The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (6 page)

If you suspect that I interrupted Rocco because I did not want to hear what I was certain he would say, you have the right of it. But even I knew that the reality of our situation could not be long ignored.

He reached over and covered my hands with his. “No possibility should be overlooked. I know it is hard for you to speak of him, Francesca, but if Morozzi still lives—”

“He does,” I said. “To my shame.” In Rocco’s presence, I had even more reason to regret my failure to kill Morozzi. The previous year, the mad priest had come terrifyingly close to killing Nando. That I had managed to save the child’s life did not absolve me of responsibility for bringing such danger near to him.

“If it is Morozzi,” Rocco said, “or the Inquisitors or anyone else, is it likely that Borgia will know? More to the point, can you find out from him?”

“I can try, but information is to Il Papa as gold is to other men. He may be willing to trade it for something else of value but he will never simply give it away.”

Nando returned just then, curtailing our discussion. We spoke of far more pleasant things over wine, bread, and good cheese from the Piedmont. It was only after I left that I realized I had not thought to ask Rocco why he had missed the meeting at the villa.

Nor had he offered any reason.

5

After leaving Rocco’s, I returned briefly to my rooms, stopping on the way to purchase a small piece of cod for Minerva from a fish vendor in the Via dei Pescatori. As I stepped through the archway of the building into the loggia, a tiny woman appeared in the open top of the half door from which a view could be had of all comings and goings between the building and the street. She was no bigger than a child—and thus required to stand on a stool to see above the lower half of the door—but she had an air of authority that would have done a giantess proud.

“What have you there, Donna Francesca?” she asked, gesturing at the kitten.

Portia, the only name I knew her by, was our
portatore,
a position poised somewhere between servant and tyrant. She and she alone heard complaints, settled disputes, arranged for repairs, and—clear testament to Luigi d’Amico’s trust in her—collected the quarterly rent. She also directed guests, accepted packages, and kept a discreet eye on things in general. In her youth, rumor had it, she had been one of a troupe of acrobatic dwarfs who were very popular in Rome for a time. How she came to be in Luigi’s employ is unknown to me, but given his sagacity in all things practical, I assume he knew what he was about when he hired her.

“Her name is Minerva,” I said, indicating the kitten, who appeared to have gone back to sleep.

“Do you mean to keep her,
donna
?”

That Portia knew of my profession was beyond doubt, although she never alluded to it. For that, if nothing else, she had my gratitude. I moved quickly to disabuse her of any concern regarding the animal’s fate.

“Apparently so. She seems to have taken a liking to me and I to her.”

“Well enough.” From one of the many pockets in her immense apron that covered her almost from chin to toe, Portia withdrew a folded paper and handed it to me. “This came for you a short time ago.”

I juggled Minerva in one arm while I broke the seal and quickly scanned the message. It was from Vittoro Romano, the captain of Borgia’s personal guard. He inquired as to my health and suggested that we speak at my earliest convenience. Given that
il capitano
was a man of consummate discretion, I concluded that he would not have taken the unusual step of sending a written message unless something of importance was afoot.

“I must go,” I said, tucking the note away. With an apologetic smile, I indicated Minerva. “If you wouldn’t mind getting her settled for me?”

The
portatore
took both kitten and cod with only a small sigh. “Of course, Donna. Am I not here merely to serve?”

“I’ll look for more of those cherries you enjoy,” I offered. “His Holiness is fond of them as well. We just got a new shipment in from Vignola. Nothing but the best.”

Placated, Portia bestowed a smile and rubbed Minerva behind her ears, eliciting a throbbing purr that followed me as I hastened back out onto the street.

The day being mildly warm with a pleasant breeze from the sea, I decided to walk rather than be ferried along the river or avail myself of one of the sedan chairs that thronged the crowded streets. Rome is a great city for walking, assuming one does not mind hills. Beyond being virtually guaranteed of encountering something new and interesting, being on foot gave me the opportunity to gauge the mood in the streets, always of concern to one charged as I was with protecting a noble family.

