The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (13 page)

Juan sucked in his breath and turned toward me, his face darkening. “Are you suggesting that my father would—?”

“For pity’s sake!” Cesare interrupted. “She’s saying that she knows Papa wasn’t behind it. Neither was della Rovere. The Cardinal would never be so stupid. Can you at least try to listen or, better yet, just keep quiet?”

Juan’s hand twitched to his sword and he began to rise again but Borgia cut him off. “It’s a sad pass when the only words of wisdom in this room are coming from a woman. Cesare, explain yourself. What are you doing in Rome when I ordered you to keep watch on Savona?”

This was an interesting bit of news, as Cesare supposedly was rusticating in the papal castle at Spoleto, his presence there taken as an indication that Borgia intended to continue his policy of discretion regarding his children and not advance them beyond all tolerable limits despite having attained the crown jewel of the papacy. As I had never noted any such capacity for self-restraint on Borgia’s part when it came to the fortunes of
la famiglia,
I was pleased to have my skepticism justified.

However, I had also assumed that Cesare would have some ready-made explanation to excuse his presence and was caught off guard when he said, “I received word that Francesca had been attacked.”

Jesus, Mary, and all the Saints! Scant hours before, Borgia had been wondering out loud if his son and I were conspiring to commit patricide. Now to find out that Cesare had abandoned the mission his father had sent him on out of concern for me—

“Holiness, he does not mean—,” I began, all too aware of Juan’s triumphant smile.

“Which is not to say that I wasn’t already on my way here. Had I remained near Savona, you would be blaming me for putting too much trust in couriers.”

“What is so urgent that you had to bring word of it yourself?” Juan demanded, swallowing his disappointment at not seeing his brother crushed beneath their father’s anger.

Cesare ignored him and addressed Borgia.

“Della Rovere is meeting with emissaries from the French king. Rumor has it that Charles will agree to support the Cardinal’s bid for the papacy in order to undermine the influence of Spain, which you are considered to favor above all else. To that end, the French are prepared to invade the papal states with forces sufficient to depose you.”

The face of Christ’s anointed vicar reddened. He slammed his fist down on the top of the desk, sending the large gold-and-silver ink set bouncing into the air and almost tumbling the pile of papers waiting his attention onto the floor. I flinched as, I noted, did Juan. Cesare, on the other hand, did not react at all but took the wave of patriarchal rage with admirable stoicism.

“Bastardo!”
Borgia shouted. “We have scarcely recovered the unity of Holy Mother Church and he wants to rip us apart again! What does he think? That I will go quietly? By God, I will not! If he wants a war, he will have such a one as Christendom has never seen!”

That was partly bravado, of course, but there was enough truth in it to send a shiver up my spine. Della Rovere had a powerful ally in the French king but Borgia could call on the assistance of both Spain and Portugal, assuming the monarchs of each believed that he had given them the Indies. With their help, he could wage all-out war that would convulse the Italian peninsula and beyond. And not just any war. Inevitably, given the nature of the struggle, any such conflict would take on the cloak of holy war with both sides proclaiming that God was on their side. Armies would march, men would die, and cities would burn along with their precious libraries and universities. All the dreams that I and the other members of Lux had for a better world would lie in ashes.

Unless, Borgia seemed to be telling me, I found a way to stop it by removing della Rovere from the board. Better that one man die rather than many.

The discussion went on, Cesare and Juan arguing over which of them Borgia should trust to solve the problem, with Juan, seemingly intent on demonstrating his lack of wits, insisting that his brother must have misunderstood della Rovere’s intent regarding the French. My thoughts wandered to matters nearer to my own heart, namely the question of where Morozzi was hiding. Mad though he was and quintessentially evil, I had learned to my sorrow that he was at least my equal in intelligence. He would not do the expected; of that I was certain, but of very little else.

It was late, I was weary. The argument, for it had become that by then, showed no sign of winding down. Cesare and Juan both seemed fiercely determined to win their father’s favor by denying any shred of it to the other. As for Borgia, I could not escape the conclusion that he both encouraged and enjoyed his sons’ rivalry.

