by Sara Poole
I understood that the tunnels under the city were an excellent means of avoiding the attention of the condottierri who, while they might very well not stop the passage of untaxed goods, would certainly exact their own fee for looking the other way.
“Was the man he saw alone?” I asked.
“He was, and seemingly in a hurry. He disappeared around a corner and was gone from sight.”
Frustration welled up in me. If not even the smugglers who knew the Roman underworld better than anyone could track Morozzi, what hope had I?
“Do you have any idea where he went?”
“Sì, of course, otherwise I would not have bothered you with this. Come, I will show you.”
Alfonso led me up the steps to the church. I hesitated a moment before entrusting myself to the mercy of Our Mother, who always seems so much more inclined to accept us as we are than does the harsh and vengeful God men worship. We entered through the ancient stone porch with its sloping tiled roof beneath the fresco of the Virgin suckling her son and into the nave lined with richly carved capitals that some whisper bear the face of another Queen of Heaven, this one called Isis, the capitals having been taken from her temple on the nearby Janiculum. The great Pietro Cavallini’s mosaics of the life of the Virgin infuse the interior with light and color despite now being two centuries old. I could just make them out in the dim illumination of the oil lamps reflecting off their gilded surfaces. Vespers had concluded but the lingering perfume of incense drifted on the air. The interior was empty save for ourselves. The Church fathers do not allow the poor to seek shelter within Holy Mother Church lest they pollute her glory, although they are allowed to huddle outside around her skirts.
We were about halfway down the nave when Alfonso touched my arm lightly and drew me off into one of the aisles. He pointed to a small wooden door all but hidden in the shadows.
“That’s where I figure he would have come out, going by where my man saw him disappear. There’s an old stone staircase in that part of the passage that leads up into the crypt right under here. From there, it’s no trick to find your way out.”
I was not surprised that Morozzi would use a church to come and go surreptitiously. He had done much the same the previous year with no less than Saint Peter’s. But that raised the troubling question of whether he had allies within Santa Maria’s ancient walls.
Far in the back of my mind, a memory stirred. Like every other great church in Rome, Santa Maria in Trastevere has a titulus, a cardinal-patron who holds the honor of the office—and reaps its considerable financial benefits—without being required to provide any personal service. The position was held at that time by His Eminence Cardinal Giorgio da Costa, Archbishop of Lisbon. Not surprisingly, the Portuguese prelate was no friend to the Spaniard Borgia. Even more important, da Costa was well known to be della Rovere’s ally.
Was it possible that a priest or even several in service at Santa Maria would be confident enough about da Costa’s sympathies to provide aid to one intent on dislodging the present occupant of Peter’s Throne on the mistaken assumption that della Rovere would benefit?
Or was I becoming too caught up in the conspiracies that are mother’s milk to Rome, suckling as we are at the teat of the she-wolf? Was I seeing treachery where none existed?
There was only one way to find out. I turned to Alfonso.
“How many men can you put in the piazza, in the nearby streets, around this church, and in the tunnels underneath?”
He hesitated. “Without disrupting business—?”
“Forget business. Borgia will pay you well.” I was presuming much to say so but I was determined to convince His Holiness that my plan was sound.
“How well?”
I thought quickly. “Suppose he agrees to take only one part in ten for, say, a year?”
“Or better yet, he takes nothing for two years.”
“That is a great deal of money.” In point of fact, I had no idea how much Borgia would be giving up but I knew that he had vastly more to lose if he ceased to be pope.
“You are asking a great deal,” Alfonso countered, reasonably enough. “But you may want to reconsider. Putting so many men on watch assures that they will be seen.”
“That’s exactly what I want.” At his puzzled look, I explained. “If Morozzi suspects that I am on to him, he will be driven to act rashly and then I will have him.”
Or so I believed. My confidence was born of arrogance, for which a terrible price would shortly be paid. But that night, standing in the hushed interior of Santa Maria, I thought only of striking the deal I was certain would put vengeance for my father within my reach at last.
Alfonso and I dickered a while longer before coming to an agreement. In sign of it, he spit in the palm of his right hand and offered it to me. I did the same without hesitation and we shook. We parted in front of the church, the smuggler king vanishing back into the shadows. I made my way to my apartment. I did so well aware that I was followed by darting shapes, moving swiftly, hugging the walls and flickering in and out of my awareness.
They would be Alfonso’s men for the most part, keeping watch on his new “partner.” But somewhere among them would be Borgia’s own “eyes,” for I did not doubt he was having me followed. I could expect a summons to explain myself before very long. Mindful of that, I sought my bed in the hope of a few hours’ sleep only to drift in that halfway state between wakefulness and dreams wherein Rocco appeared again and again, turning from me toward a woman, strangely with the face of Isis, who opened her arms to him and smiled.
19
As I had expected, His Holiness was not pleased to learn of the arrangement I had made on his behalf with Alfonso. But after I had explained my reasoning, he grudgingly approved.
However, not without comment. “Between the diamonds and now this, you are costing me a king’s ransom.”
“In service of saving you a pope’s treasure.”