I admit to paying even more than usual attention to my surroundings, on the lookout for anything that might give a clue as to who was behind the attack on Lux. Were there truly more of the black-robed Dominicans present in Saint Peter’s Square or was that just my imagination? Did the golden-haired priest I thought I glimpsed at a distance bear more than a passing resemblance to Bernando Morozzi or were my eyes playing tricks? Was there more security evident in general or had a bad scare and a sleepless night so frayed my nerves that I was jumping at shadows?

I breathed a small sigh of relief as I approached the Vatican barracks, housed in a long, low stone building constructed only a few decades before and kept in excellent repair. The papal guard, including many of the men who had served Borgia when he was a cardinal, enjoyed an array of comforts reflective of his dignity. In addition to the barracks, they had their own kitchens, expansive stables, a spacious training field and, it was said, access to some of the better brothels in the city, all courtesy of His Holiness.

Despite the latter, they maintained an admirable level of discipline and readiness thanks in no small measure to the man charged with leading them. Vittoro Romano was in his fifties, of medium height and build with the straight spine and firm stance of a much younger man. He had been a soldier almost all his life but had also found time to become a husband and father to a boisterous family, all daughters who had married well and graced him with grandchildren he adored.

He was speaking with one of his subordinates as I approached, giving me an opportunity to observe him. The two might have been talking of the prospects for rain, the capabilities of a new recruit, or the imminent likelihood of war; it was impossible to tell which. Vittoro was always and unfailingly a man of great calm with seemingly no capacity for excitement. An astrologer would ascribe his temperament to having been born under the sign of Saturn, although as to whether that would be correct I could not say. Like almost all of us, he had no notion of the date of his birth, far less the time. I wonder if it is such ignorance on the part of ordinary people that allows astrologers to appear so wise.

Seeing me approach, Vittoro dismissed the man he had been speaking with. Before I could say a word, he shook his head and gestured toward the nearby stables where deep shadows offered concealment. Even there, he kept his voice low. Intrigued despite myself, I gave him my full attention.

“I am glad to see you looking so well, Donna Francesca. I thought we might have a word before you are swept into the day.”

I took the compliment for what it was, the kindness of a friend. After the events at the villa and a sleepless night, I was hardly looking my best.

“Of course, Capitano. What can I do for you?”

He glanced around to be sure we were not observed, then leaned a little closer.

“Cardinal della Rovere has reached Savona. Word has it that he is gathering forces there and intends to make for France.”

I inhaled sharply. Ever since the conclave the previous year that resulted in Borgia becoming pope there had been rumors that the bitter rivalry between His Holiness and the much younger but no less ambitious della Rovere was about to break into open warfare. At Savona, family seat of the della Roveres, the Cardinal would be as a hawk in its aerie, inviolate. And if he did make for France and the welcoming arms of its young, war-hungry king, not all Borgia’s scheming might be enough to save us. Coming on top of the trouble with Naples, this boded very ill.

“What does His Holiness intend?” I asked.

“He has ordered security here increased. I am bringing men in from the other papal properties. Of course, the task of protecting His Holiness would be simpler if he hadn’t acquired a troubling new habit.”

Given all of Borgia’s myriad peccadillos, I was hard-pressed to imagine what new vice he could have acquired, and said as much.

“He has taken to disappearing,” Vittoro said.

My initial reaction was disbelief. Granted, there were long stretches of time when His Holiness was
in camera,
not to be disturbed. But there was no mystery as to why. Everyone knew that Christ’s Vicar was blessed with a robust carnal appetite.

“He is with La Bella or some other woman,” I said. There was no reason to assume that Il Papa restricted himself to just one mistress, lovely though she was, when so many appealing women in Rome would be happy to receive him.

“Not so,” Vittoro said. “He isn’t in La Bella’s apartments or his own or any guest accommodation and he hasn’t left the precincts of the Vatican. He is somewhere else, somewhere I don’t know about.”

“There are any number of discreet ways in and out of the Vatican—”

“Forty-seven ways—tunnels, passages, and the like. Or at least there were. I had forty-five of them sealed up shortly after Borgia was elected, with his approval. The remaining two are closely guarded.”

