The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  … sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo … to the holy apostles Peter and Paul …

  A man stepped out suddenly to intercept me, his face first stern, then abruptly wreathed in confusion.

  Vittoro!

  … ómnibus Sanctis, et vobis, fratres (tibi, Pater) … to all the saints, and to you, brethren …

  “Francesca?”

  … quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et ópere … that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed …

  He looked torn between shock and sudden joy at the discovery that I was not, after all, dead. That he could be glad for my continued existence given how I had deceived him struck me to the core. Surely, I did not deserve such good and true friends.

  … mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

  “Help me,” I pleaded, reaching out to him. “Something terrible is about to happen!”

  To this day, I do not know how Vittoro managed to react as quickly as he did. In a heartbeat, he assessed the situation, accepted it for what it was, no matter how bizarre, and made his decision. Explanations could wait for later. Action was called for now.

  “What do you need?” As he spoke, he took me by the arm and drew me quickly into the shadows beyond the pillars where we would not be seen.

  Gasping, almost bent double from the effort to breathe, I said, “I think Morozzi has placed gunpowder here in the basilica.”

  You will wonder how I had come to such a conclusion unless, of course, you already know that sulfur is one of the key components of gunpowder along with charcoal and potassium nitrate. I had used all three together on a very small and limited basis in my own experiments. More important, I was well aware of the effect of gunpowder in any real quantity. It had been responsible for bringing down the walls of Constantinople only a few decades ago, the same walls that had made that city invulnerable for centuries. Its presence in the guesthouse would explain the devastation I had seen there.

  Its presence in the basilica, if I was right about that, raised visions of an apocalyptic nightmare at the very heart of Christianity.

  Not to mention the destruction of la famiglia.

  Savonarola would ride to the papacy on a wave of conviction that God Himself had struck down his princes in their corrupt palace to prepare the way for the purifier of Holy Mother Church. Heaven and all the saints help us.

  “Where could it be?” Vittoro asked.

  I shook my head in near despair for truly I did not know. The basilica was immense and filled with a warren of crypts, not to mention the vast derelict garret above. The gunpowder could have been hidden anywhere.

  “I’m going up. Send men into the crypts, but for God’s sake, hurry!”

  At once, I mounted the stairs to the garret, taking them two at a time. It was not, unfortunately, a single open space in which I might have had a chance of swiftly spotting what I sought. Instead, the immense space above the ceiling was a maze of cubbyholes and cubicles alternating with long aisles.

  Seeing them, I was swept by remembered terrors that threatened to overwhelm me—images of a madman bent on ritual killing, a child about to suffer a hideous fate, and my own self, plunging to my death only to be saved at the last possible moment by a quirk of fate. With the greatest difficulty, I managed to retain control of myself.

  At some time in the distant past, the garret had been used for storage. But time and neglect spawned by the chaos that had afflicted Holy Mother Church and the world in general had taken their toll. The building erected a thousand years before by the great Justinian had deteriorated to the point where most of the floor of the garret was too weak and unstable to hold anything heavy.

  Which raised the question of where Morozzi could have placed barrels of gunpowder in a building notorious for its soft floor and leaky roof.

  That last thought, so mundane, came as purest inspiration. If I was right, the gunpowder could have been put in place weeks ago, even before Morozzi’s arrival in Rome, by confederates acting on his behalf, and certainly before the increase in security around Saint Peter’s after the mad monk’s presence in the city was detected. In that time, it had rained on several occasions, enough to create the possibility that the gunpowder might have become too wet to fire.

  Unless it was properly protected. At once, I stopped looking for the telltale rounded shapes of barrels and instead began probing through the dim light for some sign of a canvas-covered heap.

  I was moving toward the farthest end of the garret, almost directly above the main altar, when I put a foot down too hard and almost went through a soft spot in the floor. Stumbling, I only just managed to right myself without falling. As I did so, I thought I heard a faint but insistent hiss.

  Like most people, I associate that particular sound with snakes, but if any such lived within the confines of Saint Peter’s, I did not know it. Rats there were in plenty, enough to keep a bevy of rat catchers constantly employed, but I had never heard of a single serpent daring to enter the holy precincts. Except, you may argue, the human variety, and I will give you that for they came in droves.

  What else hissed? Vapor of any origin escaping through a narrow pipe can make that sound. I had heard it or very similar during certain of my alchemical investigations. But this was different. Under the hiss, something crackled softly.

  Cesare would have recognized it immediately; I realized that later. But he was a warrior, trained in battle, the man who stole time to be with the army his father was determined not to let him lead, to share their hardships and to learn from them.

  Oh, yes, Cesare would have known what it took me a heartbeat or two to recognize.

  I had never had reason to use a fuse but I knew of their existence and how they worked. A length of hemp cord treated with potassium nitrate in such quantity as to control the rate of burn is used to fire the matchlock guns some say will revolutionize warfare. The same arrangement is used for controlled explosions in the construction of buildings, dams, and the like. Some even rely on the technique for help in mining, although that is considered extremely dangerous.

  It was also, of course, the perfect means for igniting barrels of gunpowder.

