Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (17 page)

The masque itself went off splendidly, everyone applauding with much appreciation for the effort. Even the servants, garbed as they were in costume, seemed to be having a good time. I confess to being a little concerned that the party would be as ribald as some the Cardinal was said to enjoy. But perhaps because of the presence of his as yet virgin daughter, there were no naked dancing girls or other entertainment of that sort.

I was actually beginning to relax and enjoy myself when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a man I had not seen before. His features were entirely hidden by a mask of hammered silver but I could see that he was tall, black-haired, and very well built, as was evident in the short toga he wore. He had a sword at his side and a shield strapped to his back, by which I guessed that he was meant to depict Mars, god of war.

We were dining in the courtyard, reclining in the old Roman style on couches. The man had emerged from the shadows cast by the torches set at intervals around us. At the same time that I saw him, the Cardinal rose, said a word to Giulia, and went into the villa. “Mars” must have done the same for when I looked, he was no longer in sight.

Some instinct brought me to my feet. I told myself that I was being foolish, the villa was under guard, no one could have entered it unseen. There was no danger. Yet I kept going, hoping to spot Vittoro’s lieutenant, who would know better than I what to do.

Unfortunately, he was nowhere in sight. Ahead of me, down the length of a paneled corridor, I saw a door close. I crept nearer, scarcely breathing, and pressed my ear to the carved wood.

Was I eavesdropping? Yes, of course, but not out of puerile
curiosity, or at least not entirely. While I did not expect Borgia to confide in me everything he did and everyone he saw, I could not hope to protect him properly if strangers could come and go in his vicinity without restriction. At the palazzo, there was an entire regiment of guards under the very able Vittoro to prevent any such thing. But here in the villa was another matter entirely.

All I needed was some indication that Borgia knew the man and that his presence was benign. Then I could take myself off with a clear conscience, leaving them to talk—more likely conspire—to their hearts’ content.

The door being very thick, the voices coming from the other side reached me only faintly. And yet I was certain at once that I was hearing an argument. Two voices, both male, both raised, both angry.

And then a crash.

I thrust the door open and stepped into the room without a second thought. Do not ask me what I intended to do, I could not tell you. I had no weapon, and even if I had, what use would it have been against the god of war? But I had taken on the task of protecting Borgia and I would not let him be harmed without making at least an effort to prevent it.

“Signore—” I began only to stop abruptly at the scene before me. The Cardinal was there in his guise as Jupiter and he was not alone. Mars was with him, or should I say Cesare?

Father and son turned from the broken vase one of them must have just knocked over to stare at me. Borgia spoke first. “What the Devil—?”

Cesare, quicker on the uptake, raked his dark eyes over me and smiled. “Signorina, how charming. By all means, come in.”

Only then did I realize that unlike the two men, I still wore my mask.

Quickly, I tried to back away.
“Scusa,”
I said, and even managed a giggle. “I am in the wrong place.
Scusa.
”

It might have worked. Borgia was distracted, surprised by the presence of his son, who was supposed to be in Pisa seeing to family interests, and Cesare was . . . Cesare. I had no reason to think he would recognize me, mask or not. Surely our encounter in the library had not made such an impression that I would linger in his thoughts all these months later?

“Francesca?”

Ay, il mio dio!
I turned cold, then hot, and felt my cheeks flame even as I fumbled for the door.

The deflowerer of my virginity was having none of it. Laughing, he came to me, took both my hands in one of his and with the other, snatched off my mask.

“Francesca!” he said triumphantly. “I knew it was you.”

“I made a mistake,” I said quickly. “I thought . . .”

“That my father was in danger,” Cesare said. “Isn’t that so?”

I only just managed to nod but it was enough for him. Still holding on to me, he turned to the Cardinal. “And to think, I had doubts about trusting her with your safety. I should have known better.”

Borgia grunted. He looked neither pleased to see me nor particularly displeased. His attention was on his son.

“You have no business being here, Cesare,” he said. “I made it very clear that we must be discreet, at least for the moment.”

“I know,
Papà,
I know,” he said without a hint of remorse. “But there are things that cannot be trusted to letters, as you well know.”

