The Borgia Mistress Read online

  We turned him again. Fortunately, the rigor that follows death had not yet set in so it was not necessary to break the jaw. I found no foam in the mouth or around the lips. Inhaling, I observed that the boy had eaten garlic not long before his death; hardly unusual, as it is greatly favored not only for its flavor but as a protection against illness. Slipping a hand beneath the bodice of my gown, I withdrew the knife I habitually carried and made a small slit along the side of the boy’s neck. At once, his blood began to flow. The color was dark red.

  “Not cyanide,” I said. Had it been, the nicked vein would have produced bright cherry-red blood, the only certain indication that the poison is present. One of the reasons cyanide is so popular among those of my profession is because the public, in its infinite wisdom, believes that it can be readily detected by the scent of almonds it gives off. But the scent is easily masked by any number of substances, including garlic, thereby instilling a false sense of security that can be very useful.

  “What else might it be, then?” Vittoro asked.

  “I don’t know. Was there anything unusual about his posture when he was found? Anything that might indicate that he’d had convulsions?”

  “There didn’t seem to be. He just looked as though he collapsed.”

  “Where are his clothes?”

  Vittoro handed them to me. They were in good condition for the boy’s station and ample enough to have kept him warm. Inhaling, I smelled damp wool, wood smoke, and a faint but not very intense odor of sweat. Nothing to indicate that he had been ill.

  “If you want to open him up…,” Vittoro began. Holy Mother Church forbid such treatment of the dead, even when it was the only means of establishing what had killed them. The prohibition had not stopped me in the past and would not have done so then, but there was no time. As I could not rule out the possibility that the boy had been poisoned, I had no choice but to act. His Holiness was about to dine.

  I jumped from the wagon, caught up my skirts, and ran. My presence was noted the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Work sputtered to a halt before the maestro di maestri barked a command and everyone snapped back into action.

  I forced a smile. “Is that pork I smell? For His Holiness?”

  The maestro assured me that it was, to be accompanied by Il Papa’s favorite apricot sauce as well as the savory peas he enjoyed and golden rounds of lightly fried chestnut meal, the achievement of such a meal under such lamentably primitive conditions being mentioned only once or twice—or thrice—as though in passing.

  “You have whetted my appetite,” I declared. “I must have a taste of everything.” This was not an unheard-of demand from me. During the frequent state dinners at the Vatican, Borgia liked for me to be present as a reminder of the care he took with his own safety and of the weapon he could unleash should he choose to do so. On such occasions, I preferred to eat first in the kitchens, where I customarily enjoyed a portion of the food prepared for His Holiness.

  I was not, contrary as it may seem, being entirely reckless; only somewhat. Most poisons in food can be detected by sight and smell, provided one knows what to look for. Of course, cooking and the addition of sauces make that task more difficult, but it was for just that reason that Borgia—like any sensible prince—employed someone of my dark calling.

  His Holiness’s dinner was already plated on gold serving pieces to be carried forth by pages wearing the mulberry and gold colors of the House of Borgia. They froze as I approached, their outstretched arms suddenly trembling under the weight of what they bore. I told myself that I had inspected the pork with the greatest care. The same was true of the apricots, peas, chestnut meal, and every other ingredient, as well as the wine. Every maestro di cucina knew better than to use anything that had not been sealed by me to indicate that it was safe. Forgeries were possible, but my father had caused the seal ring that he had used before it became mine to be wrought so intricately as to make copying it unusually difficult. Moreover, I changed the color of the wax I used daily, selecting randomly from among dozens of hues. The plain truth was that I had taken every possible precaution to assure that Borgia would dine in perfect safety. If I had any real confidence in my own skills, the death from as-yet-unknown causes of one kitchen boy would not deter me from testing them.

  The pork was succulent, crisp-skinned and moist. The apricot sauce was a perfect accompaniment. I took only a small piece so as not to disturb the arrangement on the platter overly much and swallowed it quickly. So, too, did I taste everything else intended for His Holiness, including his wine. Truly the man ate well. A hush had fallen over the kitchen. Every eye was on me. No one moved, and few seemed even to breathe.

