The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  I reminded myself that the apothecary, in addition to being my friend, was a woman of true intelligence and wisdom. I could not simply disregard her concerns.

  “Cesare is underestimating Morozzi,” I insisted. “He believes that when the priest learns that I’ve been locked away, he will be emboldened to strike at Borgia and in the process be lured into a trap. But Morozzi is far too clever for so clumsy a maneuver. He is much more likely to assume that there is a trap and take every precaution to avoid it.”

  “Whereas you think that if he believes you are dead, he really will become careless?” Sofia asked.

  “He has been trying to kill me since last year. If he thinks I am dead, he will be elated. He may even take it as a sign that God favors his enterprise. He will feel safe enough to strike at Borgia and in so doing, please God, fall into the trap Cesare has laid for him. But beyond that, I will be alive, able to move against him without his awareness. He will not see me until it is too late.”

  “If you are wrong—”

  “I am not. Nothing less than what I propose will do.”

  Sofia hesitated, weighing my argument. I knew that I had won when she attempted to redirect her opposition.

  “The slightest miscalculation in the amount of the dosage or the potency of the ingredients and you will never wake.”

  “I have considered that and I am confident it can be done safely.”

  Despite my morose musings a few weeks before on the bridge spanning the Tiber, I truly did not want to die. Not then. But if Cesare overbrimmed with confidence, I was no stranger to it myself. So great was my faith in my abilities, augmented by Sofia’s good sense and experience, that I believed the risk could be all but eliminated.

  We need not dwell on the extent of my foolishness. In my own defense, I will say that I was still quite young.

  “Is there truly a drug that can accomplish such a thing?” Luigi asked. He had followed the conversation between Sofia and me intently, but had not disputed my conclusions. Even so, he appeared to hope that the answer would be no.

  “There are potions that suppress both heart and breath,” Sofia acknowledged. “But as I just said, the risk—”

  “Should not be exaggerated,” I insisted. “All that is needed is for me to be seen to be dead and declared the same by people who will be believed. Borgia will try to conceal my death, of course, for his own protection. Therein lies the real danger to me. He is perfectly capable of smuggling me away to burial in an unmarked grave as he did with my father.”

  I had not forgiven Il Papa for that. After I killed Morozzi, I would demand as a sign of Borgia’s gratitude that I be allowed to see my father properly interred.

  To Luigi, I said, “You will have to act quickly to take possession of my remains and then stand firm against Borgia’s demands. Wave the testament I will sign giving you authority to act for me in front of him and insist that I be interred as I wished.”

  “It will be my pleasure to frustrate His Holiness in such a matter.” Clearly, the banker had not forgiven the destruction of his villa.

  “Then we have only to determine when it will be done,” I said. My eyes met Sofia’s across the table.

  “If Borgia falls to Savonarola,” I said, “there will be no future for any of us who believe in a world of light and reason. We will die in any case and so will tens of thousands of others, perhaps more. Everything we have been working for will be destroyed. Surely, any risk is justified in order to prevent that?”

  I knew that I had her when she blinked back tears and looked away.

  The details took over. We trundled down to the cellar beneath the palazzo where Luigi kept a strong room complete with scales. There the men courteously absented themselves. Under Sofia’s supervision, I removed all clothing save for my shift and submitted myself to being carefully weighed. When that was done, Luigi returned with a trusted secretary, who took down my last testament. After designating funds for a simple—and I hoped speedy—funeral, I divided most of my wealth between Sofia, who protested that I should do no such thing but who I knew would use it to care for the truly needy, and Rocco to hold in trust for Nando. My books would also go to Sofia, who I knew would treat them well. I left a sum to Portia along with the request that she look after Minerva. On sudden impulse, I decided to leave my mother’s wedding chest to Lucrezia. She had many items of far greater value and yet I believed she would take good care of it. My puzzle chest would go to Cesare, who would appreciate its cleverness. Guillaume witnessed my signature with his own, after which I saw the testament locked safely away in Luigi’s vault.

