The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  Portia brought a set of carte de trionfi that she claimed was copied from a deck made for the Sforzas themselves by a great seer. The family into which Lucrezia was about to marry were notorious card-players and never stinted when it came to providing themselves with the best. They were also rumored to seek glimpses of the future in the arcane deck but I cannot say whether this was true or not.

  Portia and I played a simple version of the game, acquiring and discarding cards in search of the most profitable combinations. She was better at it than I, or luckier. Hand after hand, I was left with the infelicitous pairing of Jove and Mars, father and son, the two ever vying for power across the cosmos. Worse yet, brother Mercury kept appearing, that clever god so skilled at placating Jove and thwarting the ambitions of his sibling, Mars. Had I been so inclined, I might have imagined that the cards carried a portent of events well beyond a simple game. As it was, I was merely glad of the diversion, for the hours weighed heavily as I waited for Sofia to do what was necessary.

  29

  At mid-morning on the third day of my incarceration, Portia was off tending to her other duties when a clamor erupted below. Bored and anxious, desperate for diversion, I opened my door in time to see Sofia bustling up the stairs with a red-faced guard hard on her heels.

  “Your pardon, Donna,” he called after her. “I meant no discourtesy—”

  “You cannot recognize your own master’s seal,” she said without a backward glance, “or be bothered to read his orders until they are thrust under your nose. Who would expect otherwise?”

  Before he could reply, she reached the top of the stairs. Her gaze went straight up and down me before she nodded.

  “You’ve been eating at least, that’s good. I shudder to think what will happen if I report back to Signore Cesare that you lack for care.”

  “She does not,” the guard protested. “The portatore comes several times a day bringing the finest food, wine, everything imaginable. The greatest attention has been given to—” He broke off, looking at me fearfully. Clearly, it was not prudent to refer to me as strega, but what else fit? “—to the prisoner’s care.”

  “Prisoner!” Sofia exclaimed. She shook her head in disgust. “So much for your master’s claim that he only seeks to protect Donna Francesca. How long does he think such a lie will be believed with you spouting off the truth at every opportunity?”

  The guard’s face turned redder yet and his eyes began to bulge. I watched, well diverted, until Sofia caught my arm and drew me inside, slamming the door behind us.

  When we were alone, she let go of me and heaved a sigh. “That man’s an idiot.”

  She tossed the paper she carried on a nearby table. Out of curiosity, I picked it up and scanned it quickly. The document directed that one Sofia Montefiore, Jewess, be allowed admittance into my presence and further be permitted to converse with me privately. But careful examination showed that the paper had been bleached to erase an earlier message, faint traces of which could be seen underneath. As for the seal and signature, so far as I could tell they were Cesare’s.

  “What did it used to say?” I asked, holding the paper up to the light. Anxious though I was for the waiting to end, Sofia’s arrival had taken me by surprise. I needed a little time to rein in my nerves and get my thoughts in order.

  “Something about authorizing Luigi to transfer funds from one bank to another. No matter, it served well enough. How are you really?”

  I set the paper aside and produced a smile. “Without complaint other than being bored to distraction. You?”

  “I’ve scarcely slept, what for arguing with David while trying to determine how to see you safely through this. We have racked our brains seeking an alternative.”

  “And have you found one?” It was not an idle question. Even then, I would have considered any other option save what I believed to be necessary.

  “No,” she admitted. She held her hands clutched at her waist, the knuckles white. “There is something more that you should know. In the last few days, rumors have been spreading that are clearly intended to discredit Cardinal della Rovere. People are saying that his lust for power is so vast that he does not care if the French make war from one end of this land to the other so long as he is pope in the end. David believes that Il Frateschi is encouraging such talk in anticipation of the papacy becoming vacant very soon.”

  “You mean in anticipation of Borgia’s death?”

  Sofia nodded. “Every sign points to the attack against the Pope being imminent. Della Rovere has badly miscalculated the matter. When he does try to claim the papacy, the mob will erupt in fury and come out into the streets to stop him.”

  Roman mobs had a great history of rioting upon the death of popes, including looting the properties of anyone thought to be a candidate for the papacy, as a flagrant reminder that the collective will of the people could not be trampled upon. In such uncertain times, it was entirely possible that the outraged citizenry would place the College of Cardinals under such threat that no member of it would dare to stand against it.

  “If worse is possible,” she added, “there are also rumors that the Spanish envoy de Haro has instructions from Their Most Catholic Majesties that, in the event of Borgia’s death, their support is to be given to the Hound of God and not to any friend of the French.”

  Which suggested that Ferdinand and Isabella had at least some inkling of what Savonarola planned. Truly, we lived within a nest of vipers with the only wonder being that they did not swallow themselves whole.

  “There are other candidates—,” I ventured without conviction. Excepting a few pious old men, every prince of the Church believed himself amply well endowed to mount her. But I doubted there were any who would have the courage to put themselves in the way of a rioting mob backed by the might of Spain. While they dithered, Savonarola would prevail.

  I caught the sheen of tears in Sofia’s eyes just before she looked away, but when she looked back again, she showed only resolution. We both knew what had to be done.

