The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (10 page)

“Best not,” Vittoro said quickly. “I’ve a good memory for faces and he was unknown to me. We’ll hold off putting him in the ground if you insist, but I really don’t see the point.”

To my horror, a tear slipped down my cheek. Seeing it, Vittoro clucked his tongue. That good man—husband, father, grandfather, never mind that he could not count the number of men he had killed—said softly, “Francesca, you protected yourself and the
portatore
. There can be no sin in that.”

I clenched my hands so that the nails dug into my palms but could not prevent the tears that fell, hot and stinging, offering no balm. I did not look at Vittoro, afraid as I was of what I would see in his eyes. Fear? Disgust? Or worst of all, pity? I could bear none of those. Indeed, just then I thought I could endure nothing more.

My eyelids were almost unbearably heavy but I snapped them open. If I slept, the nightmare would come in all its fury. I feared that I would drown in blood before I could awake. But if I did not sleep, I would be unable to function and with danger so evidently at hand, it was vital that I retain my faculties.

“There is a small packet in a drawer in the table beside my bed,” I said. “Would you bring it to me, please?”

When I had told Borgia that there was a sleeping remedy more potent than wine, I spoke from personal experience. Although I tried to use it sparingly, the powder Sofia provided gave me surcease from dreams of every sort. For that, I both treasured and feared it.

At my direction, Vittoro mixed the powder with warm water. I drank it down in a single gulp. When it was gone, I rose, leaning on his strong arm. “Unless you mean to carry me, I should get to bed now.”

I last remember Vittoro spreading a light cover over me. As though from a great distance, I heard him say, “Don’t worry about Borgia. I’ll keep him at bay.”

And perhaps he could, but not entirely and not for long. I slept, thanks be to Sofia, but with the certain knowledge that time was flowing like the implacable drips through a water clock, their measured fall ever a reminder that chance favors the ready hand, outstretched to catch the moment.

The next morning, I woke feeling considerably better than I had any right to do. Minerva had clawed her way up onto the bed sometime during the night and was curled beside me. The deep rumble of her purr as she washed herself woke me. Having seen to my own toilette, I gathered her up for a visit to the garden, where she seemed to understand what was expected of her. When we returned, the day’s milk had been delivered. I gave her some along with a portion of dried cod that I soaked in it. By the time I was ready to leave, she had perched herself on a windowsill from which she could survey her new domain.

I paused on the way out to check on Portia, steeling myself for what I was certain would be her reaction to the monster she had seen emerge from within me. Yet she sounded perfectly cheerful when I called to her and she replied.

“Entrato!”

I entered as she bid, finding her stretched out on a padded bench beneath a window opened to receive the soft breeze. Her small apartment was as tidy as ever; there was no trace of the deadly struggle played out within it scant hours before.

Seeing the direction of my gaze, she said, “Captain Romano sent some people over. They took care of everything.”

I nodded and turned my attention to her, relieved to see that despite the bruises darkening on her face and the sling in which her left arm rested, she looked surprisingly well. The cherries I had brought were in a bowl on the small table beside her. She gestured to them.

“Would you like some?”

The thought of eating made my stomach roil but I took one for courtesy’s sake. “How are you feeling?”

Her broad face crinkled in a smile. “Surprised to be alive, if you want the truth, Donna. I owe you that.”

A solid, practical woman, she appeared undismayed by what I had done, and for that I all but sagged with gratitude. Even so, I felt compelled to point out what surely must have been obvious. “You would not have been in danger but for me.”

She did not deny it but said only, “You’ve an enemy, all right, but I suppose you already know that.”

“I would like to know more. Captain Romano didn’t recognize the man and he didn’t think I would, either.”

“He looked like a hundred men you pass in the street every day. Not exceptionally young or old, tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or ugly, just ordinary. Nothing to distinguish him at all except…” She broke off, hesitating.

Her description ruled out Morozzi, who had the face of an angel to conceal his demonic nature, but left the possibility that he had sent someone in his stead.

