The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (32 page)

Despite my revulsion, I knelt down beside Alfonso and stared at the girl. When I saw past the horror of her last moments, I recognized her as one of the two young blondes decorating the smuggler king’s dais when Benjamin and I visited his lair. For a moment, I tried to convince myself that she could have been the victim of a dispute between Alfonso and a rival smuggler, but the circumstances did not fit. Particularly not when I gently drew aside the top of her shift to find the word that had been carved with the point of a knife into her small breasts:
Strega.

Morozzi had avenged the attack on himself and at the same time sent the clearest possible warning of what he intended to do to me. I thought of Vittoro’s dream and fought for breath.

“She never hurt a fly,” Alfonso gasped. Tears poured down his face. He clasped the girl to him and rocked back and forth, moaning. “Not even a fly. She was the kindest, gentlest…” He broke off, so overwhelmed with grief that he could not speak.

Behind us, a scream pierced the shocked silence hanging over the piazza. I turned to see the girl’s twin, for truly she did appear to be identical, running toward her. Several of the young smugglers gathered around moved to head her off but not before she saw what remained of her sister. Her howl threatened to rend the sky.

Cesare helped me to my feet. I had never seen him so grim but surely I looked much the same. Buildings surrounded the piazza on all sides, the largest and most impressive being Santa Maria and the three-story residence directly adjacent to it where the priests lived. Next to that was the smaller but no less luxurious guesthouse available only to the most honored visitors. At a quick glance, I guessed that several hundred people called the piazza home. Yet not a light shone anywhere. No single member of the clergy had come out to see what was happening, to pray over the dead or to offer comfort to the bereaved. The only people gathered in the square were Alfonso’s young followers, and Cesare and myself.

“Bastards,” Cesare murmured, looking toward the church. I followed his gaze, thinking the same. No one could have come into the square, set up a stake, tied a girl to it, and burned her alive without at the very least dozens of witnesses being aware of what was happening and doing nothing whatsoever to stop it.

As painful as it was to think, I understood why ordinary men and women living in the shadow of Santa Maria might have hesitated to thrust themselves into a situation that must have terrified and sickened them. They would have deferred to the authority of the church in such a hideous matter. When no one came from there to stop the assailants, the chance of help being offered from any other quarter would have disappeared.

But perhaps there had been more involved than simply a failure to offer help. Perhaps the crime had taken place with the approval of those within Santa Maria, the same men of God whom I suspected of aiding Morozzi.

Still staring at the church, Cesare said, “He could be in there right now, watching us. The only way to know for certain would be to take the church, the residency, all of it apart stone by stone.”

I gathered that just then he would relish such a task, but I shook my head. “He has come and gone. We are no closer to finding him than we were before, and we will get no closer unless His Holiness tells us all he knows.”

The reluctance Cesare had shown earlier to confront his father had vanished. He cast a last look at the remains of the girl, and called for his horse, ordering several of his men to remain behind to offer what assistance they could. Once more mounted, I leaned my head against his broad back and concentrated on breathing in the relatively clean air beyond the piazza. But the stench of burning flesh lingered in my nostrils all the way to the Vatican. I feared that it would follow me into my dreams.

We went at once to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico. The guards appeared considerably more alert than previously. They sprang to attention as Cesare passed. What they thought of my presence I cannot guess.

A sleepy servant on duty in the antechamber of La Bella’s apartment went to alert her mistress to our presence. Giulia emerged, looking far too awake for the hour and with a hint of shadows beneath her luminescent eyes. She was, as you surely know, considered to be the greatest beauty of our age, that rarest combination of physical attributes and personal manner that will turn the most stalwart man into a besotted fool. Borgia was no exception; he adored her, cosseted her in every way, and, if rumor was to be believed, was poised to rain down ever greater riches on her family the moment the child she carried was safely born.

Even that night, when she was plainly harried, she looked exquisite with the long fall of her golden hair tumbling almost to her feet, her mouth small but lush, and her complexion as pure as cream. I have no idea how she managed that extraordinary hair in particular, aside from the obvious use of willow leaves, root of vervain, and possibly barberry bark for lightening, but I have heard that she had two servants devoted solely to its care.