  “I should stay with you.”

  “You cannot. A Jewess is too easy a target. No suspicion can fall on you.”

  “What of the portatore?”

  I pointed to the maze of glass tubing, retorts, crucibles, and the like that I had set up on the large table in the salon. It was all to no purpose, but to the untutored eye I thought it would appear suitably sinister.

  “Does not it look as though I have been producing something nefarious, possibly even with the intention of taking my own life?”

  “Is that how you want to be perceived, as a suicide?”

  “I want matters to move along quickly. What better way to guarantee that?”

  No priest will pray over a suicide, no Mass can be said. After an interval sufficient for me to be seen to be dead by people who would spread the word, Luigi would be free to spirit me away to his family crypt with what would be considered unseemly haste were I to die in the grace of Our Lord.

  “I must ask you again to reconsider.”

  “Even after what you have just told me? You know there is no other way.”

  “If I have made even the slightest error—”

  “I have every confidence that you have not. Now for both our sakes, let us delay no longer.”

  For truly, I did not think I could bear much more. A great urgency to be done had sprung up in me. I felt a wind at my back, pushing me forward to whatever fate awaited me.

  Sofia’s lips moved without sound. I wondered if she prayed to the God of Abraham, beseeching his guidance. For a moment, I envied her, for I, too, would have liked to pray. I am no good at it, I never have been, but there are still times when I feel a great yearning that pulls me beyond myself toward something I can scarcely glimpse and surely cannot comprehend.

  She slipped a hand into a pocket of her gown and withdrew a small glass vial no longer than my thumb. I stared at it in wonder that so ordinary an object could be fraught with such momentous intent.
<
br />   “If I have misjudged the dosage—”

  The vial contained a black liquid that appeared to absorb all light. I took it from her carefully, finding the glass cool to my touch. Or perhaps the chill was in me, for terror lapped at my feet, a thick and unforgiving tide that threatened to pull me under.

  Even so, I said, “I would trust no one to manage this so well as you. If I may ask, what did you use?”

  I will not repeat what she told me, for God forbid that I give you or anyone else occasion for sin. However, I will say that the ingredients are rare and difficult to work with, which is all to the good lest some fool be tempted to try.

  “It will take effect almost immediately,” she said. “Everything I know assures me that it will be painless. However, I cannot say with certainty how much you will be aware of what is happening to you. You may be conscious on some level for at least a little while.”

  As much as I did not relish that possibility, there was no turning back. “It doesn’t matter,” I said with false bravery. “I must do this no matter what is involved. How long will it be before I give the appearance of death?”

  “No more than a few hours. Your body will cool and your skin will become pale. Your heart will beat so slowly and faintly that no one will discern it. Nor will you show any evidence of breathing.”

  “And all that will last—?”

  “I cannot say for how long. Hours certainly, possibly a day. Enough time, please God, for Luigi to spirit you to safety.” She took a breath and I saw her throat working as though she wished to take back every word, spin time on its heel, and set us all on a different path. We both knew that there was none.

  “I will be in the crypt,” she said. “And I will do everything possible to revive you—blankets, restoratives, everything. I promise I will not give up no matter what.”

  “I know you won’t,” I said, and hugged her quickly before either of us could think better of what was about to happen. “Go now, before the guards become suspicious.”

  “Francesca—”

  “Truly, there is nothing more to say. You are my friend, I trust you absolutely. But if anything goes wrong, know that you are not to blame. This is my choice and mine alone.”

  We embraced in farewell, hopefully only temporary. I thought she was about to speak again, as though there was something that still needed to be said. But whatever it might have been, she must have thought better of it.

  She stepped back, touched my cheek lightly, and was gone. The door closed behind her so softly that I scarcely heard it. I was left once again alone, the vial nestled in the palm of my hand.

  I waited until Portia had come and gone on her last visit of the day; until darkness descended and the sounds from the street faded away. When I could hear only the hum of cicadas in the garden below and the faint creak of leather against metal as the guardsmen moved about, I made my final preparations.

  Minerva had eaten earlier, but I put out more food for her, along with water. Portia would come in the morning, I knew, but I wanted to make sure that the cat did not suffer for my unavoidable neglect. With that done, I undressed and washed myself, then donned a fresh shift. Ordinarily, I slept in the comfort of my own skin but I preferred not to be found in that state. Such a concession to modesty would be taken as further proof that I had intended my own death.

  Even then, I hesitated, making sure that everything was in good order, my books neatly arranged, the pantry tidy, any substances that could be dangerous safely locked away. When all that was done and more, I stood for a few moments in the center of the salon, looking around at the place that had been my home for a few scant months. It contained more of who I was than anywhere I had previously lived, yet already the impression of myself seemed to be fading, no doubt because of the excessive order I had imposed. A stranger could move in and with very little effort make the place his own.

  But that was not going to happen. I was going to live. I would defeat Morozzi and preserve Borgia. Life would go on.

  Or not.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, I took a breath and considered, yet again, the list of all I had felt that I needed to do. Everything was complete. There was no reason for me to delay any further.

