The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (40 page)

He peered at me in what gave every appearance of honest bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“You said there were two apartments hidden here. Who is in the other?”

“No one. Why would you think—?”

Given a choice, an intelligent man usually is preferable to a stupid one, but on that particular occasion, I wished that Cesare wasn’t quite so swift of mind.

Not taking his eyes from me, he reached for his breeches and pulled them on, then stood, his arms loose at his sides, ready to move with lightning speed if he thought it necessary.

“What are you suggesting, Francesca?”

“You seem unconcerned that very shortly Il Papa must leave the safety of the
castel
to officiate at the wedding celebrations. Since that doesn’t worry you, you must think that this will be over before then. The only way you could believe that is if you already know Morozzi’s whereabouts.”

Did I truly believe that my dark lover had been sheltering Morozzi all this time, providing succor to the man who had caused me such unbearable anguish? Recall, I had not yet had any opportunity to learn of Cesare’s reaction to my death, apart from what had transpired since my return to the world. I knew nothing of his frenzied vow to kill the mad priest, but even if I had, I would not necessarily have been swayed by it.

Cesare was a true Borgia, capable of spinning plots within plots to dizzying effect. Moreover, he could tell himself that so long as Morozzi died in the end, using the priest to win favor with Il Papa was no sin.

Of course, I saw the matter differently.

“For God’s sake,” Cesare said. He thrust a hand through his hair in the manner of a man pressed to exasperation and beyond. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? Not a single soul.”

What could I say? He had me to rights. “No.”

“Not even that glassmaker, Pocco—”

“Rocco.”

“You didn’t tell him what you were planning, did you, when you plotted your death?”

How exactly had we gotten on the subject of Rocco when all I wanted to talk about was Morozzi? Did Cesare truly care so much about my relationship with another man, or was he merely seeking to distract me?

“I did not want him involved. He’s getting married.”

Cesare raised a brow. He stood only a few feet from me. I could see the shadow roughening his jaw, the thick lashes shielding his eyes, the soft pulsing of the vein in his neck along which I had pressed my lips. I kept my gaze on the beat of his life’s blood as the darkness stirred again inside me.

“Is he? Who to?”

“Carlotta d’Agnelli. It is a good match for him. He will have a chance to be happy.”

Cesare heaved a sigh and came a step closer.

I took a step back, uncertain which I dreaded more, that he would try to disarm me or that I would lose control and attack him.

“Tell me what you are concealing,” I said.

He pretended not to have heard me, absurd given how close we stood to each other, so close that I could watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and imagine how easy it would be to put a stop to it. There would be blood, of course, the same blood I hated and feared, and desperately needed. The darkness was growing stronger. I had to end this quickly but Cesare seemed disinclined to do so.

“What is happiness?” he asked. “You win or you lose, in between you struggle. That is the essence of life. Anything else is a tale told for children.”

“And I am supposed to be the cynic?”

In truth, the teachings of the ancient Cynics elude me. The notion that life should be lived free of all desires and possessions because none have any true value seems absurd. We are in this world; therefore we must accept our hungry, striving selves as best we can. Claiming that we can be other than what we are is self-deception at its worst.

“Tell me, Cesare! What are you hiding? Or is it who?”

“You think too much of my abilities. I am the son my father means to make into a puppet following slavishly in his steps. Such a creature counts for nothing.”

“When you are pope, you will think differently.”

“When I am pope, the world will be in ruins for there will never have been so vast a violation of nature. Or do you really believe that Juan has it in him to be a true duke, a leader in battle and in a peace of his own shaping?”

“I scarcely know Juan.” What I had seen of him was not impressive, but to be fair, his belief that I was a witch in need of burning tainted my opinion.

“I know him all too well,” Cesare said. “He is a fool, plain and simple. But our father loves him and will believe no ill of him unless I can present him with irrefutable proof of what he has done.”

