Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (3 page)

Of a certainty, there would be more. It was only a question of time before an attempt was made to test the vigilance of Borgia’s new poisoner. I knew that full well even as I lived in apprehension of it.

“D’Marco is looking for you,” Vittoro warned when we were done.

I grimaced, to his amusement, and took my leave. My intent was to make my presence felt in what was, from my perspective, the most vital part of the household and of necessity the essential focus of my attentions, the kitchens. I got as far as the covered walkway leading to them when I was intercepted by a small, ferretlike fellow.

Renaldo d’Marco was Borgia’s steward, roundly disliked for his tendency to peer into every nook and cranny in search of wrongdoing. A certain amount of skimming is a perquisite of employment in so august a household, but too much cannot be condoned lest it bankrupt the establishment and kill the golden goose. By at least pretending to insist that there should be none, the steward managed to keep what did occur within tolerable limits.

He darted at me from out of the shadows hanging beneath the walkway. Such was his regard for his dignity that he wore a crimson velvet robe and matching cap despite the heat. He clutched a portable writing desk to his meager chest, as though it would ward off whatever blows came his way.

Frowning, he said, “There you are, Donna Francesca. I have been looking all over for you. I must say I was surprised when I learned . . . but never mind, that is of no account now. You would have been well advised to seek me out directly this morning and in the future, I hope you will do so. His Eminence trusts me in all things, I know his will and can be of great assistance to you.”

Having no wish for his enmity, I answered mildly. “I will keep that in mind, Master d’Marco. For now, what do you seek?”

Mollified, the steward drew himself up a little straighter and informed me, “His Eminence has instructed that you are to inspect arrangements in the household of Madonna Adriana de Mila without delay for such purpose as to confirm the safety and well-being of
Madonna Lucrezia and others domiciled there. Further, I am instructed to give you this.”

With palpable reluctance, he handed over a small pouch, which, I quickly determined, contained gold florins. I had handled money before; when I visited the markets with my father, he often gave me coins and instructed me to pay. As I grew older, he taught me the fine art of haggling and trusted me to get the best prices. I mention this so that you will understand I was not surprised to be given money, only puzzled as to what I was to do with it.

“Your salary for this quarter of the year,” Renaldo said. He turned the writing desk toward me. “Sign here.”

I signed and was glad that my hand did not tremble. Of course, I had understood that I would be paid; I simply had not thought how much. My father had left a substantial amount of money on account in a bank in Rome. It had become mine upon his death. With that and with the addition of my new income, I was that rarity of my age, a woman of independent means.

That suited me very well, as I reflected when I had taken leave of Renaldo and, having returned to my quarters long enough to secure the greater portion of the florins in a chest, set off to do His Eminence’s bidding.

By his own standards, Il Cardinale was a man of discretion. As an example, he did not quarter his current mistress or any of his various children by his past mistress in his official residence on the Corso. Instead, they were in the care of his cousin, conveniently a widow of the powerful Orsini clan who lived in suitably noble circumstances nearby.

Since my father’s death, I had not ventured beyond the palazzo, which, with its vast main building and surrounding dependencies
inhabited by hundreds of servants, retainers, courtiers, and clerks, could be thought of as a miniature city. Just outside it lay the gracious square that Borgia viewed as an extension of his own domain, using it for all manner of crowd-pleasing entertainments from bullfights to pantomimes and firework shows. He had even gone so far as to renovate the other homes facing the piazza in order to raise the overall appearance to his own exacting standards.

Like his own monument to himself, the buildings were newly faced in travertine marble, brought from the nearby precincts of Tivoli. You see it everywhere in the city now—on bridges, churches, palazzi, even the windowsills of humbler homes and the curbstones of the newly paved streets. Should you visit Rome or be fortunate enough to reside within it, I recommend that you find occasion to rise early and observe how each new day transforms the city from the monochrome of night to the blushing hues that the sun draws from this remarkable stone. Later, you will see the colors deepen almost to purple before finally yielding late in the day to muted gold. It is said that Rome possesses the fairest palette of any city and I know of no reason to disagree.