  I took up the vial and stared at it. Sofia had said nothing of how it would taste. What if it tasted terrible and I retched it up? We would be undone before we had barely begun.

  I went back out into the pantry, found some of the good Umbrian wine left over from one of Portia’s visits, and swallowed half the goblet’s contents before returning to the bedroom. Clutching the goblet in one hand and the vial in the other, I used my thumb to ease off the wax closure. My gorge rose and for a moment I feared that I would not be able to swallow.

  Before I could think further, I threw back my head, put the vial to my lips, and drained its contents in a single gulp. Immediately, I emptied the remaining contents of the goblet down my throat and dropped it along with the vial onto the floor. My heart was pounding and a fine sweat had broken out over all my body. Pressing my lips together tightly, I laid down on the bed and forced myself to breathe deeply.

  At first, nothing happened. I did not, as I had feared I might, vomit. Slowly but steadily, my heartbeat returned to normal. I was able to breathe more easily and even began to feel a certain sense of relief. This was not so bad after all.

  Hard on that came the thought that, in her concern for my safety, Sofia might have mistakenly rendered the potion ineffective. I was debating how long to wait before deciding that was the case, and what I should do in such an eventuality, when I noticed a slight tingling in my hands and feet.

  I wondered if my overwrought mind had conjured the sensation, but very quickly it spread up my limbs and throughout my body. I was in no pain and as yet I felt no cause for alarm until, that is, I tried to lift my head only to discover that I could not. Nor could I move a finger or toe. I was effectively paralyzed.

  Panic surged through me but I forced it down, telling myself that I should have expected such a reaction. But the fact was that I had not considered how it would feel to lie utterly helpless, unable to bestir myself in any way, as the potion did its work. Over the next few minutes, I became aware of a great coldness moving over me. I could still see the wall directly opposite my bed and the window looking out into the night, and I could still blink, but my perspective grew fainter and more constricted with each breath. When my eyelids lowered and I discovered that I could not raise them again, I was plunged into darkness lit by strange red shards that seemed to have their existence only in my mind. Yet for all this, I remained entirely aware of what was happening to me.

  With that awareness came terror that I could not control by any rational means. Had I been capable of movement, I surely would have thrashed about in my eagerness to escape. As it was, the paralysis seemed as a giant serpent constricting every inch of me. I tried to cry out only to discover that I had become mute. My sole remaining means of expression were the tears that slipped down my chilled face. I felt their passage, but only distantly. With the disconnection of my body, my mind seemed to leap forward of its own accord. Vivid images darted before me. I saw Cesare on his horse racing across Saint Peter’s Square while the basilica still so filled with dread memories loomed above him; Borgia, wrapped in a sheet, suddenly old and palsied as La Bella knelt at his feet to perform an act I prefer not to describe. The world fell away and I was floating along the street where my father died. It was night; nothing stirred save the rats that fled at my approach. I saw a man in the distance and tried to call out to him but could not. Yet he turned even so and I saw that it was Morozzi, laughing.

  I went on into a room I did not recognize yet felt that I knew, where a child lay in a bed. She turned her head toward me and I found myself looking into my own eyes. Voices surrounded me:

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “She is possessed.”

  “Get out! I will not let you—”

  “My own fault, dear God, m
y own.”

  A woman was singing very softly, the sound filling me with contentment. My fear dissolved and I reached up my arms to be lifted by her. I felt her breath on my cheek and heard the song she sang:

  Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright,

  Bridle the filly under your light,

  The child of my heart is ready to ride,

  Firefly, firefly, fly by her side.

  “Again, Mamma, sing it again.”

  Firefly, firefly, yellow and bright …

  “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, the only-begotten, born of the Father before all ages.”

  “Converso!”

  “Filthy Jew!”

  “Mamma!”

  “Hush, don’t make a sound. Please God, don’t let her see!”

  Terror beyond any I had ever known overwhelmed me. In my mind, I screamed and clawed, desperate to escape, but I was trapped, utterly and completely. Behind the wall. Where I would most surely go mad.

  But God is not without mercy. Even as I felt myself about to shatter into a thousand pieces, blackness swallowed me. I was pulled down into icy depths, engulfed, and held, intact and whole, in the shroud of my own being.

  So I remained for an unknown time. At intervals my mind stirred sluggishly. I knew that I remained in this world yet I was no longer a part of it, floating as I did in the netherworld between life and death.

  While I was in that state, much went on around me, but I would know nothing of what happened until later, when those who were most closely involved told me how events unfolded.

  30

  It began as we had planned, with Portia’s discovery of my body when she arrived to bring me breakfast. She entered the apartment under the eye of the guard and went directly to the pantry, where she set down the basket she had brought filled with fresh bread, eggs, and some of the good goat cheese from Veneto that she knew I liked. When she did not see me or hear me stirring, she tiptoed into the bedchamber, not wanting to wake me if I was still asleep. Of course, it was also in her mind that I might have slipped out again, in which case she did not want to do anything that might alert the guards.