  All was in place, save for one remaining matter. I am not a sentimental woman, believing as I do that such emotion breeds folly. But having been forced by Sofia to at least consider the possibility that I might truly die, I had a call to make.

  Careful to avoid the patrols roaming throughout the city, I made my way to the Campo dei Fiori. Rocco was in the courtyard behind his shop. I watched in the shadows near the back door while he clipped a perfect sphere of crimson glass streaked with gold from the blowpipe and set it carefully on a rack. When I stepped forward, he looked surprised but, to my relief, not displeased to see me.

  “I thought Cesare Borgia had you locked away.”

  “He has, can’t you tell?” It was a feeble attempt at humor, to be blamed on my nerves. I will not say that I was suddenly anxious as a girl, though you may conclude that for yourself.

  Rocco stripped off his thick leather gloves and set them aside. “The boy lord has some misconceptions about you, doesn’t he?”

  As I had no particular desire to discuss exactly how well Cesare did or did not know me, I said only, “He can believe what he likes. I don’t actually have much time—”

  Every moment I stayed away increased the risk that the young condottiere would take it into his head to make sure I was still under lock and key.

  “I only came to say that … I’ve been thinking and…”

  “It’s all right,” Rocco said. He came forward quickly and took my hands in his. I felt their warmth, saw the look in his eyes, and forgot to breathe. His stiffness dropped away from him and he looked suddenly young and eager.

  “I’m sorry that I mentioned what I did,” he said. “Nothing has been decided. I have no particular desire to ally with the d’Agnellis. In fact—”

  “But you should.” I spoke in a rush, suddenly fearful that I would lose my courage if I let him say another word. Rocco was everything I yearned for—life, love, a chance to step out of darkness into light, all temptations before which I feared my brittle resolve would crumble.

  Before that could happen, I said, “Carlotta d’Agnelli is a wonderful person, everyone thinks so, and this is a great opportunity for you. You deserve it.”

  As he most surely did not deserve a woman roiled by inner darkness and driven to kill. A woman who, one way or another, might be dead herself before much longer.

  He went very still, his gaze so intent that I had no choice but to look away or risk him seeing the twisted black knot that was my heart.

  “That’s why you’re here, to tell me this?”

  Why had I come? Because if my grand plan went wrong and I really did die, I wanted to leave Rocco free to go on with his life without feeling any guilt at having been unable to change mine? How extraordinarily presumptuous, even for me. No, the truth was I had come to free myself. Whatever I was about to face, I wanted to do it without clinging to false hope for a future that could never be.

  “We live in perilous times,” I said. “No one knows from one day to the next what will happen. You should not hesitate to do what is right for you. Carlotta d’Agnelli—”

  He dropped my hands and took a step back. For the first time since I had known him, his eyes went cold.

  “I don’t need marriage advice from you, of all people. Really, sometimes I think you are the most thick-skulled woman in Creation.”

  Under the circumstances, I really had not expecte
d compliments. But neither was I prepared to hear his complaints regarding my character just at the moment when I was trying, for whatever purpose, to rise above my baser urges.

  “Perhaps I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that—”

  “You are out, wandering around like this”—he gestured at my boy’s garb—“after the atrocity at Santa Maria. I never thought I’d have any sympathy for Cesare Borgia but I’ll give him this, he’s right to want to lock you up. You’re at least as much a menace to yourself as to anyone else.”

  I opened my mouth to utter a withering reply only to stand mute and gaping. His sudden alliance with Cesare of all people—hadn’t they almost been at blows not long ago?—seemed a betrayal of the worst sort. Rocco was supposed to be my patient, stalwart friend, the one who never gave up on me. Yet he seemed to be doing exactly that.

  Fine, then, the Devil take him.