As always, leaving the confines of the square for the larger city involved a brief sense of dislocation. Rome was in its usual perpetual turmoil. Everywhere I looked there were throngs of people, some on foot or on horseback, others in litters or carts and wagons, creating a cacophony of sound and a sea of motion that can be dizzying. Priests, merchants, peasants, soldiers, and wide-eyed visitors alike jockeyed for space in the streets and lanes. It was said that every language on earth could be heard there and I believed it. The healing a few decades before of the Great Schism that had torn the Church apart has restored Rome as the center of the Christian world. What had been
a scruffy medieval town of haunted ruins and greatly diminished population was being transformed seemingly overnight into the greatest city in all of Europe.

Nothing better exemplified Rome’s rebirth than the grandiose palaces being built by the great families. While the towering palazzo of Il Cardinale, erected fittingly enough on the site of the old Roman mint, was the first among them, the vast and luxurious Palazzo Orsini bid fair to be its rival. Indeed, it should be called the
Palazzi
Orsini for it comprises several palaces built around a vast inner courtyard, with each belonging to a different—some would say rival—branch of the Orsini clan. My destination was the wing of the palace situated on a narrow street within sight of the Tiber.

Scarcely had I stepped into the blessedly cool marble entry hall and announced myself to the majordomo than I was assailed by a slender girl on the verge of womanhood whose heart-shaped face was framed by a riot of blond curls. This exquisite creature, smelling of violet with a hint of vanilla, threw herself at me and hugged me fiercely.

“I have been so worried about you! Why have you stayed away? I wept for you . . . for your beloved father . . . for you both! Why weren’t you here?”

How to explain to the cherished only daughter of Il Cardinale why she had been so neglected? How to entreat her pardon?

“I am so sorry,” I said, hugging the twelve-year-old. “I was not fit company, but I knew, truly I did, of your thoughts and prayers. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

So soothed, Lucrezia smiled, but her happiness faded as she beheld me. We had known each other virtually all of her young life. We shared the common bond of daughters loving and beloved of powerful, feared fathers. In the isolation that imposed, we had reached out
to each other, finding a degree of sisterhood that comforted us both even as it could never erase the social gulf between us.

“You are too pale,” Lucrezia declared. Though the younger by seven years, she did not hesitate to assert the authority bestowed by her superior position. “And you have lost weight, now you are too thin. And your hair, why must you always wear it in that braid? You have beautiful hair—such a lovely shade of auburn—you should let it down, the better to be admired.”

I stepped back and smiled at her. “My hair is not beautiful and I am not seeking admirers, therefore I wear it up for practicality’s sake.”

Lucrezia’s good humor fled, as did her brief interest in my own troubles. With a pretty pout, she sighed. “Perhaps I should envy you. Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” I replied, although I knew the answer already. Not even grief for my father had shielded me from the gossip of the household. We linked arms as we walked from the entry hall toward the family quarters.

“A second betrothal broken! Another husband gone! What is my father thinking? He has promised me to two men, both fine, upstanding lords, Spanish like ourselves, and then he changes his mind. I will die an old maid, I swear I will!”

“You will be gloriously wed and your husband will cherish you forever.”

“Do you really think so?”

Did I? That Il Cardinale would arrange the most magnificent marriage possible for his only daughter could not be in doubt. Everything he did served but one purpose: the greater glory of La
Famiglia. Perhaps he truly believed that through the advancement of the Borgias would come good for the Church and all of Christendom. Perhaps he did not care a whit. No matter, the benefit of La Famiglia directed all his actions. As to whether that would result in any personal happiness for Lucrezia, who could know?

“It will be as God wills,” I said. “Now I must speak with Madonna Adriana. Will you come with me?”

We chatted as we walked through the galleries filled with statues, some new, some recently reclaimed from the excavations going on throughout the city. Along the way, I tried to gauge if Lucrezia had any sense of the change the past day had wrought in my own circumstances. The younger girl made no mention of that as she prattled on cheerfully. Child though she still was in many ways, the Cardinal’s daughter was skilled beyond her years in keeping her own counsel. It was impossible to be completely sure of what she knew or how she knew it.

