Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (26 page)

How long would it be before it was known that Francesca Giordano, the poisoner’s daughter rumored to have taken over that position, had visited the Cardinal in his offices at the Curia and had been received by him with great friendliness and respect?

That they had, as in fact we did, withdrawn a little way off to speak in private for some time, observed but not overheard?

That it appeared they had matters of great importance to discuss?

“What do you want?” I asked Borgia when we had removed to a corner of the office where we had a modicum of privacy. I meant what did he have in mind in making our conversation so public, but the Cardinal took my inquiry differently.

He assembled a look of surprise and said, “To be pope, of course. I thought you knew that.”

Before my exasperation could get the better of me, I saw the gleam in his eyes. But I heard, too, his seriousness when he added, “But first, you must see to it that I live.”

The Greek general Thucydides, in his
History of the Peloponnesian Wars,
tells us that we must always assume that our enemy is competent rather than rest our hope on the belief that he will blunder. I had not yet read Thucydides when I set all my skills to the task of keeping Borgia alive, but I possessed sufficient instinct to know that I must not, under any circumstances, underestimate my adversary.

Morozzi was a crazed fanatic, but he was also an intelligent dissembler who knew the workings of Holy Mother Church far better than I could ever hope to. In particular, he knew the Vatican, the ground upon which the great struggle between Borgia and della Rovere would be played out. I had very little time to familiarize myself with it as best I could.

Vittoro was my escort. With him at my side, I concentrated my attentions on the chapel where the papal conclave would take place.
The Sistine Chapel, named in honor of Pope Sixtus IV who had ordered its construction, had been consecrated a scant nine years before. This would be the first time it was used for a papal conclave, but it appeared well suited for that purpose. Modeled on King Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem—shall we pause for a moment to appreciate the irony of such reverence for the work of Jews?—it conceals a wealth of extraordinary art behind an almost blank façade interrupted only by a row of tiny windows under the roof and a series of doors leading from the lower level to an enclosed courtyard. Lacking any means of entry from the outside, the Chapel can be reached only through the Apostolic Palace. This design offers significant advantages for security while also emphasizing its role as the pope’s chapel, set apart from the much larger public basilica.

As many times as I have seen it, the Chapel never fails to steal my breath. Say what you will about Sixtus, he had a gift for drawing the best from the artists of our age and turning it to his own purpose. My beloved Botticelli, as well as Perugino and Ghirlandaio all contributed to the extraordinary series of frescoes that bring the walls to life. Beneath a vaulted ceiling of blue painted with gold stars, Moses, Aaron, Christ, Saint Peter, and a host of others proclaim the unbroken lineage of papal authority from God giving Moses the Ten Commandments to Christ giving Saint Peter the Keys to Heaven. Throughout all, the arch of Constantine reoccurs, reminding us that the pope possesses not only supreme spiritual power but temporal as well.

I paused before the section that always fascinated me most on visits to the Chapel with my father. His position in Borgia’s household had afforded us certain privileges, among them the opportunity to enter locations closed to the general public. I thought of him as I stood before the section of the frescoes devoted to the punishment of
Korah, he who challenged the authority of Moses and Aaron, God’s appointed leaders.

“Nasty business that,” Vittoro observed, standing next to me. He cast a soldier’s eye over the fresco in which, after attempting to stone Moses, and being repulsed by Aaron, Korah and his followers suffer divine wrath as they are swallowed alive by the earth. To be sure no one misses the message, Aaron wears the purple robes of a pope and an inscription warns against the dangers of any man taking that honor upon himself except he who is given it by God.

“It is,” I agreed, “and it makes the point well enough. But how many of them do you think actually believe it?”

By them, I meant, of course, the cardinals who shortly would assemble in the Chapel to divine God’s choice of his next Vicar on earth. There would be twenty-some of them, it not being known yet how many would reach Rome in time. Almost all were intensely worldly men like Borgia and della Rovere. Only a tiny handful were driven by spiritual considerations, and they were all elderly men unlikely to have any real role in the proceedings.