  When I was done, I cleaned my fingers on a cloth while I did a quick assessment: no burning in the mouth or throat; no tingling in the extremities; no cramping in the stomach or lower down; no blurred vision. Granted, certain poisons could be slow-acting, but they required multiple doses administered over time. Whatever had killed the kitchen boy, it was not in Borgia’s dinner.

  “Superb, as always,” I said. “My compliments, maestro. You have outdone yourself.”

  The poor man almost sagged in relief but caught himself in time and inclined his head to me instead. We both knew that had poison been found in Borgia’s food, things would have gone very badly for the maestro and everyone else who worked in the kitchens. But had it not been found—had it slipped through somehow and actually reached Borgia—that would have been even worse, for therein lay the difference between the hope of a swift death and the certainty of prolonged agony that makes death a blessing.

  Not exactly the most cheerful atmosphere in which to work, but every job has its drawbacks, and Borgia paid very well.

  The pages hurried off, and activity in the kitchen returned to normal. I stepped outside, followed by Vittoro, who was tight-lipped and glaring out of concern for me but said nothing because, as we both knew full well, I had done nothing not in keeping with the responsibilities of my position.

  “I’ll see that the boy is buried,” he said. Under the circumstances, it was the wisest course. To do otherwise would invite speculation. Still, I regretted not having the opportunity to determine what had killed him.

  Suddenly weary, I nodded. With the immediate crisis passed, all I wanted was to wash off the dirt of the road and go to bed. I managed only the first. Having patted the last drop of apricot sauce from his lips, the Pope wasted no time summoning his poisoner.

  3

  In that October of Anno Domino 1493, Christ’s Vicar was sixty-two years old, still a bull of a man with a barrel chest, strong limbs, heavy-lidded eyes, and a full, sensual mouth. Of late, the demands of the office he had sought with such unrelenting ambition had taken a toll, but he remained, as Renaldo had described him, a force of nature possessed of so indefatigable a will as to send his opponents scrambling for shelter as though from the burning sun.

  “My queen is in danger,” he said as I entered his private chamber. He did not bother to look up from the chessboard, certain as he was that only the person he had summoned would be allowed to enter past the cordon of condottieri keeping watch. Lush tapestries hung on the walls, golden candelabras provided light, the air bore the scent of newly laid rushes, and a cheerful fire burned nearby. Borgia’s papers were spread out over the inlaid chestnut desk he traveled with, but his secretaries were nowhere in evidence.

  “I have no skill at this game,” I said as I approached. In fact, my father had taught me to play chess passably well, but I had persevered only to please him. Since his death, I found the exercise pointless.

  “Take a look all the same,” Borgia said as he straightened.

  I obeyed reluctantly. He was right, of course; his queen was under attack. But the remedy seemed obvious.

  “Take the bishop,” I said.

  “You mean the cardinal, don’t you? Della Rovere is a thorn I would pluck from my side.”

  I suppressed a sigh. Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere was Borgia�
�s great rival for the papacy. The two had vied for the ultimate jewel in Christendom’s crown at the conclave the previous year. Della Rovere had skulked off to lick his wounds, but he made no pretense of accepting his loss. Borgia suspected him of being responsible for at least some of the failed attempts on his life, and there was nothing to say that he was wrong. I lived in dread of the moment when Christ’s Vicar decided that the time had come to remove his rival from the board once and for all.

  “You have the means,” I reminded him despite the sudden hollowness in my stomach, “provided you are willing to sacrifice a faithful pawn.”

  He laughed and snared two goblets, into which he poured a deep red claret. It was his custom to drink with me when we were alone. I suspect he was one of those who believed that so long as he drank in company, he was not a drunkard. Handing me one of the goblets, he said, “That being you, I suppose?”

