The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

The door to the closet was flung open and Cesare strode in. He took one look at me sitting on the floor and slammed the door shut.

  “You are going to be the death of me,” he said.

  “No, I’m not. Your terrible security will get you killed long before I can.”

  Something unfathomable moved behind his eyes. He sighed deeply.

  “Do you ever, even once,” he asked, “consider the price of caring about you?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that I was not so foolish as to take that seriously, but no words came. For whatever reason—my wayward nature, the darkness within me, whatever—I simply could not comprehend that he might be speaking from the heart. After another long look in my direction, he threw off his cloak, leaving it where it fell, and turned toward the mirror. I scarcely had time to wonder what he intended when he pressed a concealed latch, causing the glass to swing outward.

  “Up you go,” Cesare said, and hauled me to my feet. Before I could think to protest, he thrust me through the opening behind the glass and followed swiftly.

  I found myself in a gracious salon lit by the faint gray light filtering through small windows near the ceiling that were covered with tilted wooden slats. As I looked around, trying to take in my surroundings, Cesare lit several candelabras. I realized that I was in a cleverly concealed apartment.

  “One of two in the house,” he said in response to my startled observation. He reached behind me to close the mirror, which on our side was an unremarkable door.

  “A hidden stair leads to a passageway that comes out behind a stable near the river. There are horses always on hand as well as several boats.”

  Still trying to take it all in, I said, “Your father thought of everything.”

  Or at least everything needed for a fast escape should the unhappy day come when that proved necessary.

  “Actually, I did. He had the notion to build the houses but I suggested that privacy and security both would become even greater issues when he achieved the papacy. Fortunately, he agreed.” Cesare paused. “Of course, that was in the days when he didn’t imagine me to be his enemy.”

  “He doesn’t really believe that.” Never mind that Il Papa had said as much in what surely must have been no more than a bad moment.

  “He at least entertains the notion. Turn around.”

  Already, his hands were on the laces of my doublet. I could not deny the sheer carnal pleasure that welled up in me at his touch. I lived, I breathed, I felt, and in that moment, nothing else mattered so much. That in acquiescing to his sexual demands I would also placate him did not enter my mind, or only very slightly. Even so, I did take a faint stab at reason.

  “Your father—”

  “Decamped for the castel immediately after your funeral. Vittoro has him under heavy guard there. Hold still.”

  The news that Borgia had been inspired by my “death” to take shelter in the city’s ancient fortress where I had almost perished the previous year while doing my utmost to usher Pope Innocent VIII to his eternal reward gave me pause.

  “If Morozzi realizes where he has gone—”

  The mad priest knew the castel well, having lived there for a time as part of Innocent VIII’s inner circle. If anyone other than myself could penetrate the fortress with deadly intent, Morozzi could.

  “He went by the passetto,” Cesare said, naming the passage hidden within what looks like nothing more than an old city wall between the Vatican and the castel. “Every effort is being made to make it appear that he is still within the Vatican. We have left the way open for Morozzi there, not too obviously to arouse suspicion but enough for him to be tempted by it.”

  “All well and good but Il Papa can’t remain in hiding for long. Pesaro is due in the city tomorrow.”

  With the wedding scheduled to take place two days after the Sforza bridegroom’s arrival. Borgia would have to be present for the welcoming ceremonies as well as all the other events leading up to and including the actual marriage.

  My breeches fell to the floor, the laces having been undone by his too-clever hands while I scarcely noticed. His shirt followed swiftly, as did the remainder of our clothes. Finding the knife in its leather sheath across my breasts, Cesare removed it with great care, tantalizing me as he brushed his thumbs across my nipples.

  “Are you never without this?” he asked as he dropped the blade onto the pile of clothes.

  “I keep it as a remembrance of you.”

  He laughed, far too wise to take me seriously, and yet there was something fleeting in his eyes that made me think he wished that my sally was true.

  As I watched, he hopped on one foot, then on the other, to remove his boots; he considered it the mark of a gentleman to do so before coupling, although by his own admission—and my experience—that level of civility sometimes escaped him. We did not make it so far as the bedchamber but fell together onto the floor of the salon. I had a moment’s appreciation for the thick, soft carpet covering it before passion blotted out all else.

  After my sojourn in the dark pool, my senses were acutely heightened. I was vividly aware of the salty tang of Cesare’s skin on my tongue, of the weight of his thigh pressing between mine, of the hard length of him driving into me in response to my heated urging. The muscles of his buttocks tensed under my hands, his heart beat powerfully against mine, and I caught, like a fluttering echo, the deep current of that oneness in which I had drifted free and at peace for too little time.

  Cesare rose above me, holding my hips, and drove harder, deeper, faster. The fury of the day with its pain and fear, its tumult and risk fell away and I soared on a current of near-unbearable bliss into the heart of a burning sun.

  And then it was over; I mean no criticism of Cesare, he never lacked for stamina. It was my own impatience that drove us to a hasty completion. In the aftermath we lay side by side, struggling for breath. I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly down his arm. He seized my hand and pressed it to his lips. We remained like that as slowly the world righted itself.

