Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (29 page)

The sword swallower withdrew to cheers and for a moment, silence fell. Into the sudden quiet came the soft, sinuous whisper of a flute, followed by the beat of a tabor. The music rose, grew more insistent, and suddenly the dancers were there, running lightly into the tent and taking up their positions where all could see them.

There were a dozen, mostly women but with three men, the latter with lithe, muscular bodies of breathtaking beauty. The women were wrapped in diaphanous fabrics that hid very little. The men were naked save for calfskin pouches holding their privates.

They danced . . . how shall I describe it? They evoked with the movement of their bodies the delight that comes to men and women alike with seduction’s chase, the sweet moment of mutual surrender, and the triumphant joy that follows hard upon it. They moved with power that must, I suppose, be part of God’s vision for us yet that seems to exist completely apart from the everyday world. They became, in the dance, more than merely human but something that soared above all mortal limits to become, dare I say it, one with creation itself.

They were very . . . exciting.

Mindful of my responsibilities, I tore my eyes away long enough to observe the guests. By then the wine had been flowing for several hours and all except Morozzi had partaken. If I was not alone in doing so sparingly, few had been equally cautious.

Sforza was leaning back in his chair, watching the performance intently. His breathing appeared somewhat ragged and I concluded that he would be visiting his mistress that night, whichever one he was currently keeping. Madonna Adriana was flushed, Lucrezia showed the expected unease of a virgin, and Borgia . . . Il Cardinale reclined in his chair, so heavy-lidded that he might have been thought to be all but asleep. It took me a moment to realize that his appearance notwithstanding, he was fully awake, but his attention was not on the dancers. It was on Morozzi.

The priest sat bolt upright in his chair. His face was red and he appeared . . . surely this could not be so? He appeared to be moving his hands urgently under the table.

I stared at him, first uncomprehending, then incredulous. His eyes, burning with the light of madness, met mine. In them, I saw a distillation of perverted passion and malignant pleasure such as I have never witnessed in another person in all the years since. For just an instant, pity rose up in me. It vanished in a wave of repugnance as the intimacy of his gaze filled me with a sense of violation.

I turned away, fighting nausea. My hand trembled as I reached for my goblet and took a little wine in hope of steadying myself. In desperate need of distraction, I looked again at the other guests. No one else appeared to have noticed him, so engrossed were they in the dancers. No one, that is, save Borgia, who continued to watch the priest from beneath half-shuttered eyes, only now with a faint smile.

The dance finished and so, apparently, did Morozzi, although I cannot say that he appeared to have found any relief. To applause, the dancers ran off to prepare for whatever assignations awaited them. I took several deep breaths. The priest had shaken me more than I would have thought possible. Having survived the confrontation in
the
castel,
I had been buttressed by a sense of confidence that I now realized I could not afford. Morozzi’s madness put him outside the bounds of normal human behavior and made him unpredictable. That, more than anything else, was his greatest strength and the most daunting obstacle I faced in overcoming him.

The music continued but more sedately. With the change of mood came the
dragée,
intended to close the meal and promote good digestion. Spicy hypocrase was poured and plates of sugared almonds offered around along with a selection of aged cheeses and fresh figs and oranges. There were marzipan cakes, sherbet flavored with rose petals, and my favorite, Turkish hats, the familiar name for fried tubes of pastry erupting with frothy cheese. Ordinarily, I enjoy a good Turkish hat, but that night they had lost their appeal.

The hour being very late, the air had cooled, reviving the guests somewhat. Tomorrow, they could return to being rivals, even enemies, but at the moment they laughed warmly when Borgia rose and made a little speech, something to the effect that friendship was one of God’s greatest gifts and that we should all cultivate our friends as we cultivate our gardens. I only half-listened but I had the impression that it was well done.