“Your complaints can wait for another time,” the Cardinal said.
He waved a hand wearily. “I cannot believe Giulia arranged this behind my back—”

“She didn’t,” Cesare said. “Lucrezia suggested it. She is a good sister.”

“She is too indulgent of you,” Borgia snapped. “As I have been. Go, Cesare, and do not let me see you again until I have sent for you.
Capisca?
”

Cesare’s fingers tightened around my wrists so painfully that I almost cried out. Heedless of what he was doing, he said, “I understand, Father. But you must understand. I will not—”

“Go!” Il Cardinale roared.

We went, me wincing and trying to pull away, Cesare dark-faced and too preoccupied to notice that I was still his captive. Until, that is, we were in the passage, the door to Borgia’s quarters closed behind us. Then he paused, looked down at his hand holding mine, and pushed me up against the wall.

“He will not listen to me! Why won’t he? I am his son! I have a right—”

He was hard against me, this boy for whom pride, ambition, jealousy, and lust were all part of the same fury that drove him, not just then but all his life. As a man, he had somewhat better control of himself but not much and not yet.

That being the case, I saw only one way the encounter would end and it was not to my liking. I, too, had pride.

I leaned forward, put my lips close to his ear, and hissed, “Let go of me.” At the same time, I brought my knee up to rest against his privates.

To this day, I cannot recall the look on his face without laughing, although at the time I felt very far from humor. He stared at me dumbfounded. I pressed harder.

“Remember who I am,” I said.

Bravo, Francesca! Bravo to the young and vulnerable me! And to think that I was only just learning my way both as a woman and professionally. Bravo!

Cesare dropped my hands. He took a quick step back and stared at me as though I was some species of being he had never seen before.

“I wasn’t going to—” he began.

I dismissed that with a flick of my hand. Having gained my ends, I had to move quickly to restore his pride.

“For heaven’s sake, Cesare, what were you thinking? Isn’t it enough that you come here without your father’s permission? You want to get caught in flagrante with his poisoner? They’ll have to declare a holiday in Rome, what with everyone too busy gossiping to work.”

He stared at me a moment longer before throwing back his handsome head and laughing. I was convinced the Cardinal would hear and tried to hush him, but he grabbed my hand again, gently this time, and together we sped down the passage. Cesare’s unbridled energy, his enthusiasm for life, and his disregard for the strictures that limit ordinary mortals never failed to bedazzle me. He swept into—and out of—my life like a great wind blowing through a house, banishing the cobwebs and rearranging the furnishings at will. Afterward, there is always much straightening to be done, but the moment itself is glorious.

I was out of breath and laughing myself by the time we stopped in a corner of the garden within sight of the party but hidden from it in shadow. A servant passing by was startled when Cesare reached out and grabbed a flagon of wine. Two goblets and a tray of meats followed.

“I’m starving,” Cesare said as he flopped down on the grass. “I’ve
ridden all day, worn this getup”—he plucked at his toga—“and for what? I tell you, my patience is wearing thin.” Yet his mood, always mercurial, seemed to be improving. He patted the ground beside him.

“You don’t have to run off right away, do you? Keep me company.”

As I have said, the notion of damnation is oddly liberating. That and the fact that I am sufficiently Roman to believe it is best to take life’s pleasures when and where one can. I sat and accepted the goblet he offered, watching him over the rim as he devoured the meats. He truly was a beautiful man.

In between bites, he said, “I really am sorry about your father. It was a shock when Lucrezia wrote to tell me. Without her, I don’t think I’d know half of what is going on.”

As ever with the Borgias, sympathy for anyone else was subsumed in their own needs. But I understood that just as I thought I understood Cesare.

“Your father only wants to protect you,” I said. “These are difficult times.”

“When have times not been difficult?” he asked, scoffing. “But this is
our
time, the time of the Borgias. My father must gain the papacy now or his chance for it will be gone.”

“Innocent—” I began but Cesare was having none of that.

“That rotting eunuch.” His lip curled with disgust. “Why can’t he have the decency to die?”

“People say he is afraid to face divine judgment.”

