The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (38 page)

31

My memories of returning to this world are scant and fragmentary. I floated upward as though out of a deep pool. I had no idea as to my identity or any need to know. I simply was, a condition which filled me with inexpressible contentment.

Gradually, my awareness of myself became more distinct. I was separate, apart from wherever I was emerging from. Curiosity stirred in me, driving out tranquillity.

Where was I? What was happening?

I felt the rise and fall of my chest, and knew that I was breathing. With that realization came a rush of relief. I was alive! But where and in what circumstance?

Hesitantly, I opened my eyes but only barely, half afraid of what I would see. Had the plan gone terribly wrong? Was I buried, as I had feared that I might be if Luigi did not prevail? Or had I been laid in some catacomb surrounded by the truly dead?

At first, I saw only the flicker of torches set in brackets along the walls and the deep shadows between them. Only gradually did I realize that I was not alone. But instead of Sofia being there to help me, inexplicably it was Cesare who knelt beside the bier, his head in his hands. I heard a low murmur coming from him and assumed that he was praying. That he should do so on my behalf astounded me. I was on the verge of regretting how often I had thought him too vain to humble himself before the Almighty when I realized that he was berating God, demanding to know why He had done this to him.

Him? Disbelief rose in me, warring with exasperation. Belatedly, I remembered that for the Borgias life was what they saw in the mirror and nothing else. The purity of their focus was at once their greatest strength and their ultimate weakness.

After several moments listening to Cesare harangue the Deity, I felt compelled to respond.

“For heaven’s sake—” My voice emerged as little more than a croak but it might as well have been a thunderclap. Cesare jumped up and leaped away from the bier, his mouth agape in horror.

“Aiyeeeh!”

I will not belabor the moment save to say that it was not his finest.

I sat up slowly, partly because I was still very stiff and weak but also, I admit, because I was enjoying knocking him sideways. Too great a sense of one’s own exalted position in the Cosmos is not good for any man.

“Don’t scream, it hurts my ears.”

He backed up farther and stared at me. “Holy Mother of God!”

I winced. “For pity’s sake, don’t do that.”

My head throbbed and the light in the crypt seemed overly bright but apart from that I felt better than I had expected. Already, the cold caul of death was slipping away, replaced by returning warmth and strength. Discovering that I could move, I swung my legs over the side of the bier and attempted to stand up. That was a mistake. Immediately, my knees gave way and I collapsed onto the floor. Cesare being frozen where he stood, I was left to haul myself back onto the bier, where I sat until I caught my breath.

“I’m not dead. I’ll explain everything—” I wasn’t looking forward to that but his presence in the crypt left me no choice. “But first, why are you here and where is Sofia Montefiore?”

He gave no sign of having heard me but he did take a step nearer, followed by another. “You aren’t dead?”

“Obviously not, nor are you witnessing any sort of miracle.” I added that last part lest he was befuddled enough to think that Almighty God would favor one such as me.

“Then what in Hades is happening here?”

I think he had figured out at least part of it already, for he had a brilliant mind and an even greater genius for intrigue. Even so, the sheer enormity of the deception I had engineered gave him pause. He needed a little time to believe what I had done.

“This is all a charade? You faked your own death?”

I nodded. “You want Morozzi to show himself and so do I. This was the best way.”

Which made us coconspirators in the plot to use Borgia as bait. I had to hope that having joined him on the side of expediency in contradiction of all natural law, Cesare would be willing to overlook my little ruse.

“Damn it, why in hell didn’t you tell me!” He strode to the bier, seized hold of me, and dragged me upright. “Do you have any idea how I felt? I thought you were dead. Dead! Even then I said you weren’t, I told everyone that idiot doctor was wrong but you were still just lying there, not moving. I couldn’t hear your heart or feel you breathing. You were cold as ice. Why didn’t you say something! Why didn’t you tell me!”

“Because I was unconscious! How else could I have looked like that? Blame me for not telling you before I acted, although I had good reason not to and make no apology for it. But don’t blame me for failing to consider your sensibilities when I was hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads!”