As he spoke, servants appeared carrying gold—not gilded, they were made of solid gold lattice strips woven together as I discovered when I examined one—baskets filled with an assortment of thoughtful gifts for each guest. I glimpsed gem-studded penknives, crystal vials of rare oils, and most remarkable, miniature mechanical automata in the shape of birds that, when wound by the tiny key in their backs, flapped their wings and moved their heads. This last marvel provoked such delight that several prelates and princes were still playing with them as they took their leave, seen out by a beaming Borgia, who, having thrown off his heavy-lidded posture,
appeared as fresh and energetic as though he had slept the night away.

Morozzi did not receive a basket, nor did he take his leave of Borgia, rather he endeavored to slip away into the darkness. I say endeavored because he was followed by Vittoro, who had appeared from the shadows just beyond the tent where I realized he must have been since Morozzi’s arrival. I was comforted to know that he would assure the mad priest’s departure from the palazzo.

Lucrezia was almost asleep on her feet as she embraced her father and thanked him warmly for allowing her to attend. Sforza stood just behind her. I saw the look that passed between the two men. Saw, too, that after she had left with Madonna Adriana, the cardinals walked a little distance away and had a few private words under the trees. Then Sforza, too, departed and Borgia went inside.

Petrocchio was slumped on a settee, a goblet in one hand and a leg of capon in the other, wearily overseeing the cleanup. I sat down beside him.

“It went very well,” I said.

“It did, praise God. No thanks to that lunatic. Did you
see
what he did?”

I grimaced. “Unfortunately. What else do you know of him?”

The Maestro sighed, took a drink, and said, “He appeared two years ago, some say from Genoa, where he may have had family ties to Innocent, others say from Florence. He had a minor post in the papal household at first but he rose quickly in influence. It is said that he gained power over the Pope by promising him the secret to long life.”

“And Innocent was fool enough to believe him?”

“More likely desperate enough. At any rate, with Innocent gone, he will be casting about for a new patron.”

Petrocchio had said nothing of the edict or Morozzi’s involvement with it. That confirmed my belief that it had been seen as so explosive even the rumor-ridden Curia had kept it secret. All the same, I probed a little further.

“Have you heard anything about Morozzi and the Jews?”

The Maestro shot me a look of surprise. “What do you mean? Are you saying—?”

“I am only wondering if he could be
converso
.” Morozzi had, after all, claimed to be, but I had dismissed that as no more than a ploy on his part to win my trust.

Petrocchio’s response confirmed that I had been right to do so. “Lord, that would be rich! But no, I’ve never heard it. There are always rumors of
conversi
within the Curia, of course, just as there are rumors of two-headed calves being born. I don’t take one any more seriously than the other.”

He tossed the stripped capon leg into the darkness and leaned toward me confidingly. “Speaking of
conversi,
have you heard the latest that della Rovere is putting about?”

When I shook my head, he grew serious. “He is saying that Borgia is
marano
.”

A pig. A filthy swine. A secret Jew only pretending to be a Christian. To call a man or woman a
converso
was to cast doubt on the sincerity of their commitment to Christianity. But to label anyone
marano
was to throw that person into the doomed company of heretics and witches.

“Della Rovere is declaring war,” I said. The conclusion was unmistakable.

Petrocchio sighed. “It will get worse before it gets better, mark my words. I’m thinking of going to the country for a while.” He looked at me. “You would be wise to do the same.”

I rose and gave him what smile I could muster. “Not while Borgia remains in Rome.”

The Maestro gave me a sympathetic nod. He waved over an assistant, who helped him rise. “Seriously, Donna Francesca,” he said as he prepared to leave. “Don’t underestimate the forces arrayed against your master. More than a few of the cardinals are determined not to let a Spaniard take the papal throne. Even more fear Borgia himself. They suspect him of wanting to found a dynasty to surpass all the other families. There are even rumors that he dreams of uniting all of Italia under the rule of a line of Borgia popes.”

I had not heard this but it did not surprise me. Ten years of living under Il Cardinale’s roof had left me with no doubt that he was a man of boundless appetites and ambitions.