“As well he should be! The things he’s done . . .” He refilled both our glasses and looked at me earnestly. “He can’t really last much longer, can he?”

I hesitated, unsure how much Cesare knew or at least suspected. Preferring to err on the side of caution, I said, “It is in God’s hands.”

Cesare frowned. He leaned close enough that I could feel his breath along the curve of my cheek. “What kind of poisoner are you?” he whispered.

I pulled away a little, only to encounter his hand warm against the small of my back. I had no memory of him placing it there yet neither did I try to dissuade him. For just an instant, I saw in my mind not Cesare but Rocco, he who spun fire into crystalline light. A path flowed out before me, tempting in its sweetness yet one I felt unworthy to walk. I was who I was, what Cesare had named me: poisoner. Nor did my sins stop there. My hands had literally been drenched in blood. I woke regularly screaming from the nightmare I could neither control nor understand. I was, however much I might wish otherwise, a creature of the dark.

As was Cesare.

He embraced his nature. I could not quite manage the same for myself, but neither could I deny the only comfort I could find.

Our lips were almost touching when I said, “The most dangerous kind . . . daring, unpredictable . . .” I reached down, cupping him under the short tunic. “Imaginative . . .”

He was laughing when he laid me down on the fragrant grass. Across the garden, musicians were playing. Fireflies swirled above my head. I watched them for a little while and then I watched nothing at all.

We returned to the city the following day, all of us that is except Cesare, who was gone when I awoke in the morning. Back to Pisa, I hoped, with enough sense to stay there until his father said otherwise.

The company was more subdued than we had been the day before, but that is ever the way with a journey. Anticipation is always a headier pleasure than actual experience.

Well, perhaps not always. Sometimes experience lives up to the highest expectations.

When I came to breakfast in the courtyard, Lucrezia took one glance at me and giggled. I attempted what I hoped was a quelling look but doubt that I succeeded. At least she was kind enough to say nothing. If anyone else had noticed Cesare’s presence or with whom he spent the night, they were too preoccupied with their own intrigues to comment.

The only exception was the Cardinal himself. As we were boarding the barge to return to Rome, he turned to me and said, “See if you can’t reason with him, will you?”

I was not surprised that Borgia knew of my relationship with Cesare, much as I would have liked for it to remain private. He had eyes everywhere. But neither was I willing to take any responsibility for the wayward eldest son chomping at the bit for the power he was certain was his birthright. To get between Cesare and his father in any sense would be lunacy.

“I doubt very much that I will hear from him, signore,” I replied, quite properly I thought.

Borgia frowned but said nothing more. Shortly, I saw him sitting with La Bella under an awning near the prow. She was feeding him berries and he appeared to be in better humor.

The same could not be said for myself. I had succumbed foolishly, albeit most pleasurably. But now I had vivid memories of the unpleasant week I had endured after my earlier encounter with Cesare in the library and before discovering to my great relief that there would not be consequences from it. This time I could not decide if I should worry or not. If I succeeded in what I intended to do, there was every chance that I would not survive, thereby rendering all other concerns moot.

Nonetheless, I had taken the first possible opportunity afterward to douche with vinegar and anisette, a combination some thought effective but about which I had doubts. Certainly, there were more drastic measures available to me, but as a poisoner I knew how difficult it was to use any of them effectively without risking permanent damage to my health. I resolved that for the future, should it turn out that I had one, I would make a pessary of beeswax, the favorite resort of sensible women, and keep it close to hand.

You may conclude from all this that I arrived back in Rome torn between determination to continue on my chosen course and a natural desire to remain in this life. You would be right but know, too, that I was unshakable in my resolve not to waiver.

With Vittoro as escort, I returned to the ghetto and made my way quickly to Sofia’s shop. Although scarcely two days had passed since my last visit, it was clear that conditions had worsened even further. Not that all the refugees streaming out of Spain were coming to us. A few other cities were willing to receive them—Amsterdam, most notably—while the fortunate few made sail for Turkey and the protection of Sultan Bayezid II. However, enough were coming to make it clear that if something did not change soon, there would be a very real risk of plague, which always seems to erupt wherever the poor and desperate are packed together, although no one knows why.