“Except what?” I urged. “Anything you can remember could prove helpful.”

“You understand that I was in a rare state? I can’t really vouch for anything I think I saw.”

By which I hoped she meant what she had seen of me as well.

“Even so…,” I prompted.

“He was wearing a drab sort of doublet—brown, I think—and there was nothing to notice about his hose or shoes. But under the doublet, his shirt … I only got a glimpse of it but even so—”

“What did it look like?”

“It was blue, a very bright blue and gold. There was a design on it, I couldn’t quite make it out but it might have been a tree.”

Not for a moment did I doubt that Portia understood exactly what she was telling me. The most ordinary Roman can recognize the coats of arms emblazoned with the crests of our noble families. Being able to do so is useful when dealing with men-at-arms who may or may not be bent on mayhem depending on their master’s current state of mind. Borgia’s crest, for example, was mulberry and gold, emblazoned with a bull, until he became pope and incorporated the original design within the crossed keys and crown of his new authority. Cardinal della Rovere’s, on the other hand, remained a blue field surmounted by a golden oak.

“You won’t speak of this to anyone else, will you?” I asked.

For the first time since I had entered her rooms, Portia frowned. “I’m not a fool, Donna. With all respect, I hope you won’t be, either. This is serious business.”

On that we were in full agreement. I stayed a little while longer to make sure she was comfortable and had everything she wanted, then took my leave. The day was fair but promised to be hot. The sweepers were out scrubbing the streets and also scrubbing away at graffiti that had appeared overnight. Rome is a great place for graffiti, the more graphic and ribald the better. I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the naked rump of a woman being penetrated by a male organ that could only be described as improbable in size before both disappeared under lather and bristle brush.

To settle my stomach, I stopped long enough to buy a honeyed
cornetto
from the tray of the boy peddling them and ate it as I made my way toward the Vatican. The walk, short though it was, gave me time to absorb what I had learned and decide how best to proceed.

I had finished my breakfast and brushed the crumbs from my bodice by the time I spied Vittoro just leaving the apartment he shared with his wife adjacent to the Vatican Palace. Donna Felicia waved to me from the open ground-floor door and gave me a warm smile, by which I concluded that the captain had said nothing to his spouse of what had required his attention the previous evening.

“When were you planning to tell me?” I asked as we walked together across the piazza.

Vittoro made no pretense of not understanding. “I thought to wait until you were more yourself, as I am glad to see you are.”

I accepted his explanation and went on. “What do you make of it?”

“To be frank, I have a hard time believing that della Rovere was behind the attack on you. He has motive, of course, especially if he is responsible for the attempts on our master’s life or he suspects that you may be sent to kill him. But surely he would have gone about disposing of you more subtlely.”

I agreed. “He’s made mistakes in the past, to be sure, but he’s far from a fool. Really, what assassin wears his master’s colors to do the deed?”

“My thoughts exactly, but before you jump to the conclusion that—”

“It was Borgia?” A conclusion that Vittoro surely must have dreaded, as it would have transformed me at once into His Holiness’s most dangerous enemy.

“I’ve already considered that,” I said. “If he did send the assassin to inspire me to want to kill della Rovere, he would have had to be certain that I would survive the attack.”

In which case, His Holiness knew even my darkest secret, a possibility I could not bear to contemplate.

“Our master values your services far too much to put you at such risk,” Vittoro countered.

“He is at least toying with the idea of sending me to Savona, where I surely will die nastily.”

“He can’t be serious about that. You realize,” he added quietly, “that leaves only one other possibility.”

Thus for the second time in as many days I heard the name of my father’s killer on the lips of a friend.

“Morozzi.”