“How many believe any of it?” Vittoro countered. “At least until they’re on their deathbeds, afraid of facing their Maker. Until then, they act like a pack of pagan hyenas squabbling over a carcass.”

“And yet you support Borgia,” I reminded him.

The captain shrugged. “Better the devil you know.” He turned to face the opposite wall, where Botticelli had painted his magnificent rendering of the Temptation of Christ. I stared at it as well. In his final attempt to lure our Lord into betraying his sacred mission on Earth, Satan offers him all the riches of the world, only to have them rejected. Would that we could find a pope who would do the same, but until then, we must make do with what we have.

Reminding myself of my purpose in being there, I studied the
chairs—they are really thrones—in which the cardinals would sit for their formal deliberations. Ranging to either side of the altar, each is covered by a red canopy. Upon election of a pope, all but the chosen would stand and personally lower his canopy to signify his acceptance of the outcome. As dean of the College of Cardinals, Borgia’s seat was closest to the altar, a position I am sure he thought apt.

Borgia would be touching the arms of his chair, the canopy string, and undoubtedly a great deal more. I could not possibly be the only poisoner with a means of killing through skin contact, such as I had used on the Spaniard. Nor could I hope to limit where Borgia touched. But I could be certain that he wore gloves of my providing. Similarly, I could assure that he ate and drank nothing except what was brought to him under my seal.

Which did not mean that he couldn’t be killed. Any man is vulnerable provided the would-be killer is willing to go to any lengths, including giving his own life to achieve his ends.

How far would Morozzi go?

How far would I?

“It doesn’t seem quite fair,” I said.

“How’s that?” Vittoro asked.

“If any of Borgia’s opponents dies suddenly, he will be suspected just as he would have been if Innocent’s death was seen as unnatural. As no cardinal is likely to give supreme power to a man who is willing to kill a cardinal, that would assure that he would no longer be a candidate for pope. But if he died, how many of his fellow princes would care?”

“Damn few. It certainly wouldn’t put a crimp in their own ambitions.”

I might have spared a moment’s sympathy for Il Cardinale had
I not been well aware that he cared for nothing but La Famiglia and would sacrifice anything—and anyone—for it. As it was, I stared at the bier set up in front of the altar to receive Innocent’s body, even now being prepared for internment in multiple coffins, lead nestled within cedar within white oak. I could only hope they would be sufficient to contain the stink since the funeral itself would not take place for several days yet. If I failed in my task and Borgia died at Morozzi’s hand, another funeral would have to be held hard on the first.

“Let us see the rest,” I said, and followed Vittoro out of the Chapel to the adjacent hall where accommodations were being prepared. Each cardinal would have a private apartment in which to eat, rest, and deliberate. A few might even pray. The suites were hardly austere but neither did they begin to compare with the unbridled luxury to which the princes of Holy Mother Church were accustomed.

“Bit of a comedown for them, I’d say,” Vittoro observed.

I agreed and remembered what my father had told me about why it had to be so. “In the thirteenth century, a conclave lasted two years and eight months. It might still be going on if the faithful hadn’t finally taken matters into their hands and locked the cardinals in until they made a decision. Ever since, no one has wanted them to be too comfortable.”

All the same, it did not look to me as though they would suffer. Amid the furnishings of each apartment, I glimpsed such niceties as chamber pots enclosed in wooden cabinets equipped with padded seats, enameled boxes of sweets, elaborate salt cellars, and the like.

Examining the quarters intended for Borgia, I waved a hand to encompass everything within it. “All this has to go, of course. We will bring in anything the Cardinal requires ourselves.”

The cleric supervising the preparations overheard me and looked outraged, but a quelling glance from Vittoro kept him silent.

Shortly, we returned to the Chapel for a final look. Later, we would discuss which attendants Borgia would take into the conclave with him—he would be permitted three—and how communication would be maintained with the outside, in violation of all the rules, of course. But for the moment, I wanted to be sure I had the lay of the land.