Seeking distraction, I glanced around the papal office. Filled as it was with gilded furniture, marble columns, paintings—all of worldly subjects in keeping with His Holiness’s preferences—it would have suited the noblest king or emperor, which, of course, was exactly how Borgia saw himself.

Along one of the brocade-covered walls, near the carved double doors through which we had entered, there was a
spioncino,
a small concealed hole through which the occupant of the office could be observed discreetly, the better to avoid disturbing him at inopportune moments. The existence of the
spioncino
was not generally known but neither was it a secret to those of us who served His Holiness. Similarly, I knew the location of the two concealed doors that Vittoro had mentioned. If Borgia really was not using them, how exactly was he managing to elude the vigilance of his secretaries?

And why?

Pleading fatigue, I left Cesare with his father and brother a short time later and accepted an escort back to my rooms. Even at so late an hour, I considered seeking out Rocco, but exhaustion dogged my steps and clouded my mind. Before I could tell him of the possible threat to his son, I had to have a plan for dealing with it. Besides, so far at least Morozzi had directed his attentions solely toward me. I had no reason to think that would change quite yet.

Once in my chamber, I wasted no time disrobing, and crawled into bed next to Minerva. Sleep was elusive, as always. I lay awake thinking about the mad priest, trying to anticipate where he might go and what he might do. Above all, I was determined that this time when we clashed, as I was certain that we would, those I cared for would be protected.

At length, I slept. As I knew it would, the nightmare came.

11

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 that move. The darkness is broken by flashes of light but I cannot see their source. Blood is everywhere, a veritable ocean of blood rising against the walls and threatening to drown me. I try to scream but my throat is paralyzed; no sound comes from me. My hands push against the wall but it will not yield. I am trapped alone with the blood and my own terror.

I awoke suddenly, covered in sweat with my heart pounding. My fists clutched the sheet as though it were a lifeline thrown into the roiled sea of my mind. From long practice, I forced myself to lie still and breathe steadily. In time, I calmed enough to get up and stumble into the pantry, where I stood with my head over the stone sink, waiting for the waves of fear-induced nausea to pass.

When at last they, too, were gone, I poured water from an ewer and drank while staring out the high windows of the salon. The gray hint of dawn was just beginning to spread over the city, revealing red tiled roofs sprinkled with terra-cotta chimney pots. From its nest under the eaves, a lark offered tentative song.

There was no question of my being able to go back to bed. Fortunately, I have never needed more than a few hours of sleep in order to function properly, or so I choose to believe. I dressed quickly, saw to Minerva’s needs, then left the apartment. At such an early hour, Portia’s door was closed. I resolved to visit her later to see how she did.

Outside in the coolness of early morning, the street sweepers were busy sprinkling water over the paving stones and brushing them down with long-handled brooms. They followed the dung collectors at work with their shovels and wheeled barrows. An advantage of living in one of the better parts of Rome was the relative cleanliness. Elsewhere, filth piled in the open sewers or collected in the rubbish middens beloved of the city’s army of rats. Sofia thought such conditions bred disease and I saw no reason to disbelieve her.

Cleaners were also scrubbing away at more lewd graffiti that had appeared during the night. They worked under the scrutiny of condottierri, suggesting that the scribblings had given more than the usual offense to some august personage.

I joined the stream of early risers making for the Campo dei Fiori. There boys were raising the wooden shutters over shop fronts while girls, standing on stepstools, reached high to water the trailing baskets of flowers that lent the market a festive air. The aroma of fresh bread wafted from the Via dei Panettieri, where the bakers could be found. My stomach rumbled but I ignored it and went on, anxious to reach my destination.

Rocco’s shop was not yet open. I tapped lightly at the door. It was opened promptly by Nando who, seeing me, smiled broadly.

“Good morning, Donna Francesca. Did you bring Minerva?”

“Alas, I did not. But I will tell her that you asked after her.”

He laughed at my whimsy and went to tell his father that I had come. In his absence, I reflected on the mystery that children represent, their spirits at once so fragile yet so stalwart.