  “Why don’t you tell him that yourself?” I asked. “The two of you can get drunk and complain to each other about the folly of women. I’m sure you would both enjoy that.”

  “Francesca…”

  “No, no Francesca! I came to you out of decency after you suddenly announce, at the worst possible time, that you’ve found the perfect helpmate. I think you’re right, she is perfect! So marry her, for pity’s sake, and be done with me!”

  “If it weren’t for Nando—”

  “Nonsense! She is beautiful, sweet, pure, kind, she sings like an angel and she will set you on the path to make your fortune. Of course you want to marry her! Admit it!”

  He looked down at his feet, then up again at me. “She is not entirely objectionable.”

  Do not be misled by so seemingly tepid an endorsement, for surely I was not. Rocco did not act but for looking first, and again, that lesson having been hard-earned in his youth. If he could consider marriage to Carlotta d’Agnelli at all, he knew himself willing to bed her, keep faith with her, and build a life with her.

  Well, then.

  “I have said what I came to.” I turned to go with as much dignity as I could muster.

  He reached out to stop me but I jerked away and kept going, out through the shop, into the street, and quickly along it, around the corner and beyond, intent on losing myself in the anonymous crowd. Behind me, Rocco shouted my name, but perhaps it was only the wind, which, after several days of calm, had begun to blow hard again.

  By the time I had retraced my steps and regained my apartment, the last of my strength was gone. I fell the last few feet down the chimney and emerged from it on my hands and knees. I crawled out of the fireplace but got no distance at all before I bumped into a sturdy pair of legs topped by a startled frown.

  “I was wondering when you’d be back,” Portia said. “I’ve been rattling around here for hours, talking to myself so those idiots outside wouldn’t think anything was amiss.” She held out a hand to help me up.

  I blew out soot, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and said, “Thank you. I’m sorry to put you to such trouble.”

  That was as close as I could come to apologizing in advance for the burden I was about to lay on her. If my plan worked, it would be Portia who found my body. Her reaction, not to say her absolute belief that I was dead, was crucial. To that end, I could not breathe a word to her of what I intended.

  “No need to apologize, Donna,” she said cheerfully. “You’re far and away the most diverting tenant I’ve ever had. I got the food you wanted. Are you hungry?”

  I was starving, and since I wasn’t entirely clear on when—or if— I might enjoy another meal, I agreed readily when Portia announced that she would be cooking.

  “Come along then,” she said as she headed toward the pantry. “I’ve news as well.”

  I followed her willingly. After my encounter with Rocco, not to mention the strain of planning my own death, I preferred company over the solitude of my turbulent thoughts. When Portia directed me to wash my hands before chopping the fennel, I obeyed. Minerva joined us, no doubt in search of some treat. Already, she looked startlingly different from the bedraggled kitten I had adopted. I began to wonder exactly how big she would become, and whether I would see that happen.

  Simple domestic tasks have a way of driving off such moroseness. As Portia set purposefully about the business of preparing us a meal, I whittled away at the stack of fennel until there was scarcely anything left of it. My skills with a knife did not extend to vegetables.

  “Everyone is talking about you and Cesare,” Portia said as she set water to boil over the small pantry stove. To it she added thin strips of dough made from durum wheat and a little water. There are some who claim that this dish was introduced to Italy by the revered Marco Polo, but that is nonsense. Whatever he saw in faraway China merely reminded him of what he had already enjoyed in his homeland. Some say we always knew how to make such delectable and versatile noodles; others say that we acquired the skill from the Arabs when they invaded Sicily. Whatever the source, it is good, filling food that, in the hands of a Portia, can transcend all expectation.

  “The general opinion,” she added, “is that you have had a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “For God’s sake.”

  “I’m only reporting what I hear. You know how people love to gossip.”

  “Love to invent things out of whole cloth, you mean. People should tend to their own affairs and leave mine alone.”

  As they surely would the moment human beings ceased to be human and became angels.