As he had no reply to that, I was banished from his presence until I had something “useful,” as he put it, to tell him. He was not looking well just then; the talks with de Haro seeming to take their toll, but not on Borgia alone. Renaldo whispered that the envoy was suffering stomach pains despite refusing to eat anything other than food he had brought with him.
“All probably spoiled by now and making him ill,” I said. It served him just as well since he was so foolish as to think that mere wagonloads of foodstuffs could protect him if Borgia directed otherwise.
Would I have killed de Haro? The question is purely hypothetical, of course. As frustrated as he became with the envoy, His Holiness never so much as hinted that he would welcome his demise. Nor would I have encouraged him to do so. But if there had been some compelling reason, something touching on the all-important matter of war or peace, life or death? What then would I have done?
A little henbane seed ground into bread, perhaps. Or a dash of young-leafed larkspur in the wine. Or failing that, a personal favorite of mine, oil of belladonna substituted for one of the many fraudulent chrisms the foolish believe can protect them from poison.
But enough of that; Heaven forfend that I provide you with occasion for sin.
Later that day, I returned home to find not the word from Alfonso that I was hoping for, but a package from Cesare. It contained a large quantity of sheer black lace of the sort Spanish women make into mantillas along with a note suggesting I might find a more intimate use for it. The gift raised my spirits, which had continued very low.
It also prompted a chuckle from Portia, who hovered while I opened the package.
“I always did appreciate a man with a good imagination,” she said.
“Yes, well, I’ll have to see what I can do with it.” As I had precisely no skills as a needlewoman, I was at a loss where to begin.
“I can recommend a good seamstress,” Portia offered. “She won’t rob you, she doesn’t gossip, and she does fine work.”
Having secured the name of the paragon and than
ked Portia for it, I hesitated. My mind had been very heavy of late, ever since Rocco sprang his news, although I tried hard not to admit that was the cause. I could not help brooding about the d’Agnelli figlia, try though I did to keep her from my thoughts.
“Would it be possible…,” I began. “That is, do you think…”
Portia rubbed the lace between two fingers and looked at me sideways. “Not like you to be so tongue-tied.”
“I’m not, that is, I just wondered if I might ask you for a favor? Another favor, actually. I know you just did me one and you’re always so good about looking after Minerva, but—”
Portia dropped the lace and stared at me. “What is wrong with you, Donna? And before you tell me, just let me say that the notion of you being so flustered by anything at all is terrifying. Has Borgia really gone and done it? Are we on the edge of catastrophe? Are the heavens about to split open and fire rain down?”
“No! Nothing like that. It’s nothing, really. I just wondered…” I took a breath and let it out in a rush. “Do you know anything about la famiglia d’Agnelli?”
“The glassmakers? They lost their only son last year.”
“Yes, I know that, but they have a daughter—”
“They may,” Portia said slowly. “Although I can’t say that I’ve heard any talk of her.”
She paused a moment, looking at me far too shrewdly. I did my best to appear no more than mildly interested.
“Do you want me to see what I can find out?”
“Not if it would be any trouble. It isn’t important, after all.”
“Oh, well then—”
“But if you happened to— I’m just a little curious.” I trailed off, feeling as ridiculous as I no doubt sounded.
Portia shrugged and returned her attention to the lace. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I did not imagine she was fooled for an instant. Sooner or later, I would have to tell her the truth, but until then at least I had other, some would say more pressing, matters to attend to.
I was doing so the following day when Vittoro sought me out. I was on my way to visit Lucrezia, having felt badly about neglecting her, when he intercepted me as I was crossing the piazza.
“What is this I hear?” he demanded without preamble. “You’ve enlisted the smugglers to look for Morozzi?”
“No one else has had any luck—not Borgia’s own ‘eyes,’ or so I presume, for surely he would have said something by now. And not Luigi or the Jews.”
I had sent word to Sofia and David of where I believed Morozzi was hiding, and had notified the banker as well. Certain though I was that they would all do their best to find him, my hopes rested most strongly with Alfonso.
“If I can force him to reveal himself—”
“You’ll do what, Francesca? Go after him singlehandedly? This obsession of yours—”
Any doubt as to where Vittoro had acquired his information disappeared. Borgia, too, had referred to my obsession with Morozzi when I told His Holiness what finding the mad priest was going to cost him.
Because I genuinely liked Vittoro, I spoke softly. “Would you call it an obsession if it had been your father who was murdered?”
He had the grace to look abashed. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. I don’t blame you for caring so deeply but at least don’t try to do this alone.”
“I have no intention of doing so. Morozzi will make a wrong move. When he does, there may not be much time to act, but be assured, I will welcome all appropriate help.”
That was neither a lie nor entirely the truth. I had no particular wish to confront the priest alone, but I would take no risk of him being warned off by the presence of others. Most important, I intended that it would be my hand that sent him to Hell’s domain.
Vittoro appeared less than satisfied but he let the matter drop. We walked a little farther together.
“The boy is doing well,” he said after a few moments.
I did not have to ask whom he meant. There was only one boy so far as I was concerned. “I am glad to hear it. You were good to take him in.”
