Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (2 page)

Only I remained.

“Giordano’s daughter?” Borgia stared at me across the width of the reception room. It was a vast space carpeted in the Moorish fashion as so few can afford to do, furnished with the rarest woods, the most precious fabrics, the grandest silver and gold plate, all to proclaim the power and glory of the man whose will I dared to challenge.

A drop of sweat ran down between my shoulder blades. I had worn my best day clothes for what I feared might be the final hour of my life. The underdress of dark brown velvet, pleated across the bodice and with a wide skirt that trailed slightly behind me, pressed
down heavily on my shoulders. A pale yellow overdress was clinched loosely under my breasts, a reminder of the weight I had lost since my father’s death.

By contrast, the Cardinal was the picture of comfort in a loose, billowing shirt and pantaloons of the sort he favored when he was at home and relaxing, as he had been when word was brought to him of the Spaniard’s death.

I nodded. “I am, Eminence, Francesca Giordano, your servant.”

The Cardinal paced in one direction, back again, a restless animal filled with power, ambition, appetites. He gazed at me and I knew what he must see: a slim woman of not yet twenty, unremarkable in looks except for overly large brown eyes, auburn hair, and, thanks to my fear, very pale skin.

He gestured at the Spaniard, who in the heat of the day had already begun to stink.

“What do you know of this?”

“I killed him.”

Even to my own ears, my voice sounded harsh against the tapestry-covered walls. The Cardinal paced closer, his expression that of mingled shock and disbelief.

“
You
killed him?”

I had prepared a speech that I hoped would explain my actions while concealing my true intent. It came in such a rush I feared I might garble it.

“I am my father’s daughter. I learned at his side, yet when he was killed, you did not consider for a moment that I should take his place. You would have for a son but not for me. Instead, you hired this . . . other—” I caught my breath and pointed at the dead man. “Hired him to protect you and your family. Yet he could not even protect himself, not from me.”

I could have said more. That Borgia had done nothing to avenge my father’s murder. That he had allowed him to be beaten in the street like a dog, left in the filth with his skull crushed, and not lifted a hand to seek vengeance. That such a lapse on his part was unparalleled . . . and unforgivable.

He had left it to me, the poisoner’s daughter, to exact justice. But to do so, I needed power, paid for in the coin of one dead Spaniard.

The Cardinal’s great brow wrinkled prodigiously, leaving his eyes mere slits. Yet he appeared calm enough, with no sign of the rage he had shown minutes before.

A flicker of hope stirred within me. Ten years living under his roof, watching him, hearing my father speak of him. Ten years convinced that he was a man of true intelligence, of reason and logic, a man who would never be ruled by his emotions. All down to this single moment.

“How did you do it?”

He was testing me; that was good. I took a breath and answered more calmly.

“I knew he would be hot and thirsty when he arrived, but that he would also be cautious of what he drank. The flagon I left for him contained only iced water, pure enough to pass any inspection. The poison was on the outside, coating the glass. He was sweating, which meant that the pores of his skin were wide open. From the moment he touched the flagon, it would have been over very quickly.”

“Your father never mentioned such a poison to me, one that could be used in that way.”

I saw no reason to tell Il Cardinale that I, not my father, had developed that particular poison. Likely, he would not have believed me anyway. Not then.

“No craftsman gives away all his secrets,” I said.

He did not reply at once but came closer yet, so close that I could feel the heat pouring off him, see the great swathe of his bull-like shoulders blocking out the light. The glint of gold from the cross dangling against his barrel chest caught my gaze and I could not look away.

Cristo en extremis
.

Save me.

“By God, girl,” the Cardinal said, “you have surprised me.”

A momentous admission from this man who, it was said, knew before any other which swallow would alight first on any tree in Rome and whether the branch could hold its weight.

I took a breath against the tightness of my chest, looked away from the cross, away from him, out through the open window toward the great river and the vast land beyond.

Breathe.

“I would serve you, signore.” I turned my head, just enough to meet his gaze and hold it. “But first, you must let me live.”