The sudden appearance of an honor guard at the entrance to the Chapel signaled that Innocent’s body was about to be delivered to the bier in front of the altar. As I preferred not to be there when that happened, I had to complete my survey quickly. I was standing in the center of the Chapel, looking up at the ceiling, which has always struck me as rather plain compared to the rest, when a movement along the uppermost level of the building caught my eye. That story accommodates wardrooms for the guards, but it also has an open gangway that encircles the inner dome, providing an excellent view of everything going on below.

A man stood on the gangway, looking down at us. I recognized him all too readily. Remote in his black cassock, Morozzi was backlit by the light streaming through the small high windows behind him. He appeared surrounded by a nimbus of gold, as though enveloped in an ethereal cloud.

Then he moved and the impression dissolved. Without the light, he appeared as I knew him to be, an inordinately handsome man embarked on a vastly ugly evil. Our gazes met and in that moment, he smiled.

“Bastard,” Vittoro muttered. Instinctively, his hand went to his sword.

I caught the motion from the corner of my eye and leaned over slightly, putting my hand on his. For the priest to appear so daringly before us confirmed my suspicion that he was, once again,
well protected. That put him beyond my reach until such time as Il Cardinale no longer needed the support of his fellow cardinals in order to become pope. Then, and only then, would I be free to act.

“In due time,” I said softly. “But not yet.”

The priest saw my gesture to restrain Vittoro and his smile widened. He went so far as to raise his hand and give us a mocking wave before he disappeared into the upper reaches of the Chapel.

I was left below, beside Innocent’s bier, wondering how much further I would have to imperil my soul in order to assure that God’s choice fell upon Rodrigo Borgia.

A day passed during which I hastened between the two palazzi—Borgia and Orsini—doing my utmost to assure security for both of the Cardinal’s households. Madonna Adriana was back from the country and received me with what passed for warmth from her. I sensed a new respect in her manner toward me, which I suspected had its origin in her private assessment of what had happened and my own role in it. Not that she made any reference to the Pope’s death, she was far too adroit for that. But she did bid me sit on a chair rather than a stool in her presence, and she went so far as to compliment my gown, a nondescript gray serge I had thrown on for comfort’s sake.

Lucrezia was more direct. She sought me out in the storerooms just as I finished going through the last of the bottles, baskets, bales, bundles, and casks recently arrived in the household, sealing each and every one against the threat of tampering.

“Is it true?” she demanded. “What they are saying?”

I looked up from my ledger—Renaldo had provided me with one to use and instructed me how to do so, for which I was genuinely grateful. Since the incident in his office—that was how I thought of it, as the incident, nothing more—he had extended himself to me most courteously. As I appreciate organization and accuracy, and Renaldo was a master of both, it was my hope that we would work together smoothly in the future.

Assuming I had one, of course.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “What are they saying?”

“That you are the greatest and most audacious poisoner who has ever lived. You dared to kill the Pope and made it look natural.”

I gasped and dropped the ledger. It clattered to the stone floor at my feet, where it remained as I was far too dumbstruck to pick it up.

“People are actually saying that? It is in the streets?” Were that true, it would mean disaster. Borgia’s entire hope of the papacy rested on his viability as
papabile
. Had I truly gone to such terrible lengths—Rebecca remained ever in my thoughts—for nothing?

“Well . . . no,” Lucrezia admitted reluctantly. She gave me a charming smile as though to excuse herself. “But I did wonder.
Papà
was becoming so impatient and now at last he has a chance to attain his dearest desire.”

I exhaled, bent over, and retrieved the ledger. Clutching it, I said, “Listen to me, Lucrezia. Never, ever say again what you just did. Whatever you think, whatever you imagine, you must know that your father must never be suspected of having had a hand in Innocent’s death.”

“Of course I know that,” she said, looking offended at the notion that I could think her so ignorant. “But just between us . . .”

“There is no ‘between us,’ not on this matter.” Seeing her pout, I
softened just a little. “But only on this. We can talk about anything else.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you will tell me who the handsome fellow is who waits for you in the courtyard.”