  I hesitated before taking a sip. I had promised Sofia that I would not drink. When she brought me a supply of the sleeping powder just before the papal procession left Rome, she had stressed the need to abstain from all spirits.

  But if I did not drink with him, Borgia would wonder why. Lest any suspicion of me be planted in his mind, I raised my goblet, drank, and said, “You will forgive me if I do not wish to be thrown away lightly. You have worse enemies than the cardinal.”

  Several months before, I had devised a means of killing della Rovere that even I will admit was ingenious, albeit extraordinarily expensive, involving as it did crushed diamonds that would lacerate the cardinal’s intestines and condemn him to a cruel death by infection. Of necessity, I would have to get very close to him in order to introduce the poison. Entering his stronghold at Savona would be difficult, although I believed it could be done. Leaving again, especially if my presence aroused any suspicion, was another matter entirely. My hope was that my future usefulness to His Holiness outweighed the benefit to him of my killing della Rovere at this juncture.

  Borgia sat down in a high-backed chair also brought from his quarters at the Vatican and gestured me to a stool nearby.

  “Worse … perhaps not,” he said, giving no sign that the abundance of his foes troubled him. “But it is true, I do not lack for challenges. Speaking of which, I perceive that Cesare is not yet reconciled to the great honor I have bestowed upon him by making him a cardinal. I am concerned that he may be led astray.”

  I nodded, not because I agreed with him but in acknowledgment that we had come to the true purpose for his summoning me. “By whom?”

  Il Papa spread his hands, as though appealing to the air. “Who knows? The French, the Neapolitans, the Turks, a pretty dancing girl, his own vanity? Anything is possible.”

  I thought that unfair to Cesare, who was made of considerably sterner stuff than his father recognized, but I resisted saying so. Instead, I took a breath and said, “May I ask why you tell me this?”

  “I want your help. Make him mindful of his good fortune. Keep him from doing anything foolish. The Spaniards flock to him because they think he is the future. Let him do nothing to disabuse them of that notion.”

  “You overestimate my influence.”

  “Women fall at his feet, but it is you he returns to again and again.”

  That was true, although I had to hope that Borgia had not thought too deeply about why his son should be drawn to me. Between Cesare and me simmered an attraction born of the deficits in our natures that set us apart from other people and nurtured by the discovery, however fragile, that alone in all the world, we might be able to trust each other. We had both grown up in his father’s palazzo on the Corso, he the cardinal’s bastard son and I the poisoner’s daughter. What began as wary glances progressed over the years until the night he came upon me in the library. I was reading Dante, ever my favorite; he was drunk and in pain after yet another argument with his father. I could claim that his passion took me by surprise, but the truth is that I had my way with Cesare as much as he had his with me; perhaps more. The darkness within me was drawn to him, constructed as he was of raw appetites that left no room for morality or conscience. He was without sin in the sense that he recognized none. With him, I came as close as I could ever hope in those years to being myself.

  “I am not asking you to betray him,” Borgia continued. “On the contrary. Help him to be the man he is meant to be. Not merely a great prince of the Church but a future pope, leading the world into a bright new age. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  Borgia knew full well that it was. My late father had belonged to a secret organization of scholars and alchemists, pursuers of truth who called themselves Lux for the light they hoped to bring into the world. After his death, I was accepted as a member. Borgia had reason to know the lengths I would go to to protect Lux. Even so …

  “I cannot stand guarantor for your son’s behavior.”

  “A pity since I expect you to do exactly that.”

  The very powerful have an advantage over the rest of us; they can engage in the most blatant unfairness without recourse. Like it or not, I was Borgia’s servant. I disobeyed his edicts at my own peril.

  “I will do my best,” I promised him and drained the wine to its dregs.

  The next day we came to Viterbo.

  4

  Cesare was not among the notables on hand to welcome his father to the fortified hilltop town that for centuries had been a favorite of popes in times of trouble. Accepting the greetings of the mayor and the commander of the garrison, Borgia did not comment on his son’s glaring lapse in propriety, but the thin white line around his mouth hinted at his anger.