The servants came and went, removing all trace of the Spaniard. They carried in my chests, brought food and drink, and even turned down the covers of the bed framed in wooden posts of carved acanthus where once my father had slept and now I would.

Tasks completed, they filed out silently, all except the last of them, an old woman close enough to Heaven to have little to lose. Skittering away, she hissed:

Strega!

Witch.

A cold shiver ran through me, though I was careful to give no sign of it. Such a word would never have been applied to my father or to the Spaniard or to any man possessed of the fearsome but respected skills of a professional poisoner. But it would be applied to me now and forever, and I was helpless to prevent it.

They burn witches. The terrifying auto-de-fé is not limited to its point of origin in Spain. It has spread to the Lowlands, the Italian Peninsula, all of Europe. For the most part, the flames consume those accused of heresy, but how easy it is to indict a man or a woman—almost always a woman—or even a child accused of the even graver sin of trafficking with Satan. Anyone too conversant with ancient healing, too knowledgeable about plants, or simply too different from others may end as fuel for the fires that char human skin, sizzle human fat, crack human bones, and reduce to ashes all that is hope and dream.

I turned, intending to distract myself by unpacking the chests, then turned again suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth. On my knees, I yanked the piss pot from beneath the bed and crouched over it as the contents of my stomach spewed out, a bitter stream that all but choked me.

Disgustoso!

Do not think I am prone to such infirmity, but the events of the day, the desperate gamble I had been forced to take, and the terror of mortal sin it brought overwhelmed me. I lay where I was, unmoving. Exhaustion bore me away as on a fast-running tide flowing swiftly beyond any sight of shore.

The nightmare came almost at once. The same dream that has tormented me all my life. I am in a very small space behind a wall. There is a tiny hole through which I can see into a room filled with shadows, some of them moving. The darkness is broken by a shard of light that flashes again and again. Blood pours from it, a giant wave of blood lapping against the walls of the room and threatening to drown me. I wake to my own screams, which I have learned from long practice to muffle in my pillows.

As quickly as I could, I clambered to my feet. My limbs shook
and I could feel the hot wash of tears on my cheeks. Had anyone come in to see me in such a state? Was someone there now, waiting in the shadows? The Spaniard had died not far from where I stood. Did his spirit linger? Did my father’s shade, unable to rest until I fulfilled my vow of vengeance?

Heart hammering, I lit the candle beside the bed but found no comfort in its meager circle of light. Beyond the tall windows, the moon rode high, casting a silver ribbon across the garden and far beyond. Rome slept, so much as it ever did. In the narrow alleys and lanes rats were at work, gnawing here, feasting there, noses twitching, claws grasping, all in the shadow of the Curia. I lifted my gaze, staring into the middle distance from which I fancied I could see, glowing in the silver light, vast, writhing tentacles stretching outward in all directions, grasping at power and glory through all of Christendom. The vision was no more than a figment of an overwrought mind, yet it was real all the same. As real as the whispers that the master of it all, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, Il Papa Innocent VIII was dying.

Of natural causes?

Do not tell me you are shocked. We live in the age of poison, of one kind or another. Every great house employs someone like myself for protection or, when necessary, to make an example of an enemy. It is the way of things. The Throne of Saint Peter is hardly immune, being no more than the ultimate prize the families fight over like yapping dogs maddened at the kill. No one perched on it should sleep too soundly. Or eat without having his food tasted first, but that is just my professional opinion.

Cui bono?
If the Pope dies, who gains?

Still weary in body and mind, I pulled off my clothes and slipped at last into the bed. Hugging my knees, I felt the cool damask of the
pillow beneath my cheek. Around me the palazzo slumbered and shortly so did I, safe within the stronghold of the man who had plotted for decades to make the papacy the ultimate jewel in his earthly crown.

