The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (5 page)

Accordingly, I set off across the river to the Campo dei Fiori, the city’s most important market and the place where it is said everyone in Rome eventually comes, if only for the frequent executions. As always, the narrow, cobblestoned streets of the Campo were crowded with shoppers taking advantage of the Church’s dispensation, effective on all but a handful of holy days, allowing the sale of goods deemed to be “essential.” But in a change from the previous year, there were fewer thieves and correspondingly less evidence of the cudgel-wielding patrols hired by the merchants to discourage them.

There were those, the wiser among us, who said that the relative peace Borgia had brought to the city would not last, that inevitably it would be crushed under the weight of his insatiable ambitions. As it turned out, they were right, but I was blind to that at the time.

Indeed, I was sufficiently preoccupied making certain that I had not been followed that I passed by the streets of the cloth merchants, goldsmiths, leather workers, scriveners, and the like with scant notice until I came finally to the Via dei Vertrarari, the street of the glassmakers. There I slowed and took a moment to smooth my hastily donned garments and touch a hand to the braid encircling the crown of my head. It was a practical hairstyle, as I was forever reminding Lucrezia when she urged me to wear my hair down on the absurd claim that it was one of my best features. I am no slave to vanity but I confess to caring how I looked to the man who, had I been a normal woman, would have been my husband.

From this you will, no doubt, conclude that I am a contrary creature, and there is some truth to that. Drawn to Cesare as I was, I was still entirely capable of longing for Rocco—for the man himself, for the life I might have had with him, for the woman I could not be.

As I approached the modest timbered building that, unlike its neighbors to either side, offered little to draw interest, the thought pierced me that had I been free to accept Rocco’s proposal two years before, I could be sitting in front of that shop with a baby on my knee. It was not the first time that I was tormented by the vision of what might have been, nor would it be the last. I took a swift breath against the pain in my heart and proceeded, only to stop abruptly when a small bundle of spitting fury launched itself at me.

Several things happened all at once: the kitten, for such it was, dug its claws into my skirt and proceeded to climb up me, all the while mewing fiercely; two large dogs of the foolish sort who always look as though they are about to tumble over their own paws loped after it, stopped only by my stern look; and a small boy of seven years with a mop of dark hair, a sprinkling of freckles, and an engaging grin burst from the shop shouting, “Don’t let her go, Donna Francesca, she’s already clawed their noses to ribbons and she’ll do worse!”

By this time, the kitten had nestled into my arms while continuing to spit warnings at the dogs. She, for perhaps not surprisingly the animal turned out to be female, seemed to have no sense of her own size or the ease with which either of her victims could have made a meal of her. On the contrary, she appeared to be merely using me as a perch upon which to catch her breath before launching herself back at them.

“Perhaps we should go inside,” I said, a little breathlessly myself, for just then a tall, powerfully built man in his late twenties with the same brown eyes and hair as his son stepped from the shop.

What shall I say of Rocco? That he was a good man and my friend? Such should be self-evident. That the thought of what we might have shared had I been an entirely different person haunted me? I have told you that already. Shall I admit that his eyes were not merely brown but flecked with gold and that when he smiled, the world stopped? You will think me a giddy girl, a gross deception to inflict on so good a reader who has yet to recoil from the shocking revelations of my true nature.

Unless, of course, you are secretly drawn to them, which is entirely your affair.

Strictly speaking, Cesare was the more classically handsome of the two, not to mention having all the advantages of great wealth and social standing. But Rocco … he was the calm center of the storm that was my life, my place of refuge and, however tenuously, of hope I could not bring myself to abandon even as I believed it to be futile.

“Francesca?” He smiled as he took in my efforts to restrain the tiny pile of fur and grime who threatened to best me as readily as she had the dogs. “What have you there?”

“I’m not sure.” I could only hope that he ascribed my heightened color to the efforts needed to contain the cat and not for self-consciousness at seeing him. “She looks like a kitten but she doesn’t seem to know that she’s one.”