“Would unity be so bad?” I asked. It was a question I have pondered over the years. Divided as we are into city-states, minor kingdoms, duchies, and the like, we here in Italia are prey to the whims of our more powerful neighbors, France and Spain most particularly. Yet I remain of two minds as to what an end to our divisions would mean. In our distinctness lies the opportunity to find different paths, try different ways, and, just perhaps, throw off the oppression of fear and superstition. Unity under the wrong leader—and how often have we found the right one?—could destroy all that.

“Who knows?” Petrocchio said. He leaned on his young assistant, who bore his weight stoically. “Only don’t count on anyone letting Borgia achieve it. Keep him alive, if you can. Help him become pope, if such is God’s will. But never underestimate his enemies.”

And so he went, the master entertainer who masked reality so brilliantly even as he saw it more clearly than most of us ever will.

I lingered a while longer in the courtyard, attempting to gather
my thoughts. The first gray light of dawn crept up in the east but lamps still burned in the windows of Borgia’s office. Il Cardinale found rest no more easily than I did.

Having delayed as long as I could, I went inside and shortly climbed the steps to seek him out.

A wiser woman would have gone to bed. Left the matter for another day. Thought twice and again before approaching Il Cardinale.

I was young and determined, and not entirely sober.

The double doors leading to Borgia’s offices were unguarded and slightly ajar. I slipped between them and entered the clerks’ chamber. Their high desks were covered with neatly stacked files and ledgers awaiting attention. Nearby, a counting table held a large abacus built into its surface, the fist-sized beads shiny with use. On the far side of the room, an inner door led to the reception area where I had waited on my first visit. Eve and the serpent still cavorted merrily. Beyond, the door to the inner sanctum stood open. On the far side of it, I saw the lamplight I had glimpsed from the courtyard.

Borgia was at his desk. He sat well back in his chair, his face in shadows. For a moment, I thought he was asleep. Were he, I would
have left him undisturbed, one insomniac’s consideration for another. But just as I thought of withdrawing, he stirred.

“There you are,” he said, as though he was expecting me. Borgia being Borgia, that may well have been the case.

The Cardinal had cast off his robes and was in a loose shirt and trousers. When he straightened, I could see that the lines around his eyes and mouth appeared deeper than usual. For once, he looked his age, or close to it.

“Did Petrocchio get off all right?” You may think the question odd, but Borgia had a keen appreciation for the role appearance plays in winning and keeping power. He valued the Maestro highly.

“He did,” I said. “He was relieved that all went well.”

“I thought it did,” Borgia agreed. “What is your opinion?”

I came a few steps closer. A flagon of wine and two goblets sat on the desk. One of the goblets was half empty. I had not known him to be a solitary drinker, but undoubtedly there were many aspects of his character to which I was not privy.

“You must know what I think,” I said. “Why was Morozzi here?”

Borgia gave a dry laugh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He stared off into the shadows, as though he could find the answer in them.

“I suppose I invited him. That must be it, don’t you think?”

“Are you mad?”

Granted, it was not the most politic question. Not remotely so. But it was how I felt, exhausted as I was after all that had happened and all too aware that the greatest danger still lay ahead.

“Not so far as I know,” Borgia replied with far greater mildness than I deserved. As though that was not magnanimity enough, he gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit, Francesca.”

Emboldened by his tolerance, and feeling an unexpected affection
for him because of it, I did as I was bid. The litany of my complaints, simmering since the moment I looked across the tent and saw the mad priest standing so perilously close to the man I was supposed to protect, boiled out of me.

“I am your poisoner or I am not,” I said with great earnestness. “You trust me to see to your security or you do not. To invite Morozzi here and not even to warn me that you were doing so . . .” I shook my head. “I cannot begin to understand why you would do such a thing.”

Borgia waved a hand in the direction of the books that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves along one wall of the office. Most were handwritten manuscripts, some centuries old. Others were products of the new printing presses that lately seemed to be appearing everywhere. He was a great lover of books, although he never had as much time to read as he would have liked.

“What is it Terence says?
Auribus tenere lupum.
”