to think things over. That may be working. When His Holiness is not raging against their effrontery, he is considering ways to placate them.”
That was as I had feare
d. What with one thing and another, I had not managed to slip away to speak with Sofia or David. Nor had I heard anything from either of them. Such a state of affairs could not continue. If Borgia did intend to sell out the Jews in return for the support of the Spanish monarchs, something would have to be done to stop him.
Sadly, I was at a loss just then to imagine what that might be.
“Can you do something for me?” I asked Renaldo after we had finished the lemonade. Matters seemed to be well in hand in the kitchens and I had no real reason to think that there was any danger from that corner. It was vital that I get away for a few hours unobserved.
“If His Holiness asks for me, would you tell him I am—” I was what? What excuse would be sufficient to hold off Borgia the Bull when he wanted, nay demanded attention?
“Tell him I am attending to a gynecological matter but will return shortly.”
Renaldo turned beet red, so much so that for a moment I feared for his immediate health. In an effort to soothe him, I patted his hand and said, “My thanks, Master d’Marco. I know I can rely on you.”
Before he could inform me otherwise, I made my escape. Saint Peter’s Square was packed as always, even more so because Vittoro had so many guards stationed about. As always, I averted my gaze from the basilica as I made my way toward the river. My mind was occupied with thoughts of the task Borgia had laid on me. The plain fact was that I had yet to make any progress in the matter of determining how to kill Cardinal della Rovere. The combination of the practical difficulties and my own disinclination was proving a formidable stumbling block. I resolved to work harder on the problem.
I had not gone very far before a prickling at the back of my neck made me turn. The street was crowded with shoppers, tradesmen, wide-eyed visitors, and the like. A faint ripple of movement caught my eye. Not twenty feet away, a man emerged from beneath an arch, stepping out into the light for just a moment. In that fragment of time, I saw him clearly. He was bathed in the soft light of a Roman afternoon, his somber garb in no way detracting from the startling beauty of features that were the classical expression of masculine beauty—straight nose, square chin, high brow, and chiseled cheekbones. His eyes, even at that distance, were large and of the purest blue. His hair was a nimbus of golden curls clinging to his perfectly shaped head. He looked like an angel.