  I stopped breathing. If I had been able to cease the beat of my heart as well, I would have done so. With all my strength, I strained to hear the sound and identify where it was coming from. Slowly, praying that I was correct, I followed it.

  The sound grew louder. I saw up ahead of me a faint spark moving away at a rapid rate. Quickly, heedless of the danger from the soft floor, I hurried toward it. In the faint light filtering through the holes in the ceiling, I saw a red unblinking eye.

  And beyond it, under canvas, what I could only assume was an enormous quantity of gunpowder. Enough to bring down the crumbling roof of the basilica and several of the pillars that supported it onto the unsuspecting heads of the crowd gathered below. Pope, cardinals, princes, ambassadors, Borgias … all dead and with them all hope that Savonarola and what he represented could be defeated.

  I leaped, my arms outstretched, on the wings of a prayer I did not even know I uttered, I who cannot pray. Flying through the dim, dust-moted light, my fingertips straining until, just as the red serpent’s eye was about to vanish beneath the canvas, I seized the slender length of hemp and pulled with all my might.

  It came loose so suddenly that I fell backward, landing hard enough for the wind to be knocked from me. Still the fuse continued to burn, singeing my hand. I gasped, jumped up, and threw it onto the floor, where I stomped on it with both feet until at last the red eye winked out and there was only the rasping of my breath and the pounding of my heart in the vast, crumbling heights of Holy Mother Church.

  Gloria in excelsis deo. Glory to God in the Highest.

  I must have slumped onto the floor, for some moments later, I was aware of Cesare lifting me. His embrace was fierce, his grip hard. I savored both. Absurdly and improbably, I was alive. We were alive.
r />   “What in the name of God is happening here?” he asked. “Vittoro said something about—”

  “Lift the canvas,” I urged.

  Still holding me, he bent down and eased the covering away. At once, we both gasped. A dozen or more barrels of gunpowder, each small enough to be carried by a single man concealed beneath a cloak but large enough to contain a lethal quality of explosive, were piled against one of the main supporting piers holding up the roof and by extension, the entire eastern side of the basilica. Had they gone off, at the very least that side of the building would have collapsed and likely its sheer weight would have brought the rest of the dilapidated structure down. The death toll would have been in the hundreds, as virtually no one in the basilica would have had a chance to escape. The toll on Christendom itself was unimaginable.

  “How did you—?” Cesare asked.

  “The smell in the guesthouse. I had trouble placing it but finally I realized that it was sulfur. I think there must still have been a quantity of gunpowder stored there that went off when the fire was set. Il Frateschi may have planned to stage other attacks around the city in the aftermath of the destruction here. That would have ensured complete chaos and the likelihood that the College of Cardinals would have accepted anyone as pope who could put an end to it.”

  Cesare nodded slowly. He set me on my feet but continued to stare at the barrels. “Did you see who lit the fuse?”

  I shook my head. That part still puzzled me. “There was no one in the garret when I got here, at least so far as I could see.”

  It was possible that someone could have escaped by a staircase other than the one I had used, but to do that, he would have had to run the length of the garret. That was well over three hundred feet, a distance I did not think anyone would try to cover while a burning fuse raced toward enough gunpowder to bring down the basilica.

  “Vittoro is about to interrupt the Mass and order an immediate evacuation,” Cesare said. “We will have to stop him.”

  We went then, quickly down the curving stone steps. I remained at their foot while Cesare went to tell Vittoro that the danger had been averted. They returned together. My old friend looked at me narrowly.

  “You appear no worse for your sojourn in the afterworld,” he said.

  “I am sorry—,” I began, but he dismissed my effort at apology with a wave.

  “Later, Donna. If what Signore Cesare has just told me is true, you have earned yourself a large measure of forgiveness.”

  I was humbly grateful for his understanding even as I remained uncertain that I truly deserved it. Once again, I had embroiled my friends in my own search for vengeance, and although this time I had not outrightly put any in harm’s way, that was only because the need to do so had not arisen. Next time, who knew what I might do?

  Unless I could put a stop to it all right then.

  “Morozzi,” I said, and Cesare nodded. We left Vittoro to handle the inevitable questions from Il Papa and any of the other notables who might have perceived something amiss, and hurried down the aisle. Before we had gone very far, I stopped abruptly.

  We were passing the great water clock that has stood in that aisle off the nave of Saint Peter’s since shortly after the basilica was built, all that time measuring the passing of the hours that control the great canonical wheel of prayer from lauds to vespers and at every point throughout the day. The water clock is a marvel of engineering, being half again the height of a tall man and consisting of two reservoirs of carved stone, one raised above the other. A small opening in the higher reservoir allows for the measured drip of water into the lower. As the water level shifts in each vessel, rising in the one as it falls in the other, cylinders rotate to display the day, month, phase of the moon, and the astrological sign. The water clock is considered by some to be a vestige of paganism, as it is well known that the ancients used such devices for their own worship, therefore little is made of it. I had walked past it more times than I could count, and had found it fascinating enough to ask my father to explain its workings. Once he had done so, my curiosity was satisfied and I took little further note of it other than to wonder occasionally what other marvels had come down to us on the river of time, if only we had the wit to see them.