Giulia cast me a wary look, for which I truly could not blame her. I had saved her life the previous year but she had lost a child in the process and had no reason to think overly kindly of me. Still tying the sash of her robe above the swell of her new pregnancy, she bestowed a smile on Cesare and said, “Thank God you are here. I do not know what to do with him.”

To my surprise and secret pleasure, he brushed right past her and into the inner chamber. Giulia hurried after him. I followed at a discreet distance. Borgia was sitting slumped on the bed, naked save for a sheet wound around his lower half. In his prime, he truly had been a bull of a man, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and muscles kept honed by long hours in the saddle and at the hunt. But age and the excesses of his life were taking their toll. His skin was mottled by brown spots and sagging a little where it was not puffed out by fat that softened his belly and gave him a hint of womanish breasts. Of more concern to me at that moment, his face was alarmingly red and he was sweating profusely.

“He is ill, I fear,” Giulia said, a little breathlessly. “He will not speak to me. I offered to send for the doctor and he threw a vase at the wall.” She gestured to the bits of porcelain lying on the floor. Clearly, she was shaken by the incident, understandably enough, as Borgia had never so much as raised his voice to his adored.

Cesare knelt down in front of his father and put a hand on his shoulder. Steadily, with no hint of the concern he must have felt, he said, “Papa, tell me what is wrong. I will do whatever is necessary but I must know what you need.”

When Borgia did not respond, I began running down in my mind the list of substances that might help him. You may find that odd given my profession, but there are many ways to kill that can also cure. Like so much else in life, it is often a matter of balance. I was debating whether to trust my own experience or summon help from Sofia when His Holiness finally bestirred himself.

“Water.”

I seized the carafe by the bed, filled a goblet, and handed it to Cesare, who gave it to his father. Borgia’s thirst must have been considerable; he emptied the goblet in a single long swallow.

When he was done, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sighed deeply, and said, “La Bella, most precious, tell me you did not summon my son and”—he glanced in my direction—“his constant companion at such an unseemly hour out of worry for me?”

Giulia clasped her hands together just below her bosom, blinked moistly, and flung herself at Borgia’s feet. “My lord! My darling! How could I not be overcome with concern for you? Truly, the burdens you bear would crush any other man. How fortunate we are that Our Father in Heaven has endowed our father here on earth with such wisdom and strength to see us through this difficult time.”

What amazed me—and still does—is that men actually believe that sort of drivel. Even a man as worldly, as brilliant, and above all as cynical as Borgia will nod complacently and take it as his due. Nor did Cesare so much as raise an eyebrow. I supposed he heard the same sort of thing often enough himself.

It was left to me to ask the obvious question. “Are you in pain, Your Holiness, or experiencing any other symptoms of illness?” Or had he merely, as I hoped, overexerted himself with La Bella, as a sixty-two-year-old man with more lust than sense would do?

He waved a hand impatiently. “I am fine. A momentary lapse, nothing more. Giulia, sweetest girl, have no fear, I am still your bold bull.”

While La Bella simpered and Cesare stared at the ceiling, I lost an admittedly brief struggle with myself. The Pope’s pleasure bower might seem a world unto itself, but no amount of sensual extravagance and indulgence could alter the hideous reality pressing in around us.

“A girl was burned to death in Piazza di Santa Maria tonight.”

La Bella gave a little cry and stared at me in wounded horror, as though trying to understand why I would wish to upset her. Il Papa shook his head wearily.

Cesare stood, looked at his father, and said, “Whoever is protecting Morozzi must be powerful indeed for the priest to act with such boldness.”

Something flickered behind Borgia’s eyes. It was there and gone so quickly that I wondered if I had imagined it.

“He is protected by Il Frateschi,” he said. “We already know that.”

“Then your man inside the Brotherhood can tell us how to reach him,” Cesare replied.

Borgia held out a hand to La Bella, who took it and rose gracefully to her feet. He smiled at her gently.