Rocco laughed and looked at me warmly. He had never shown the slightest resentment toward me for rejecting him as a husband. To the contrary, he had been all that was kind and good. There were times when I suspected that he was only waiting for me to come to my senses and agree to wed him. A woman better than myself would have done the decent thing and disabused him of any such notion.

Mercifully, Nando squeezed between us. He held the door to the shop open. The dogs continued to circle, tails wagging even as they bared their teeth.

“Hurry before they get her,” the child said.

4

I stepped into the shop with Rocco close behind me. The single ground-floor room set beneath a low loft was typical of those found in the homes of craftsmen and traders save that it was tidier than most, being occupied only by Rocco and his son instead of the more usual sprawling families. The floor was stone covered with woven rush mats, one of the few outward indications of the glassmaker’s growing affluence, belied by the deliberately plain exterior. A fireplace with a pair of swing hooks for holding iron pots provided warmth in winter but was swept clean of ashes and left empty at this time of year. What cooking Rocco did went on outside, where he also did most of his work. There was also a table surrounded by stools, shelves that held samples of the glassmaker’s art, and a ladder that gave access to a sleeping loft. Less obvious but known to me all the same was the false wall near the back door. Opened, it revealed the more specialized work that Rocco did for particular customers, myself among them, including the glass stills, retorts, sublimatories, and other devices required for the practice of alchemy.

While it is true that Venice still claimed the finest glassmakers as her own, the craft had long since spread beyond that watery city where Rocco himself had been born. Rome boasted a firm of glassmakers to the pope, the d’Agnelli, whose wares were sought as far away as Ingleterre and, it was even said, eastward to Constantinople. Of late, they had fallen on sad times, having suffered the death of their only son, but they remained a force within the city. The family head, Enrico d’Agnelli, continued to dominate the glassmakers’ guild. Yet sensibly he left room for newer men to make their mark.

Rocco had occupied the shop for all the half-dozen years I had known him. In that time, he had achieved a quiet following among both connoisseurs of glass and the growing community of alchemists. Had he chosen to do so, he certainly could have afforded more spacious accommodations. But he was by nature a modest man who also had a sensible appreciation for the protection of anonymity. The simple shop nestled among seemingly more prosperous competitors suited him well.

He secured the door behind us, shutting out the noise of the street. At once, I was aware of the relative coolness and quiet of his home, of the pleasant scent of fresh rushes and herbs drying in the rafters above, and as always, of the longing in me for what could not be.

In my preoccupation, I must have held the kitten too tightly for she hissed and stuck out a tiny paw, as though to rake me.

Nando grinned. “She’s not afraid of anything, is she? Like Minerva, always ready to do battle.”

“Minerva, indeed,” Rocco said with a smile. He looked at me as he added, “The goddess who never surrenders. An apt name, wouldn’t you say, Francesca?”

I turned away, all too aware that there had been times when I would gladly have surrendered to the glassmaker who spun works of astounding beauty from sand, wood ash, and fire. Call it wickedness, call it hypocrisy, but the truth is that being certain that I could never be wife to Rocco only increased my desire for him. My reluctance to lower myself in his estimation stopped me from acting on my natural tendencies, but only just.

“If she must have a name,” I said, looking down at the kitten that, still in my arms, set about washing herself with admirable industry. “Are you going to keep her?”

“Can we, Papa?” Nando asked.

Rocco hesitated. “I thought you wanted a dog.”

“I do, but—”

“Why don’t you keep her, Francesca?” Rocco prompted. “She seems to like you.”

I stared at the creature, ready to explain why that was impossible. A deep rumbling, surely too vast for so small an animal, came from her. She blinked startlingly blue eyes and opened her tiny mouth in a yawn.

“I’ve never had a pet.” My father had discouraged fondness for any particular animal, the better to steel me for the practice of testing new poisons on stray cats and dogs. It pained him to use them in such a way but he saw no alternative. He was horrified when I insisted that people should be used instead but ultimately he found merit in my argument that a man or woman condemned to torture and the stake would welcome a quicker and more merciful death. The discreet arrangements he made with various prison officials have served me well when needed, which, lest you think too badly of me, I assure you is not often.