There were times when I wondered what I had been like as a child. My father had rarely spoken of the years before he entered Borgia’s service, and for myself, I remembered little of them. I had what I took to be a vague memory of a small house where we may have lived when I was perhaps six or seven but I could not even tell you what town it was in. My first clear memory of living anywhere was the apartment we occupied in Rome not far from the Campo dei Fiori for several years before we moved into Borgia’s palazzo on the Corso.

Apart from that, there are only flashes—a window from which I could see sparkling water; a cupboard with the painted images of birds; the sound of a woman singing softly. And sometimes, when I am on the very edge of sleep, the scent of lavender and lemon mingling in an aroma I find oddly soothing.

I have the impression that other people remember more but I could be wrong as I have never really discussed it with anyone. I preferred to live in the moment or, better yet, to anticipate the future in which I would finally kill Morozzi and be free. Although I could not have told you what I expected to be freed from.

Rocco returned with his son and was about to greet me when I drew a small box and a notebook from my pocket and held them out to Nando. “I thought you might like these.”

Wide-eyed, he took them both, turning the notebook over in his hands before opening the box. The delight that filled his eyes when he saw what was inside made me forget for a moment the seriousness of my purpose.

“The charcoals came from the studio of Master Botticelli. I have no skill at drawing, but I understand that they are among the finest made.”

“You are too generous—,” Rocco began, but stopped when he saw the quick shake of my head.

“Perhaps you could go and draw something now?” I suggested.

Good son that he was, Nando looked to his father. “Papa?”

“Of course,” Rocco said quickly. “You can sit outside if you like—”

“But don’t go from in front of the shop,” I added.

Nando shot me a puzzled look. Young though he was, he understood that his father had the ordering of his life, not I.

Rocco glanced at me and his face tightened. “Stay in front where I can see you, lad,” he said.

Scarcely had the boy run out than I took a deep breath and said, “Morozzi is back in Rome. I know how to keep Nando safe but I must have your agreement.”

Rocco paled. I had no difficulty recognizing the fear that swept over him because I shared it in full measure.

“Are you sure?” He managed, despite everything, to retain control of himself. Terror, no matter how well justified, would serve no good purpose.

I nodded. “He has allied himself with Savonarola and is under the protection of Il Frateschi. I must find him, but in all honesty, I have no idea where to begin looking.”

“I will give you all the help I can but first—”

“I didn’t come here for that,” I said quickly. “It isn’t my intent to involve you in such dangerous matters ever again. I only want to make sure that Nando will be safe.”

Rocco stared at me for a long moment before abruptly nodding. “How do you think to accomplish that?”

He listened carefully as I explained. When he nodded, I let out my breath in relief. What I had proposed might seem to run against all good sense, yet I was convinced it was the only possible course.

“This man, Captain Romano, has he agreed to help?”

“Not yet. I came to see you first but I know he will not hesitate. Although Borgia may very well be Morozzi’s ultimate target, right now no place is safer than within the precincts of the Vatican. The papal guard has been increased and no one is allowed beyond the square and the basilica without special permission.”

He looked toward the doorway and beyond to where Nando sat in the sun, bent over a drawing on which he was working industriously. He was a sturdy child and tall for his age but for all that so very vulnerable.

On impulse, I slipped my hand into Rocco’s and squeezed gently. “No harm will come to him, I swear.”

An oath that I knew full well I could keep only if I killed Morozzi—quickly.

So absorbed was he by worry for his son that I wasn’t certain Rocco had heard me until he turned and met my eyes. In them I saw anger at the threat to his son and fierce resolve to deal with it.

But as is so often the case, one sort of passion leads on to another.

“I believe you,” he said, and raised my hand to his lips.

Confusion filled me. The single kiss we had shared months before had assumed in my memory the sense of a corner not turned, a path not embarked upon. But my sudden, vivid awareness of the heat and texture of his mouth, his breath against my skin, our closeness and our relative privacy, all combined to shake my certainty. And to remind me most forcefully of what a stubborn creature she was, that other self I could never be, who insisted from time to time on acting as though she actually existed.