  It had been in my mind to wonder why I had not encountered either Morrozi or one of his allies in the garret. Surely, someone must have lit the fuse? Now I was struck by a sudden, seemingly absurd possibility. Staring up into the shadows directly above the lower vessel, I thought I saw something that did not belong. A small but unmistakable hole drilled into the wall.

  “Boost me up,” I said to Cesare.

  He frowned but did as I bid. In an instant, I confirmed that a hole had been drilled a few inches above the top of the lower water reservoir. Moreover, the size of the opening was familiar, being slightly larger than the diameter of the fuse I had stamped out. With proper preparation and given the decrepitude of the basilica, it could well have been possible to extend a fuse up through that hole, along one of the many interior pillars, and through the crumbling floor into the garret. But to what purpose?

  Grasping hold of the top of the vessel, I peered inside. What I saw sent a jolt of shock through me. Leaning against the stone to balance myself, I reached in with both hands. As Cesare watched, I removed a long, shallow pan still holding a quantity of oil at the center of which floated a coil of slow-burning wick.

  “What the hell is that?” Cesare asked when he had lowered me again to the ground. Together we stared at what I had found.

  “The explanation for how Morozzi lit the fuse,” I said. “The clock runs on a seven-day cycle with water flowing out of one vessel into the other. We are at the point now when the lower vessel is near its fullest. At some point in the past few days, he or one of his confederates set this pan to float on the water with enough oil in it and a long enough wick to remain burning as the vessel filled. The water level rose, lifting the pan and bringing the flame finally into contact with the fuse that must have extended out from there—” I pointed to the hole in the stone. “With sufficient planning, it would be possible to know exactly how fast the vessel would fill. Then the moment when the fuse would ignite could be timed precisely.”

  “To occur during the Mass.” Cesare looked grim, but at the same time, I could see that he was as fascinated and unwillingly impressed as I was myself. “It is ingenious,” he said.

  We do not like to believe that brilliance can march hand-in-hand with evil yet I suspect that happens more times than we know.

  “It is,” I said, and felt the first stirrings of despair as I realized what my discovery meant.

  35

  Morozzi was gone, vanished from Rome as though he had never been. Later, we were able to confirm that the mad priest had been seen departing through the Septimian Gate leading northward out of the city along the Via Cassia, from which he could reach Florence or, for that matter, any number of other towns and ports. That knowledge came too late to matter.

  Whether he had been responsible for the other attacks against Borgia remained to be determined. Certainly, he could have used Il Frateschi to that end but, loath though I was to admit it, other parties might have played their part. The Spanish, the Sforzas, the French, della Rovere—truly my master possessed an embarrassment of enemies. How fortunate that he had his family to count on—or not, as the case may be.

  Juan was defiant at first when Cesare confronted him, then denied everything and finally sought refuge in outrage.

  “How dare you question me?” he demanded. “I serve our father far more loyally than you have ever done! You would see him at war while all I want is peace.”

  “What kind of peace?” Cesare demanded. We were in one of the many antechambers scattered through the Vatican Palace, where Cesare had cornered his brother in between the conclusion of the Mass and the beginning of the other welcome ceremonies for Pesaro. I was doing my best to fade into the background as any good servant should. That may have been unnece
ssary, as I doubted Juan would have recognized me under any circumstances. The notion of a woman daring to dress as a man was simply beyond him.

  Besides, everyone knew the strega was dead.

  “The peace of Saint Peter’s in ruins and all of us buried under it?” Cesare went on. “Is that what you’re talking about? It’s what the man you protected and helped was intent on doing. How could you possibly have allied with him? How?”

  “You are lying! He never meant any such thing. Father Morozzi is an emissary from Cardinal della Rovere bearing messages of friendship and peace. All he wanted was to convince our father that there need be no enmity between them, no war! But you have destroyed the hope of that. He warned me that you might have a spy in my household but I didn’t believe him. The moment he realized he’d been seen, he knew that he had to leave or risk being killed by you.”

  “You are an idiot!” Cesare roared. “Christ’s breath, how do you even have the wit to live? He left because he had accomplished what he came to do, or at least he believed that he had. What do you think, that angels put the barrels of gunpowder in Saint Peter’s and rigged a fuse to set them off while we were all at Mass?”

  “No,” Juan said. His glared at his brother sullenly. “If any such thing happened, the witch did it, perhaps with your help. Thank God and all the Saints that she has perished.”

  “It’s going to be an awful shock to him when he discovers that I’m still alive,” I said after Cesare had stormed out of the room with me on his heels. Later, I would have to come to terms with my own feelings about Morozzi escaping—again. But just then I was intent on calming Cesare. After all, I needed his help in dealing with his father.

  Borgia had been informed of my deception. Vittoro had no choice but to tell him and I think it was better that he heard it from him, as that gave him an opportunity to work through the worst of his rage without my being present. Or at least I hoped that he had done so. I was not looking forward to speaking with him.