The full enormity of what I had done finally dawned on him. He did not let me go, probably just as well, as I would have fallen again, but he did ease his grip.

“My God,” he said, “you took something.”

“It was perfectly safe.” I saw no reason to mention that it might not have been or, for that matter, ever to think of that again.

“Are you mad? You could have been killed!”

“I
will
be killed if Morozzi disposes of your father and clears the way for Savonarola to become pope. A great many people will die. You’re likely to be among them.”

That possibility seemed not to have occurred to him but then he was still in the stage of his life when he thought himself immortal. Even so, he did not reject it out of hand.

“You may have a point.”

Judging that to be as great a concession as I could hope for, I said, “Sofia and Luigi must be worried sick. Why aren’t they here?”

“They knew, both of them? You told them and not me?”

I considered trying to explain that to him but it would have involved so much placating and soothing of his vanity that I simply could not muster the strength. Instead, I chose the more practical course.

With a soft moan, I sagged against him.

“Francesca!”

It was cruel, I know, to taunt a man so lately overcome with grief at the thought of my death. But as I said, I had chosen the side of expediency.

He swept me into his arms and was striding toward the doors of the crypt when they were flung open and Sofia entered. I peered at her surreptitiously as she railed at Cesare.

“That’s enough! You put her down right now and let me take care of her! Luigi, bring the blankets. Binyamin, where is that tea I brewed? David, don’t just stand there, take her from him!”

He stepped forward without hesitation. Unlike Rocco, David ben Eliezer had grown up brawling in the streets of Rome, where the greatest provocation was to be seen as a proud Jew. Never one to bow his head to any man, he went nowhere without a knife, a cudgel, a garroting wire, and the power of his own fists. Moreover, he was as adept at using those weapons as was Cesare himself. Both men were warriors to the bone. Let loose, they would have done each other a great deal of damage.

How fortunate that I was there between them.

“Stop!” I cried out. “We have no time for this. Cesare, for pity’s sake, put me down. These people mean no harm. They care as much for your father’s safety as you do yourself.”

“They are Jews.”

“They are my friends! And they will be yours if only you let them.”

That was a bit fanciful but thankfully neither Sofia nor David contradicted me. Even better, Cesare must have realized the folly of dividing our forces, for he relented and sat me down on the bier.

Sofia rushed forward. I was draped in blankets, chafed with warm hands, fed the restorative tea, and generally made much of.

“How is your vision?” she demanded. “Can you see properly?”

When I assured her that I could, she rushed on. “Wiggle your fingers and toes. Good. Turn your head. The other way, too. What day is it? Who am I? What is the last thing you remember? Is there any ringing in your ears? Are you experiencing melancholia or any other morbid sensibility? Can you pass water? I would like to examine it to be sure that—”

“Enough! Unless you have found a way to stop time, we must be done with this.”

She paused. Only then did I notice how closely Cesare was watching us. Looking at Sofia, he said, “Did you give her whatever it was that she took?”

Knowing full well the consequences of any such admission on her part, I spoke before she could.

“It was a potion of my own devising. Sofia tried to dissuade me and only agreed to go along so that she could be here to help me.”

Cesare was clearly unconvinced, but in the face of my lie, he could hardly interrogate Sofia further. That being the case, he turned his attention to Luigi.

“What is your excuse?”

I thought that the banker, being a sensible man, would seek to soothe Cesare, but instead Luigi said, “Francesca risked her life to persuade Morozzi that the way is clear for him. Your own grief will help convince him that she truly is dead.”

“You used me.”

“We are all using each other,” I said, my exasperation returning in full force. The chill of the crypt was beginning to penetrate the blanket I clutched. I had no wish to linger.

Turning to Sofia, I asked, “Did you bring clothes for me?”

Sofia indicated a basket. Together, we moved deeper into the crypt, where I dressed behind a blanket she held up. The breeches, doublet, and broad-brimmed hat that I donned were the uniform of a page in Luigi’s service. The livery was both easy for me to move around in and likely to deter unwanted attention.