Vittoro snorted. “It will be a harder task to give him back. Felicia adores him and so do the girls. He’s a clever sort. Did you know he draws very well? He’s done portraits of my daughters that look exactly like them.”
I wondered if the d’Agnelli figlia would have the sense to encourage Nando’s gift or if she would expect him, like his father, to take up her family business.
In a blatant bid to change the subject, I asked, “What impression do you have of the negotiations?”
“Is that what we’re calling them? I thought they were some combination of shouting match—at least on Borgia’s part—and sulking.”
“That bad?”
“Who knows? It is clear, however, that His Holiness would have an easier time of it if he didn’t have to worry about what della Rovere is up to.”
The comment, accurate though it was, made me wonder if Vittoro also knew that I was devising a way to kill the Cardinal. It would not have surprised me. The captain of the condottierri had excellent sources of his own, as well as being in Borgia’s confidence.
We talked a little longer before parting. I went on to Lucrezia’s apartment. She was in her bath but called for me to come in.
The bagno was a spacious room with high windows overlooking the palazzo’s gardens. Its floor was an intricate mosaic in the Roman fashion depicting dolphins at play. In the center sat an immense vasca in rosy pink marble, elevated on lion’s paw feet with high scrolled sides. Such was its size that Lucrezia and all her ladies could have bathed in it together. However, she was alone except for an attendant who hurried forward with a stool for me. I sat, breathing in the thick perfume of hibiscus and jasmine rising as tendrils of vapor from the steaming water.
She made a pretty picture with her golden hair caught up and pinned to the top of her head, her face rosy from the heat, and the rest of her submerged beneath the milky water. Had I not known her quite so well, I would have missed the strain evident in her eyes and around her mouth.
“Do you want to get in?” she asked. “There’s plenty of room.”
I was tempted. Since moving out of the palazzo, I had made do with a tin hip bath. As much as I cherished my privacy, there were certain amenities that come with living among the rich and powerful that I missed. But with everything that was happening, I could not stay long.
“Another time. I just came to see how you are.”
Lucrezia sighed and cast her eyes to the ceiling, where cherubs cavorted. “How am I? Let’s see … I am impatient … anxious … excited … exhausted from standing hour after hour for the seamstresses and very tired of being poked with pins. How are you?”
How indeed? Closing in on the killer of my father, I hoped. Sore at heart over Rocco’s news and loathing myself for such hypocrisy. Missing her brother and the hot, mindless coupling he provided. Doing my best to keep her father alive.
“Fine,” I said. “Busy, of course, but that’s to be expected.”
“Tell me, among all the wedding gifts, which is your favorite?”
So did she discreetly allude to the fact that I had to vet each and every gift before it was allowed anywhere near her.
“That life-sized baby elephant done in silver with the jeweled trunk. A bit plain perhaps but—”
Lucrezia laughed and I had the pleasure of seeing her, if only for a moment, restored to the young girl she was.
“Where shall I put it, do you think? In the great hall of my husband’s villa in Pesaro where all our guests may admire it? Or somewhere more private perhaps, just for our own enjoyment?”
“In the nursery,” I suggested, for I knew this was a subject dear to her heart. “What little child wouldn’t adore having his own elephant?”
Lucrezia clapped her hands. “Perfect, that is exactly what I shall do. Assuming I ever see Pesaro.”
She did not wait for my reply but took a breath and submerged completely unde
r the water. When she surfaced moments later, her hair had tumbled loose and drifted around her. She appeared, I thought, as a mermaid might, provided that a mermaid could be preoccupied with worldly matters. Even this close to the wedding, she still had her doubts whether it would occur. I wondered if she knew of the Spanish envoy’s determination to stop it.
Our eyes met in silent understanding.
“Oh, dear,” Lucrezia said, “I believe I am almost out of soap.” At once, the attendant bowed and hurried off to find more. The moment we were alone, she asked, “What do you hear? Tell me everything.”
That was out of the question, but I would tell her what she needed to know.
“Da Haro and your father are at odds. There is doubt that they can come to any sort of agreement.”
“They must! The Sforzas will never yield Milan to the King of Naples, no matter that he has the better claim. The Spanish must use their influence to make him see that. Otherwise, my soon-to-be family will look north for help and we will have the French on our doorstep.”
With della Rovere’s encouragement and possibly that of other cardinals as well. But I did not say as much. Lucrezia grasped the situation well enough as it was.
“Have you placed your bet yet?” she asked.
I knew she was referring to the heavy load of wagering going on all over the city as to whether or not the marriage would take place. The last I had heard, odds were running seven to five against it.
“Certainly not. I never bet on such things. Besides, I did very well when your father signed the bull. It doesn’t do to be greedy.”
She squeezed water out of a sponge and let it dribble over her head before she said, “You are so fortunate to control your own life.”
“Hardly that, but I am glad of what independence I have.” Even if there were days when it seemed little more than a sham.
She lifted her pale shoulders and let them fall. “I will never know what that is like. My life is my father’s to do with as he wills. I fear that even once I am married, that will continue to be so.”