  Mindful of it, I set out to find the wayward son without delay. Out of respect for Sofia, I had resisted using the sleeping powder the night before, but my restraint had left me with dragging steps and a bad headache. Not to mention that I had spent yet another day on a horse. All in all, I doubt that I was a sight to gladden any man’s heart.

  It was late afternoon. Sunlight slanted from the west across the scrubbed paving stones of the small courtyard behind the roofless loggia, its seven arched bays looking southward over the town while in the opposite direction it provided an unobstructed view of the steep Faul valley. The air was cool and scented with the aromas of wood smoke, newly cut grass, and the late-blooming roses in the nearby palace garden. A fountain bedecked with lions gurgled softly. Other faint sounds filtered up from the surrounding streets, but little disturbed the silence that, as always, set my nerves on edge. The backdrop of noise ever present in Rome provides reassurance when all is as it should be and prompt warning when it is not. Silence, on the other hand, gives away nothing while having the added disadvantage of amplifying one’s own thoughts.

  A page directed me to the sandy field of the old amphitheater adjacent to the palace. I went anxious to discover what so commanded Cesare’s attention that he would fail to greet his father. The crumbling stone tiers where once Romans sat to cheer their favorite gladiators had drawn a motley crowd of retainers, servants, hangers-on, and the same Spanish lords who had been present with Cesare in the taverna. Quickly enough, I discovered why they were all there.

  Two men stood at the center of the field, posed in an oval of golden light. Both were stripped down to their shirts and breeches, both armed with rapiers. The clash of their swords rang out against the stillness and the swiftly inhaled breath of their audience. They were similar in height and build, although the one I perceived to be Spanish—judging by the encouragement and advice shouted by his countrymen—moved with greater urgency, as though eager for a swift conclusion. Not so his opponent, who appeared to be enjoying the contest for its own sake.

  Cesare was smiling as he balanced lightly on feet set shoulder-width apart in the classic stance of the swordsman. He appeared almost as still as a statue until, in a sudden explosion of movement, he whirled to parry a thrust and meet it with his own. He had the coordination of a natural athlete and a fondness for making everything he did appear effortless. Young as
he was—he was then just eighteen—he understood already how that could madden an opponent.

  At first, he and the Spaniard appeared well matched, for all that their fighting styles were clearly different. The Spaniard, of a swarthy visage dominated by a thin, sharp nose that resembled the beak of a hawk, struck me as impatient. I wondered if, being of an arrogant race, he had made the mistake of assuming that the Pope’s son would offer him little challenge. Cesare, by contrast, was far more controlled and deliberate, unusually so for his age, when hot blood and hot temper tend to march together. The cheers of the Spaniards faded away as they began to perceive that their man might not have as easy a time of it as they had expected. A hush settled over the crowd.

  I took a seat on one of the stone tiers a little apart from the others and watched with unfeigned interest heightened by concern for the larger implications of the contest. The Spanish being vitally important to Borgia’s strategy for survival against both della Rovere and the French, Cesare could not put the fellow in the dust as he no doubt wished to. He had to preserve some measure of the man’s dignity even as pride would drive him to leave no doubt as to which of them was the more skilled. And he had to do it even as the Spaniard’s attack turned increasingly fierce, the cut and thrust of his sword coming ever closer to wounding. Faced with the prospect of defeat, he appeared to forget that this was merely a sparring session and not actual combat.

  My heart leaped when the point of the Spaniard’s rapier slashed the air perilously close to Cesare’s chest. An instant later, I breathed again when the son of Jove, having apparently had enough of the exercise, agilely sidestepped the blow, thrust through the Spaniard’s defenses, and deliberately brought the point of his blade up against the other man’s eye. It was a move intended to intimidate, and it worked. The Spaniard flinched and fell back a pace. Cesare drove forward and this time brought his blade up against the other’s man’s throat. His smile never faltered even as his lips shaped a single word: “Yield.”