9

I knew of only one person who could tell me for certain if the mad priest was back in Rome. The distance from the Vatican to the Jewish Quarter was not far, being less than a mile. I walked swiftly, stepping around the piles of waste, animal and otherwise, that cluttered the streets. Despite the looming threat of upheaval, war, and even schism, Rome was a thriving city. Her hearty citizens appeared ever ready to follow the old adage of
carpe diem
and seize the day. However, I would have been very much surprised if a goodly portion of those I passed did not already have a bolt-hole in the countryside in the form of a bumpkin relative who could be cajoled or forced to take them in. At the first sign of serious trouble, the roads would clog with wagons and the river with barques as everyone who could flee did so. Only the old, the very poor, and the despised would be left. I was on my way to visit the last of those.

Sofia Montefiore’s apothecary shop was on a narrow lane not far from the Via Portico d’Ottavia, the piazza at the heart of the ghetto that still contains the remnants of an ancient forum named in honor of the sister of the great Augustus. Although no wall surrounds the ghetto—one is always being proposed by someone or other—many of the streets leading out were blocked by the piles of stone and rubble designed to limit access for any seeking to enter or leave the area. Borgia had promised to have the streets cleared but nothing had been done about that so far.

Situated so close to the river, the streets of the ghetto were swept regularly by tidal floods, invading many of the shops and tenements, and bringing with them swarms of mosquitoes that made life a misery. Only the wealthy—and they did exist—fared any better, residing as they did on slightly higher ground in what amounted to fortified
palazzetti.
Whether to protect their wealth or simply because they saw no alternative, the merchants had long since joined forces with the senior rabbis to enforce a policy of cooperation with the authorities. Not everyone agreed with them.

Sofia was bandaging the arm of a young boy when I arrived. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

I smiled at the boy and did as she bade. The front of the shop was sparsely furnished with a few stools and a simple wooden counter behind which Sofia dispensed the powders, tinctures, lotions, and poultices that offered some relief for the conditions that plagued so many. Unlike others of her calling, she prescribed only those remedies that she knew to be effective. Many of these were not even in evidence, being confined to cabinets in the back room for discretion’s sake.

The air smelled pleasantly of the mingled scent of thyme, rosemary, lavender, and the like drying in the rafters above. Several large barrels of vinegar stood along one wall. Sofia believed vinegar to be most helpful in preventing infection in wounds and in maintaining cleanliness in general. She used great quantities of it but at the cost of her skin, her hands being always red and hardened.

Yet her touch was unfailingly gentle, as I could see with the boy who, though pale, remained calm under her ministrations. As she finished, she bent close to him and whispered a few words in his ear. He nodded and sprang up, pausing only to thank her before running off.

When we were alone, she washed her hands in the basin and dried them before she looked at me. Her dark eyes were unfathomable. I resisted the impulse to squirm under her scrutiny.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Fine. I saw Rocco yesterday. He is concerned about what happened at the villa but there is no indication that anyone was caught—”

I would have preferred that no one else know of the events in Portia’s apartment but that was not realistic. The hard truth was that the danger to Lux might begin and end with me. I, not anyone else, might have been the target of both attacks. If that were the case, the other members had the right to know, if only the better to protect themselves.

Sofia heard me out in silence. A look of dismay crossed her face when I spoke of killing the assailant but she waited until I was finished before she said, “Are you certain that you are unharmed?”

“Completely. I even slept last night, thanks to your powders.” Not for the world would I speak of the creature I became
in extremis,
when the darkness within me howled for blood and could scarcely be sated.

“Look at me,” I said and, having stood, I threw out my arms and twirled around like a heady girl showing off a new gown. “Do I not look perfectly fine?”

It was an absurd thing to do, as I think I realized even in the midst of doing it. Yet I could not seem to stop myself. I was that set on acting as though the events of the previous night had left me unscathed or, better yet, had happened to an entirely different person.

“I am sorry to say that you do.”

I stopped in mid-step, my arms falling to my sides, and stared at her. Why would she, above all, wish ill for me?

Seeing my expression, she seized my hands in hers and spoke most earnestly. “I have seen others do what you are doing, try to cope with a terrible experience by denying that it has any power to affect you. But what we think buried and forgotten can return ten-fold to harm us.”