At last we came to the wing of the palace occupied by Il Cardinale’s household. The guard standing before the entrance bowed as we passed through the high, bronze gates. Beyond lay a world of splashing fountains, scented gardens, silk boudoirs, and gilded assembly rooms so utterly feminine that I thought of it as
il harem
. Where the Cardinal, prince of the Holy Roman Church, one of the most powerful men in all of Christendom, came to throw off the cares of his day and accept the comfort of his women.

And such women they were. Besides the sweet vivacity of his only daughter, he enjoyed the company of his cousin, Madonna Adriana de Mila, widow of the late Lord of Bassanello and a power to be reckoned with in her own right. Among her countless virtues practicality reigned supreme. So sensible was her nature that Madonna Adriana offered no objection when Il Cardinale took as his mistress the astounding Giulia Farnese, Giulia la Bella as she was called, said to be the loveliest woman in all of Italy, if not the world.
That she was also the wife of Adriana’s stepson might have prompted some objection from the older woman. Instead, La Famiglia ruled, as always. Adriana agreed to the removal of her stepson to his country estate, leaving the sixty-one-year-old cardinal free to enjoy the charms of eighteen-year-old Giulia, who was herself happy enough to acquiesce.

Both women were enjoying the shade of the inner garden, seated beneath a plane tree, sipping chilled lemonade and watching the antics of a pair of fluffy Maltese pups at play in the grass before them. Blackamoors in pearl-trimmed turbans and silk pantaloons stood behind the ladies, fanning them with braces of pure white ostrich feathers.

Lucrezia darted forward, laughing as she fell in a heap on the bench beside Giulia and called for a cold drink. I hung back, waiting to be acknowledged. Madonna Adriana eyed me for a long moment before she raised a bejeweled hand and gestured to the stool at her feet.

“No need for such formality,
cara
. Sit, tell us your news.”

I did as I was bid, smoothing my skirts as I murmured,
“Grazie, Madonna
.
”

“Such a warm day,” Giulia said. She arched her slender neck and stretched languidly. “I can scarcely keep my eyes open.” No surprise there, as rumor had it she was with child. The Cardinal was said to be pleased. He had I don’t know how many children by various mistresses, but there was no doubt that he had his favorites. Likely La Bella’s would be another of them.

I stared at Giulia in unwilling fascination. She truly was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Some combination of golden hair, dark eyes, perfectly harmonious features, and a manner at once warm
yet aloof compounded to create within her an aura of sensual and spiritual perfection. The latter was entirely misplaced, but as for the former . . . perhaps only Il Cardinale could truly judge.

For all that, she was not without a brain.

“How clever of His Grace,” Giulia said, looking at me. “How daring. I had no idea he believed women capable of such responsibility.”

So they did know. Good, that made everything simpler.

“His Grace,” I said, “is, as always, infinitely wise and just.”

The two women murmured their agreement in the way of prayers reflexively intoned. Lucrezia merely watched, eyes darting from one to the other.

“But surely we have nothing to fear here,” Adriana ventured with a glance around the garden nestled within sheltering walls.

“Of course not,” I said quickly. “I only wish to make certain that everything is as it should be.”

“For which we are truly grateful,” Giulia said. “We live in such tumultuous times.”

Adriana sighed in agreement. “Truly, who can say from day to day what new perils afflict us? But enough of gloom. Just this morning my servant brought word that the Holy Father is improved. His fever has broken and he is said to be in good spirits.”

Giulia raised her glass to her lips. No doubt the hint of sourness in her reply was from the
limonata
and nothing else.

“Wonderful news.”

“Who knows what causes such illnesses,” I said carefully. “Perhaps the prayers of Christendom have improved His Holiness’s condition.”

“Do you really think so?” Lucrezia asked. She tossed a small red ball to one of the pups. It ran after it panting, its short legs laboring.

Did I? My faith at that time was still, in some ways, the faith of a child, yet already questions were stirring within me.