“Then where is he?”

“His secretaries claim not to know. They say that he is disappearing from within his private office. Two concealed doors lead from there but they connect either to his own apartment or to the passage through the Sistine Chapel that comes out in the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, near to La Bella’s quarters. Neither solves the mystery of where he is going.”

“Or what he is doing,” I said slowly. The implications were considerable. Borgia was at heart an inveterate schemer. Partly that was a necessary by-product of his lust for power but also I think he simply enjoyed what was for him something of a living chess game but with much higher stakes than to be found on any board.

“Precisely,” Vittoro said. “How am I to protect him if I do not know what he is up to?”

“I will learn what I can.”

The captain nodded, clearly relieved that I had grasped the importance of the matter. After a moment, he said, “When His Holiness got the news about della Rovere being in Savona, he called for you. You weren’t to be found.”

I shrugged, hoping to convey the impression that my absence was of no particular significance.

“It’s probably to the good that His Holiness has had time to reflect.”

Vittoro understood as well as I that there are occasions when the most faithful servant has to turn a deaf ear. Otherwise what is said in the heat of the moment can take on its own momentum. Even so, he was not so easily put off.

“Is everything all right, Francesca?”

Such informal address did not surprise me. He had known me since I came as a child to Borgia’s palazzo on the Corso. When I succeeded to my father’s position, far from condemning my methods, Vittoro had offered me support and more. I knew that I could rely on him absolutely and yet I still hesitated to confide in him. Lux was that important to me and, I feared, that vulnerable.

“Well, let us see,” I said with a smile. “Il Papa may or may not be about to give the Indies away to the Portuguese, prompting Spain to arms. Unless, of course, he’s giving it to the Spaniards, which would put the Portuguese at our throats. There is the matter of Naples … and the multiple attempts on His Holiness’s life by unknown sources … and now his bitter rival seems to be positioning himself for war. In the midst of all this, our master has taken to disappearing mysteriously. All in all, I would say matters lie about as we who serve
la famiglia
must expect.”

Vittoro chuckled. “Don’t forget Madonna Lucrezia, whose nuptials will be soon upon us.”

“Quite right, let’s not forget that.” Privately, I gave odds of no better than five to three that Borgia would allow the marriage to take place. Lucrezia had already been betrothed formally once or twice, depending on which rumor you believed. What would another broken pledge mean?

Except that this particular betrothal and the marriage to follow involved the peacock-proud house of Sforza, whose support had been key in securing Borgia’s election to the papacy. On that basis alone, he might feel called upon to honor it.

“Sometimes I imagine that in my old age,” Vittoro mused, “I will sit in a garden and watch my grandchildren at their play. The sun will be shining, but not too brightly, there will be a gentle breeze smelling of lemons and lavender, pigeons will coo in the cote, and I will have no thought save for whatever tasty dish my dear wife is preparing for our dinner.”

“And you will not be bored? You won’t miss all this?”

“As I said, I will be old.”

We did not speak of what I imagined for myself, for Vittoro knew better than to ask. The past haunted me too vividly to leave much room for the future.

I lingered a little longer before going off about my duties. There were always new supplies arriving in the kitchens, sides of beef and baskets of fish, heaps of fruits and vegetables, rounds of cheese, vats of wine and ale, and all that without regard for the provisions that were beginning to come in for the wedding feast.

I sampled everything, delving to the bottoms of sacks and baskets, prying open carcasses, and so on. Fresh food is notoriously hard to poison, any agent leaving traces of smell, taste, and color for the experienced eye. For the same reason, it is difficult to taint wine or ale without making either liquid cloudy, although sometimes the visual evidence is very slight indeed, discernible only to the most experienced eye, which, grace to God and my father’s excellent training, I have. Prepared foods are a different matter—sausages, smoked meats, dried fish, anything with a great quantity of spice all offer the promise of concealment. For that reason, I required that anything of that nature be manufactured under my supervision.