“Amore mio,”
he said, “do me the kindness of arranging for a carafe of that excellent peach juice you like so much. I have a sudden thirst for it.”

Giulia must have understood that he wanted a few minutes to speak with us alone but she was far too adept to show any resentment at being excluded. With a pretty smile and a toss of her head, she hurried to do his bidding.

When she was gone, Il Papa gave a great sigh and heaved himself off the bed. I averted my eyes lest the sheet that was his sole cover slip away but he hitched it more snugly beneath his broad stomach and strode over to the windows where a slight breeze offered some relief from the sultry night.

With his back to us, he said, “My man in Il Frateschi was pulled from the Tiber several weeks ago. His eyes and tongue had been cut out.”

A memory stirred. I recalled what Guillaume had told Rocco. “The Dominicans are in an uproar about just such a death.”

“He was one of them,” Borgia acknowledged, turning again to face us. “Ordinarily, I would be happy enough to have the Hounds at each others’ throats but under the circumstances—”

“Are you saying that with your spy’s death, you truly have no hint as to Morozzi’s whereabouts or any way of reaching him?” Cesare asked.

“What do you think?” Borgia demanded. “That I have such knowledge but keep it from you? What are you,
pazzo
?”

Cesare’s face darkened at the suggestion that he was crazy but he held his temper and his ground.

“Morozzi stages an attack on a villa owned by one of our leading bankers. He kills a Dominican friar. He stalks the Pope’s own poisoner, then disappears like smoke. He sends minions out to defame my sister, and you as well, in the vilest terms. He goes so far as to burn a girl alive in the middle of Piazza di Santa Maria. And yet no one has any notion where he is. Truly, it is a marvel!”

“Do not mock me, boy!” Borgia exclaimed. “By all that is holy, you will regret it!”

I moved to try to calm Cesare but the look on his face stopped me. I saw there a combination of such pain and anger that I had no notion what to make of it, much less what to do.

“You are blind,” Cesare said, but softly, as though the effort to speak had become too much for him. “Willfully blind.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room, almost walking into La Bella, who chose that moment to return with a beaded carafe of peach juice. Her startled smile turned quickly to a frown when she beheld her beloved even more upset than when she had left him. She murmured something about the brains of men being no larger than their testicles.

Catching up with Cesare at the bottom of the stairs, I asked, “What do you mean, your father is willfully blind?”

He brushed me aside and strode out into the piazza, where he called for his horse. As his men scrambled to obey, I seized his arm.

“Tell me what you know!” It was inconceivable that Cesare would hold anything back at this point, yet he seemed intent on doing exactly that.

He brushed me off and summoned a condottierre to his side.

“Escort Donna Francesca home and make sure that she does not leave. Put guards in front of the building, in the back, in the garden, in the loggia, and in front of her door. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded so vigorously that the mulberry plume of his helmet jerked back and forth like the tail of a great bird trying to flick off danger.

Cesare was not yet done. “I realize that you are afraid of her; any sensible person would be. But remember, you have much more to fear from me. Is that clear?”

Again, the plume jerked. The officer barked an order and half a dozen men formed up around us. Within moments, I was effectively encircled and trapped.

“You cannot do this! I will not be able to protect your father if I am shut away!”

A page brought the big ebony steed up. The horse shied but Cesare put a foot in the stirrup, took hold of the pommel, and swung easily into the saddle. He made short work of reining the animal in, then spared a glance at me. The same pain and anger I had seen in his eyes earlier remained there, and were still as inexplicable.

“I will not hunt Morozzi while worrying that he will get to you first.”

And then I saw, off to the side watching us and making no move to intervene, Vittoro. A look passed between him and Cesare—two men of different ages and situations in life but both warriors and of one mind. Some understanding lay between them, some agreement as to the course they would follow. Apparently, it did not include me.

“You mean while worrying that I’ll get to him before you do!” I shouted, but it was to no avail. Man and horse surged forward, the clang of iron-shod hooves on stone echoing sharply across the broad expanse of the piazza until the sound faded away into the night.