“Then it’s time you did,” Rocco said, for thankfully he had no notion of my dark thoughts. That quickly it was settled. I could say no to Rocco on a matter as fraught as marriage, but when it came to the small things—upon which some say life truly depends—I was helpless to deny him.

He pulled a stool from the table and invited me to sit. As I did, Nando presented himself before us and stuck out his hand with the palm up. I noted that his fingers were ink-stained. Several months before, his father had begun teaching him to read and write. Getting the boy to concentrate on his lessons was something of a chore, as Nando saw little use for paper and pen except to draw. I had seen several of his sketches and thought he showed true promise.

“I know, Papa,” he said with a grin, “tell Donna Maria that you want an especially good loaf.”

When Rocco looked bemused, Nando eyed us both and laughed. “Every time Donna Francesca comes to visit, you send me to the bakery for fresh bread.”

I am certain that we both flushed then but Rocco did not disagree. He drew a coin from his pocket and sent it spinning through the air. Nando caught it and hurried off.

Except for the kitten, who had gone to sleep on my lap, we were alone, if only briefly. Rocco wasted no time. He took the stool across from me and said, “I’ve had a cryptic note from Luigi, something about postponing further business until the weather clears. Do you know what that’s about?”

I breathed a small sigh of relief that the banker was safe and quickly said, “I came to tell you that the villa was attacked while we were meeting. Sofia and I got away and I think everyone else did as well. You’ve had no trouble here?”

Rocco had paled the moment I began to speak. Now he shook his head and said, “Nothing … I had no idea. You are unharmed?”

When I assured him that I was, he said, “Tell me all that happened.”

As I finished describing the events of the previous evening, Rocco took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could see that he was struggling with himself, torn between anger over what had occurred and deep concern as to what it portended.

“Do you know who the attackers were?” he asked. “Did you see their faces?”

I shook my head. “The dogs alerted us and we fled too quickly to see anyone. Nor did they see us. They may not know our identities.” I was hopeful that was the case but precautions had to be taken all the same.

“If they do, we will hear from them again soon,” Rocco said. His face was grim as the full weight of the problem we confronted sank into him. “You could have been killed.”

Along with Sofia, Luigi, Guillaume, and the rest, but it was of me he thought and for that I admit to being pleased. Even so, I replied bluntly. “I would have been fortunate to be killed rather than captured and subjected to questioning. But enough of that. Someone betrayed us; there is no other explanation. We must find out who was behind the attack.”

Rocco’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer before he nodded. “Guillaume may be able to help. He should be able to learn if the Inquisitors are involved.”

I am no coward but the thought of confronting the black-robed arbiters of souls made me shudder. Although we had been spared—thus far—the crazed spectacle of heresy-hunting that had become the fashion in Spain, here, as there, the Dominican Order was entrusted with making what are so blandly called “inquiries” into suspected lapses of faith. They delved anywhere they chose and were free to use torture as a means of getting at what they considered to be truth. I had already helped to foil a plot involving the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, the loathsome Tomás de Torquemada, who sought to provoke an anti-Jewish outbreak in Rome at the time of the papal election the previous year. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that he knew of my involvement and might look to his brethren to revenge him. But he was far from alone in having cause to strike against those seen as challenging the power of Holy Mother Church.

“If it was God’s Hounds,” I said, “someone has unleashed them.”

“Borgia?”

“Hardly, for he despises them. Il Papa is not above using those he loathes for his own ends, but he considers the Inquisitors to be a dangerous element in need of restraining. I don’t think he would do anything to encourage them.”

“Then who?” Rocco asked. He appeared about to answer his own question when I interjected.

“We were examining a copy of the map La Cosa made. Perhaps someone knew it would be there and seeks to suppress what it shows. Someone who is interested in hiding evidence that Colombo really did not discover the Indies. And then we should not overlook the possibility that some other of us in attendance might have enemies. Luigi, for instance; he has risen very far, very fast. Such men frequently sow ill will behind them.”