  I became aware that naked cherubs were grinning down at us as they cavorted across billowing white clouds on the ceiling.

  “Pinturicchio?” I asked.

  Cesare propped himself up on his elbows and nodded. “Do you like it?”

  I squinted, considering. “Honestly, it’s a little romantic for my taste. The frescoes he’s painting in your father’s new apartment are better.”

  With a laugh, he bounded up and held out a hand to help me rise. “Truly, Francesca, if all women were like you, I would become a Turk for the sole purpose of assembling a harem.”

  “A harem of poisoners? You do like to live dangerously.”

  Looking around for our clothes, Cesare said, “No more so than you. Have you considered how my father will react when he discovers that you deceived him?”

  “Perhaps he will have greater concerns.”

  I do not pretend to understand the workings of my mind, roiled as it was by the darkness that was never still for very long. Why I should ricochet from the heights of passion into the depths of suspicion escapes me. I could only conclude that even as I took Cesare into my body and drained him of the pleasure he offered so unstintingly, some part of me remained aloof and calculating, weighing what he had let slip.

  He dropped his shirt over his head and began lacing it. “What does that mean?”

  I finished dressing swiftly and eased the knife from its sheath, holding it behind my back. As I did so, the darkness stirred within me, a reminder of what could happen if I was not very careful to keep myself in check.

  With my fingers closed around the hilt, I asked, “Who is in the other apartment?”

  My timing was poor, to say the least. I would have done better to put the knife to his throat while yet we lay in postcoital bliss, for that is the best time above all to take a man by surprise. A woman less susceptible to passion might have managed that. As for myself, I had to do the best I could.

  He peered at me in
what gave every appearance of honest bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

  “You said there were two apartments hidden here. Who is in the other?”

  “No one. Why would you think—?”

  Given a choice, an intelligent man usually is preferable to a stupid one, but on that particular occasion, I wished that Cesare wasn’t quite so swift of mind.

  Not taking his eyes from me, he reached for his breeches and pulled them on, then stood, his arms loose at his sides, ready to move with lightning speed if he thought it necessary.

  “What are you suggesting, Francesca?”

  “You seem unconcerned that very shortly Il Papa must leave the safety of the castel to officiate at the wedding celebrations. Since that doesn’t worry you, you must think that this will be over before then. The only way you could believe that is if you already know Morozzi’s whereabouts.”

  Did I truly believe that my dark lover had been sheltering Morozzi all this time, providing succor to the man who had caused me such unbearable anguish? Recall, I had not yet had any opportunity to learn of Cesare’s reaction to my death, apart from what had transpired since my return to the world. I knew nothing of his frenzied vow to kill the mad priest, but even if I had, I would not necessarily have been swayed by it.

  Cesare was a true Borgia, capable of spinning plots within plots to dizzying effect. Moreover, he could tell himself that so long as Morozzi died in the end, using the priest to win favor with Il Papa was no sin.

  Of course, I saw the matter differently.

  “For God’s sake,” Cesare said. He thrust a hand through his hair in the manner of a man pressed to exasperation and beyond. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? Not a single soul.”

  What could I say? He had me to rights. “No.”

  “Not even that glassmaker, Pocco—”

  “Rocco.”

  “You didn’t tell him what you were planning, did you, when you plotted your death?”

  How exactly had we gotten on the subject of Rocco when all I wanted to talk about was Morozzi? Did Cesare truly care so much about my relationship with another man, or was he merely seeking to distract me?

  “I did not want him involved. He’s getting married.”

  Cesare raised a brow. He stood only a few feet from me. I could see the shadow roughening his jaw, the thick lashes shielding his eyes, the soft pulsing of the vein in his neck along which I had pressed my lips. I kept my gaze on the beat of his life’s blood as the darkness stirred again inside me.

  “Is he? Who to?”

  “Carlotta d’Agnelli. It is a good match for him. He will have a chance to be happy.”

  Cesare heaved a sigh and came a step closer.

  I took a step back, uncertain which I dreaded more, that he would try to disarm me or that I would lose control and attack him.

  “Tell me what you are concealing,” I said.

  He pretended not to have heard me, absurd given how close we stood to each other, so close that I could watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and imagine how easy it would be to put a stop to it. There would be blood, of course, the same blood I hated and feared, and desperately needed. The darkness was growing stronger. I had to end this quickly but Cesare seemed disinclined to do so.

  “What is happiness?” he asked. “You win or you lose, in between you struggle. That is the essence of life. Anything else is a tale told for children.”

  “And I am supposed to be the cynic?”

  In truth, the teachings of the ancient Cynics elude me. The notion that life should be lived free of all desires and possessions because none have any true value seems absurd. We are in this world; therefore we must accept our hungry, striving selves as best we can. Claiming that we can be other than what we are is self-deception at its worst.

  “Tell me, Cesare! What are you hiding? Or is it who?”

  “You think too much of my abilities. I am the son my father means to make into a puppet following slavishly in his steps. Such a creature counts for nothing.”