  A little olive oil, a handful of sardines from the Adriatic, whose cool waters produce the most flavorful fish, all tossed with what was left of the fennel, and we were ready to eat. Portia even produced a fragrant white wine from Umbria redolent of just a hint of honey.

  My stomach growled.

  Lest you think me entirely unfeeling to be so moved by base needs at such a time, let me say only that my appetite—for food, at least—was always capricious, seemingly vanishing on a whim only to reappear without warning like a wolf emerging from a winter cave.

  As we ate, Portia regaled me with tales of the hapless men-at-arms assigned to guard me. They appeared trapped between terror at what Cesare would do to them if they failed in their duty and excruciating boredom made all the worse by the antics of the neighborhood children, who, with each passing hour in which nothing of interest occurred, became bolder, darting out from around corners to taunt the guards before disappearing again.

  “I could almost feel sorry for them,” Portia said. “They’re in full armor in this heat and they don’t know who to be more frightened of, you or Cesare.”

  “Me, definitely,” I said, leaning back to pat my stomach. My plate was empty but Portia had kept my glass full. The bleak sorrow that had dogged my heels all the way back from Rocco’s still lurked, but at sufficient distance for me to pretend to ignore it.

  “You should become a chef,” I said. “Borgia would hire you. I’d make him.”

  “I wouldn’t work for that man if he offered me a job on bended knee,” Portia scoffed. She hadn’t stinted on the wine either. “He’s a lech, you know, and that’s hardly the worst of it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about Borgia. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep him alive.”

  “That can’t be easy. Does he get up every morning intent on making yet more enemies? The French, most of the princes of the Church, the Spanish if he doesn’t do what they want, the Sforzas if he does. Tell me again, why was he elected?”

  “It was the will of God.”

  We both fell to giggling. You will conclude that I was drunk and you will not be far wrong. In my own defense, I will say only that I am far from the only woman—let us not even attempt to count the men—who has found relief from death’s shadow in the arms of kindly Bacchus.

  “The real question is why Borgia hasn’t sent his own men to release you,” Portia said. “What could Cesare have told him to make him accept your absence?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he told Borgia I’m
being used as bait to lure out an enemy.”

  “You seem to have more than your fair share,” Portia observed.

  I shrugged. “On the other hand, perhaps Il Papa thinks that being forced to work together has caused us to fall out. Perhaps that is even what he wanted to happen.”

  “You aren’t making sense. Why would he want that?”

  I waved the hand that held the goblet in airy explanation. “He has a dark side, our pope. You might not think it to look at him but it’s there all right. It whispers that Cesare and I are in league against him.”

  Portia looked shocked but not surprised. The higher a man climbs in this world, the more keenly he feels the wind. Even so, such things are not to be spoken of, and she knew it.

  “I’ll tidy up, Donna. You need to rest.”

  Perhaps so, but what I wanted was more wine and company to hold my thoughts at bay.

  “It’s scarcely evening. I can’t possibly sleep at such an hour.”

  “Then just lie down,” she said, and led me, like a fractious child, to my bed, where she lingered until my boy’s garb lay discarded on the floor and I was tucked between cool linen sheets with Minerva on watch beside me.

  Despite my protests, sleep was about to claim me when I grasped Portia’s hand.

  “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

  Her broad face creased in a frown. “For what, Donna? What have you done?”

  If I tried to answer her, I have no memory of it. Whether because of the wine, the food, or being tucked into bed like the child I had never been, I slept heavily, and mercifully without dreams, waking only to the calls of the street sweepers and night soil collectors that came with the dawn.

  Two days passed. Portia came regularly to take Minerva to the garden, to bring me food, and to keep me company. If she thought at all of my drunken attempt at apology, she did not mention it. I suspected that Luigi had told her to keep an eye on me but I was also confident that he would not have breathed a word to her of what I planned. My guilt regarding her remained even as we chatted, cooked together, and played cards.