Dressing, I whispered, “None of us bargained on Cesare being here. He can be useful later but I need to elude him for some little time.”

“Why?”

When I told her, she balked. “It is too dangerous. Surely, David can—”

“He wouldn’t be believed, nor would Benjamin. I have to do this myself.”

In the twilight sleep between life and death, it had occurred to me that tragic events had provided an opportunity to assure that Morozzi, never one to put himself at risk if he could avoid it, would not delegate the attack on Borgia to his Il Frateschi allies and slip away unseen. I did not add, although I suspected Sofia knew, that I also needed to repay a debt of honor.

Reluctantly, she agreed. With an arm around me, she hustled us past the men, announcing loudly, “Enough of this terrible place. Francesca must have fresh air.”

A quick look passed between her and David. That smoothly, he stepped in front of Cesare and Luigi, delaying their own departure from the tomb.

At the first touch of the sun on my face, unfettered relief flowed through me. Despite the desperate gamble I had taken, I was alive. For that I was truly thankful, but any expression of my gratitude would have to wait.

With a quick nod to Sofia, I slipped away through the screen of trees and out onto the busy street.

32

It was mid-afternoon when I set out to cross the river to Trastevere. In body and mind I was still more fragile than I had admitted to the others. The dark pool in which I had floated for so many hours had not entirely loosened its hold on me. I moved through the waning light of day while behind me trailed wisps of the strange contentment I had felt, lightly tethering me to that sense of oneness that I would never entirely forget.

In my page’s garb, I attracted no notice whatsoever. As I walked, I listened to snatches of conversation from passersby. Most of what I gleaned was of no import but here and there I heard references to the death of
la strega,
to Borgia’s chances of survival—not considered good—and to the terrible war that he and della Rovere seemed determined to bring down upon simple people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to get on with their lives.

Mulling over all that, I crossed the Ponte Sisto and had a sudden uncomfortable moment when I spotted Vittoro on horseback patrolling with several condottierri, including the hapless fellow that Cesare had set to guard me. I was glad to see that he had not suffered for my “death,” but thought his pardon likely due less to any act of mercy than to the simple need for as many armed men as possible to shore up Borgia’s defenses.

Vittoro was another to whom I would have to explain and hope for forgiveness, but rather than worry about that, I found myself thinking about the kindness of his family in coming out to mourn me. To do that for someone whom most others condemned as a witch took courage as well as genuine feeling. With the realization that I truly was less alone in this world than I had thought, the dark pool lost a little more of its appeal.

Within the warren of narrow streets that fanned out from the larger avenues where the wealthy had their houses, I found the vine-covered entrance to the netherworld that Benjamin had revealed to me. Using the flint and tinder I had acquired from Luigi, I struck a light. The passage leading downward was as uninviting as I remembered but I did not hesitate. This much I owed to Alfonso and to the nameless girl Morozzi had turned into a living torch.

I had barely stepped into the remains of the buried villa where I had first encountered
il re dei contrabbandieri
when various of his acolytes took note of me. At once I was surrounded by a motley crew of red-eyed, angry boys and a few girls who looked ready to tear any intruder limb from limb.

Without delay, I whipped off my cap, let my hair tumble about my shoulders, and announced, “I am Francesca Giordano. If you think to harm me, be prepared to die.”

I was taking a risk revealing myself to them but I considered that I had no choice. Further, I believed that given all that had occurred, they would keep my secret rather than risk giving benefit to the vile enemy who had killed one of their own.

Even so, their reaction was everything I expected and more. Scant hours before, they would have learned not only of my death but of the honors afforded me at my hasty but well-attended funeral by no less than Il Papa himself. Truly, one cannot get much more dead than to be sent to eternal rest under the auspices of Christ’s Vicar himself.

Yet there I was alive. Orpheus returned from the underworld could not have been received with greater awe and terror. They drew back, wide-eyed and gasping, and made no attempt to impede me as I crossed the space to stand before Alfonso’s throne.