  “When you are pope, you will think differently.”

  “When I am pope, the world will be in ruins for there will never have been so vast a violation of nature. Or do you really believe that Juan has it in him to be a true duke, a leader in battle and in a peace of his own shaping?”

  “I scarcely know Juan.” What I had seen of him was not impressive, but to be fair, his belief that I was a witch in need of burning tainted my opinion.

  “I know him all too well,” Cesare said. “He is a fool, plain and simple. But our father loves him and will believe no ill of him unless I can present him with irrefutable proof of what he has done.”

  I heard what he said clearly enough but my mind reeled from the implications. I needed a breath and then another before I could begin to come to terms with what he seemed to be telling me.

  “Juan? Your brother, Juan, is sheltering Morozzi?”

  That hot-tempered dullard of a second son who still managed to be Borgia’s favorite by virtue of his willingness to do anything Il Papa wanted of him? He was conspiring with his father’s would-be murderer?

  “What possible reason would Juan have for doing such a thing?”

  “I have no idea,” Cesare admitted. “But I don’t pretend to understand the workings of what passes for my brother’s mind. Morozzi is sheltered within Juan’s own residence, in one of the hidden apartments much like this. He has access to a tunnel, again like the one here, which means that he can come and go by the river or through the streets, including the underground passages he knows so well. That’s how he’s been able to move around the city at will while remaining virtually invisible.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have a man in Juan’s household. A few days ago, he reported that someone might be hidden in one of the apartments there but he couldn’t be sure. Early today, he finally got a glimpse of him. The moment I heard the description, I knew that it was Morozzi.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Really, what else could I say? I was sorry to have come close to drawing a knife on him, true enough, but that was as nothing compared to the sympathy I felt for his being saddled with such a brother and a father unable to see his sons in their true light. While he lived, my father knew me as I truly was and, incredibly, loved me all the same. Borgia could not see past his own interest to perceive his sons for the men they were.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Every means of egress from Juan’s house is under watch. As soon as Morozzi is on the move, I will know. We will close in, take him—alive if possible, dead if we must—and Juan will be made to account for what he has done.”

  And then what? Borgia would awaken to the true nature of his sons, perceive Cesare as he really was, and allow him to live a life of his own choosing? As much as I wanted to believe that, I had my doubts.

  But I said nothing of that as I slipped my knife fully back into its sheath and tucked both into a pocket of my breeches. As I did so, the darkness subsided, if only sullenly.

  Cesare didn’t even pretend not to notice what I did. He watched my every move and shook his head when I was done.

  “Pocco could never have managed you, surely you know that?”

  “I don’t want to discuss him.”

  “Fair enough, but if you ever think to pull a knife on me again, you had better be prepared to use it.”

  “I’ll just slip something into your wine.”

  He didn’t take me seriously, of course, which was as I intended. I had to hope that he would never again come so close to discovering what I was truly capable of doing.

  “Speaking of,” he said, “I’m hungry.”

  We dined on roasted quail accompanied by crusty bread; carrots drizzled with honey; fresh greens topped with oil, a dash of vinegar, and a sprinkling of chopped herbs; and what may have been the best duck paté I had ever tasted. Cesare poured a fruity Tuscan red that carried a hint of plum.

 
“How long have you suspected Juan?” I asked as I dipped a morsel of the bread in the quail sauce, then spread a little of the paté on it. Any concern that my stomach might not be up to such rich food had dissolved with the first bite.

  “All my life, I think, although that may not have been true when we were very young. It’s hard to remember exactly when I realized that he was doing his damndest to turn our father against me.”

  “Yet Il Papa has given you great responsibilities.”

  Juan might be the recipient of noble titles and the lands that went with them, as well as having a grand marriage planned for him, but it was to Cesare that Borgia turned on matters as sensitive as the dispersal of family funds or the gathering of intelligence. Surely, that could be seen as a sign of paternal favor?

  Cesare twirled the stem of his goblet between his fingers and looked at me over the rim. “He regards experience in finance and diplomacy as essential for a future pope. But it is Juan who will be given armies to lead, if in name only. My brother will win glory he does not deserve.”

  “And is that what you want, glory?”

  “What else is there in this world? It is through glory that our names ring down through the ages. It is our immortality.”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve spent too much time reading Homer. Glory didn’t do the Greeks much good in front of Troy, or afterward, for that matter. Their temples are cast down, their alabaster cities buried, what are they but memory?”

  “What is there but memory?” Cesare countered. “Achilles, Odysseus, Ajax, Patroclus … we know their names and their deeds. When we speak of them, they live again.”

  I did not see it but neither did I expect to dissuade him. He had a vision of the heroic life that overrode anything Il Papa could intend. The only question was how far he would go to achieve it.

  “What do you think should happen to Juan?”

  Cesare hesitated. I could see that the subject was a sore one, for all that he must have contemplated it at length.

  “For the sake of the family, nothing public can be said, of course. He would have to retain his honors, even proceed with the Spanish marriage. But apart from that, he cannot be allowed to do any more harm.”