I heard what he said clearly enough but my mind reeled from the implications. I needed a breath and then another before I could begin to come to terms with what he seemed to be telling me.

“Juan? Your brother, Juan, is sheltering Morozzi?”

That hot-tempered dullard of a second son who still managed to be Borgia’s favorite by virtue of his willingness to do anything Il Papa wanted of him?
He
was conspiring with his father’s would-be murderer?

“What possible reason would Juan have for doing such a thing?”

“I have no idea,” Cesare admitted. “But I don’t pretend to understand the workings of what passes for my brother’s mind. Morozzi is sheltered within Juan’s own residence, in one of the hidden apartments much like this. He has access to a tunnel, again like the one here, which means that he can come and go by the river or through the streets, including the underground passages he knows so well. That’s how he’s been able to move around the city at will while remaining virtually invisible.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have a man in Juan’s household. A few days ago, he reported that someone might be hidden in one of the apartments there but he couldn’t be sure. Early today, he finally got a glimpse of him. The moment I heard the description, I knew that it was Morozzi.”

“I am so sorry.”

Really, what else could I say? I was sorry to have come close to drawing a knife on him, true enough, but that was as nothing compared to the sympathy I felt for his being saddled with such a brother and a father unable to see his sons in their true light. While he lived, my father knew me as I truly was and, incredibly, loved me all the same. Borgia could not see past his own interest to perceive his sons for the men they were.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Every means of egress from Juan’s house is under watch. As soon as Morozzi is on the move, I will know. We will close in, take him—alive if possible, dead if we must—and Juan will be made to account for what he has done.”

And then what? Borgia would awaken to the true nature of his sons, perceive Cesare as he really was, and allow him to live a life of his own choosing? As much as I wanted to believe that, I had my doubts.

But I said nothing of that as I slipped my knife fully back into its sheath and tucked both into a pocket of my breeches. As I did so, the darkness subsided, if only sullenly.

Cesare didn’t even pretend not to notice what I did. He watched my every move and shook his head when I was done.

“Pocco could never have managed you, surely you know that?”

“I don’t want to discuss him.”

“Fair enough, but if you ever think to pull a knife on me again, you had better be prepared to use it.”

“I’ll just slip something into your wine.”

He didn’t take me seriously, of course, which was as I intended. I had to hope that he would never again come so close to discovering what I was truly capable of doing.

“Speaking of,” he said, “I’m hungry.”

We dined on roasted quail accompanied by crusty bread; carrots drizzled with honey; fresh greens topped with oil, a dash of vinegar, and a sprinkling of chopped herbs; and what may have been the best duck paté I had ever tasted. Cesare poured a fruity Tuscan red that carried a hint of plum.

“How long have you suspected Juan?” I asked as I dipped a morsel of the bread in the quail sauce, then spread a little of the paté on it. Any concern that my stomach might not be up to such rich food had dissolved with the first bite.

“All my life, I think, although that may not have been true when we were very young. It’s hard to remember exactly when I realized that he was doing his damndest to turn our father against me.”

“Yet Il Papa has given you great responsibilities.”

Juan might be the recipient of noble titles and the lands that went with them, as well as having a grand marriage planned for him, but it was to Cesare that Borgia turned on matters as sensitive as the dispersal of family funds or the gathering of intelligence. Surely, that could be seen as a sign of paternal favor?

Cesare twirled the stem of his goblet between his fingers and looked at me over the rim. “He regards experience in finance and diplomacy as essential for a future pope. But it is Juan who will be given armies to lead, if in name only. My brother will win glory he does not deserve.”

“And is that what you want, glory?”

“What else is there in this world? It is through glory that our names ring down through the ages. It is our immortality.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve spent too much time reading Homer. Glory didn’t do the Greeks much good in front of Troy, or afterward, for that matter. Their temples are cast down, their alabaster cities buried, what are they but memory?”