In the morning, I retrieved the clothes I had abandoned on the floor, smoothed the wrinkles from them, and folded them carefully away in the wardrobe. Mindful of the dignity of my new estate but equally concerned with comfort on what promised to be a sultry day, I donned a simple white linen underdress and covered it with a blue overdress embroidered along the hem with a pastiche of flowers. The embroidery was my own poor effort, for I have never been skilled with a needle; the flowers were the deceptively benign blossoms found on various poisonous plants. So had I made more tolerable the tedium of stitchery, at which every decent woman is expected to excel regardless of her natural inclination.

Properly dressed and with my hair twined in a braid coiled around the crown of my head, I ignored the rumbling of my stomach and set about my newly acquired duties with what I hoped was a pardonable eagerness. First, I sought out the captain of the condotierri to review the security precautions my father had put in place. Every scrap of food, every drop of liquid, every object that conceivably could come into contact with Il Cardinale or any of his family had to be provenanced, vetted, and secured. That required the full cooperation of the captain of his guard.

Vittoro Romano was outside the armory in the wing of the palazzo that also housed the barracks. A dozen or so young guardsmen had dragged benches into the sun and were busy polishing their armor while keeping an eye on the servant girls who found reason to pass by, balancing baskets of laundry or kitchen supplies on their swaying hips. Several cats dozed nearby, raising their heads only to stare
at the pigeons who stayed just out of reach. It had not rained in days. The sky held the lemony hue that comes to Rome in summer. The courtyard in front of the armory was dusty, despite being paved with cobblestones. I watched an eddy of dirt spring up in the wake of a passing breeze and dance across the space of several yards before collapsing almost at Vittoro’s booted feet.

He did not appear to notice. In his fifties and of medium height with a saturnine temperament, the captain of the guard gave the impression of being neither very interested nor even particularly aware of whatever happened to be going on around him. Anyone foolish enough to be gulled by that deception could count himself fortunate if he lived long enough to regret it.

Vittoro was speaking with several of his lieutenants but sent them away when he saw me. I was apprehensive about approaching him, wondering how he would take to dealing with a young woman who had killed to attain a position of authority. To my relief, he greeted me with a cordial nod.

“
Buongiorno,
Donna Francesca. I am pleased to see that you are well.”

By which I gleaned that the captain, at least, did not regret Il Cardinale’s decision to let me live, as opposed to having my throat slit and my body tossed into the Tiber, or however he chose to dispose of those who displeased him. Even so, I was under no illusion that the rest of the household felt the same. The old woman who had branded me a witch was unlikely to be alone in her sentiment.

I stood before him gravely, mindful that others were watching. “Thank you, Capitano, and I you. If it is convenient, I would like to discuss our security procedures.”

He sketched a small bow and straightened, smiling. “By all means. Do you wish to make any changes?”

“To the contrary, I want to make sure that no one mistakes the trust Il Cardinale has placed in me as a license for laxity. Were that to occur, I would have no choice but to take it amiss.”

“How amiss?” Vittoro inquired. I did not mistake the twinkle in his eye. He had known me as long as I had lived under Borgia’s roof and had seen me grow from a gawky child to a somewhat less gawky woman. He and his wife—a plumb, cheerful matron—had three daughters, all close to my own age. Being proper young women, each was married, but they all still lived in the neighborhood with their husbands and growing broods of children. They were a source of great contentment to their father. I had seen my own look at them wistfully on their frequent, clamorous visits to the palazzo.

“Very amiss,” I replied.

Vittoro nodded. “I will put that about. Whatever anyone thinks of Il Cardinale’s choice of you, no sensible person wants to be on the wrong side of a poisoner.”

I allowed myself a small sigh of relief. His support was essential to my success and I was grateful for it. We went on to speak of the procedures that, thus far at least, had proven effective in safeguarding Borgia and his family.

Over the years, numerous attempts had been made to kill or at least incapacitate Il Cardinale, but all had failed thanks to my father’s vigilance. One such effort had involved a round of cheese injected with a solution of arsenic. Another concerned a bolt of cloth tainted with tincture of thorn apple. There were others, but I see no reason to detail them.