“What is there but memory?” Cesare countered. “Achilles, Odysseus, Ajax, Patroclus … we know their names and their deeds. When we speak of them, they live again.”

I did not see it but neither did I expect to dissuade him. He had a vision of the heroic life that overrode anything Il Papa could intend. The only question was how far he would go to achieve it.

“What do you think should happen to Juan?”

Cesare hesitated. I could see that the subject was a sore one, for all that he must have contemplated it at length.

“For the sake of the family, nothing public can be said, of course. He would have to retain his honors, even proceed with the Spanish marriage. But apart from that, he cannot be allowed to do any more harm.”

“He will blame you. Have you considered that he will seek vengeance?”

“I will deal with that when I need to.”

Which left me wondering how far exactly Juan would be able to go before Cesare sought a more final solution to the problem of his brother.

I was mulling that over when there was a soft knock at the door leading to the dressing room. Cesare got up to answer it. He returned, frowning slightly.

“There has been an incident at the guesthouse next to Santa Maria.”

I leaned back in my chair and pretended renewed interest in the cherubs.

“What sort of incident?”

“A fire, apparently.”

“Were there injuries?”

Cesare remained standing. He refilled both our goblets and handed mine to me.

“Oddly enough, the flames spread so quickly that no one was able to escape. You wouldn’t think that a stone building would go up like that, would you, but apparently it did.”

“Perhaps it had some help.” There were any number of flammable liquids that Alfonso could have used—tar, pitch, lamp oil, to name a few—that thrown through the windows and ignited would have done the job effectively.

“That could be.” Cesare drained his goblet and set it down on the table. “Mention is being made of Florentine merchants in the city to consult on renovations for the church. None of them has been seen since the fire broke out.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Perhaps we need a papal commission to investigate fire safety in the city.”

“An excellent idea,” I agreed. “Juan could head it.”

That wrung a rueful grin. I finished my wine and managed to grab a bit more of the paté on the way out the door. Morozzi would hear of the fire almost as quickly as we had. With his allies gone, my nemesis would have no choice but to make his move.

33

Juan’s residence was less than a quarter mile away. Cesare had a cordon of men surrounding it, all drawn well back into the shadows of nearby buildings, all heavily armed. We slipped in among them, saluted by a young condottierre who snapped to attention at first sight of Cesare. He scarcely noticed me, which was exactly as I wanted it.

“Sir,” he said, “there has been no activity since Gandia”—he referred to Juan by his ducal title—“returned approximately an hour ago. No one has entered or left since then.”

Cesare nodded without taking his eyes from the house. “Has there been any activity on the roof?”

I understood what he was thinking, that someone might have caught a glimpse of the flames coming from the guesthouse next to Santa Maria and gone up for a better view. A pall of smoke, heavier than usual for a June night, hung in the air, sure warning of a large fire somewhere nearby.

But the condottierre shook his head. “No, sir, no activity at all.”

“Then we wait,” Cesare said. To me, he added, “It can’t be long.”

We waited all night. As the hours dragged by, Cesare’s frustration and impatience grew. Twice, he stalked away from the house, through the streets that led to the hidden exit near the river where the tunnel from Juan’s house came out. The guards on watch there were as alert and vigilant. They swore, and I believed them, that the only sign of life came from the ubiquitous rats who emerged at first hint of darkness, scurrying back and forth between the river and the shore.

We heard the same at the nearby stables where the horses slept undisturbed by the careful vigilance of hard men who stood in the shadows, ready to move in an instant.

We returned to the street near the house and continued waiting. My legs grew stiff and the small of my back ached. Had our quarry been anyone other than Morozzi, I would have found a reason to seek my bed. As it was, I sat down, leaned against a wall, and dozed lightly.

Dawn approached with no sign of Morozzi. Cesare was beside himself.

“This makes no sense,” he insisted. “He has to know that with each passing hour, the risk that he will be discovered increases. And once Pesaro is here, security will be even tighter. He has to realize that, too.”