Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (9 page)

Sofia pretended to look surprised. “Isn’t it enough that we are Jews? Does anyone need another reason to kill us?”

When I merely stared at her, not knowing how to respond, she took pity on me. “As it happens,” she said, “we were saved by a woman. Her name was Esther and her story is told in your Bible, but I take it you are not familiar with it?”

I shook my head, resenting the need to respond to so foolish a question. It is well known that only priests know the Bible, and they share only those parts of it they think beneficial for the souls of their flock.

“Never mind then,” Sofia said. “Let us speak of more recent matters. As I said, I saw your father in March. Giovanni came to say good-bye.”

“Why would he do that? He had no plans to leave Rome.” At least, not as far as I knew, but already I was beginning to sense that there was much my father had not told me.

“He did not say that he was leaving,” Sofia told me. “But he was
concerned that matters were developing in such a way that anyone known to be connected to him could be in danger. Because of that, he told me that he would not be coming to see me again.”

“What matters?” I asked even as I thought that was about the same time my father had begun to talk of sending me to stay at the Cardinal’s residence in the country. I had protested so vigorously, having no wish to be separated from him, that he had agreed to postpone a decision. But I had feared that he really had made up his mind and would only tell me at the last moment in order to avoid argument. That I argued with him at all shames me still.

Sofia did not answer at once. She sat back in her chair and stared at the wall over my shoulder as though seeing something far removed from our surroundings. Slowly, she said, “You know that your father was very interested in the cause of disease?”

“He spoke to you of this?” On reflection, I should not have been surprised. My father must have realized that one of the very few people he could talk to safely about such matters would be a Jew or, failing that, a Muslim. Certainly, both peoples are known for producing physicians of great skill, perhaps because they are willing to entertain thoughts forbidden to Christians.

“He knew that I shared his interest,” Sofia said. “You must understand, Giovanni truly did want to find how to cure illness. But more recently he was seeking a way to bring about a death that would seem entirely natural.”

I had difficulty comprehending this, and the reason for my confusion is simple enough: When a decision is made to kill—whether by poison or any other method—it is not enough to remove the victim from this world. Usually, it is also desirable that everyone knows or at least fears that the person was done away with deliberately. Only in that manner can the proper level of respect be assured.

Seeing my bewilderment, Sofia put out a hand and covered mine. “I am sorry, but there is more.”

And it would not be good. She would not have breached the distance between us to offer me the simple comfort of her touch if she had anything to say that was less than terrible. I knew that, but even so, I had not begun to grasp the enormity of what Sofia Montefiore was about to tell me.

I was silent on the walk back to the palazzo. Vittoro respected my mood and kept his thoughts to himself. We parted in the courtyard. I went not to my rooms but to the small chapel where I was accustomed to hearing Mass on Sundays. At that hour, it was empty. The scent of incense lingered on the air. I knelt before the marble and gold altar, raised my eyes to the jeweled crucifix, and I prayed.

I am not a pious woman. The gift of deep, abiding faith eludes me. Perhaps my mind is too restless, too inclined to question. Or perhaps I simply haven’t tried hard enough. Whatever the case, prayer does not come easily to me.

But that day, I prayed, clumsily to be sure, but with utmost sincerity. I prayed that the Redeemer of the World would save me from the knowledge I had so thoughtlessly acquired. Or, failing that, would show me what to do with it.

No sign came, of course. I am always envious of those who claim that their prayers are answered, often with great flourishes of scent, sound, and sight. Saint Catherine of Sienna, for example, she who helped to heal the Great Schism and bring the papacy back to Rome, spoke of experiencing a mystical marriage with Christ and receiving visions of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. The great Saint Thomas Aquinas, master philosopher and theologian—said to have
died from poison, by the way—credited all he knew to the power of revelation. And there have been others, the long line of saints the Church holds up as models for us all.

Obviously, I am no saint, but I did, that day, pray for a glimmer of divine insight. At length, becoming aware that I was both exhausted and bereft, I rose. Only then did I realize that I must have been kneeling a very long time in the chapel. My knees throbbed as though hot coals had been burned into them and day had turned to evening. As I slipped out, the monks were filing in for vespers.

I did go to my rooms then. I ate supper alone. I bathed and eventually I slept. The nightmare came again, even more vividly than usual. I woke from it shaking and rubbed the tears from my face.

Any further thought of sleep being impossible, I sat at the small table by the window and read through the night, seeking in my father’s journals some insight into the great and terrible thing that had come upon me.

But you want to know what that was. What Sofia Montefiore told me there in the ghetto’s charnel house.

Very well, but you have been warned. Knowledge such as this is a curse, ripping us from the paradise of ignorance we so blithely occupy, never suspecting that with one misstep our lives can be torn apart utterly.

“The last time I saw your father,” Sofia had said, “he was weighted down with worry and more distraught than I had ever known him to be. He spoke with the greatest difficulty, understandably enough, for when we speak of evil, we give it life.”

She passed a hand over her face wearily and adjusted her posture in the chair before continuing. “You will ask me how he knew what he did so I will tell you now that he did not say and I did not ask. It was enough that he had discovered what he had.”

“And that was?” I was growing impatient with what seemed to be her coyness. God forgive me, I still did not understand.

Her eyes were dark-ringed and bloodshot, but what I remember most was the deep, impenetrable sadness within them.

“It seems,” she said, “that it is not enough that all the Jews be expelled from Spain, with all the suffering that has unleashed on us.
His Holiness the Pope is not content with that. For the sake of his soul, he is preparing an edict to expel us from all of Christendom upon pain of death for any who would remain.”

Her voice grew a little stronger as outrage filled her. “Innocent will use his authority to expel all Jews from the Papal States. But he won’t stop there. He will also call on every king, prince, and the like to follow suit and cleanse all of Christendom of the ‘pollution’ we represent. He is prepared to demand this in the strongest terms, even threatening excommunication for any leader who disobeys. And as though all that were not enough, he will unleash the faithful, encouraging them to wipe the Jews from the face of the earth.”

She put her worn hands, still stained with the dead mother’s blood, flat on the table and looked at me. “If this edict is issued, the Jewish people will face extermination.”

I heard her, of course I did; I even understood more or less. Jews . . . trouble . . . extermination . . . Yes, yes, it was all very clear. God forgive me, all that really mattered to me at that moment was what any of that had to do with my father.

Sofia Montefiore claimed he had been distraught over the fate of the Jews. I supposed that was possible. He had a tender heart sometimes at odds with his profession. I can remember him nursing a bird with a broken wing back to health before releasing it at the same time we tried to give a quick death to the dogs and other animals we used for testing new poisons.

Suppose my father had discovered that such an edict was being prepared, what would he have done? Warned the Jews? That much I could believe now that I had discovered that he counted one of them as a friend. But if Sofia Montefiore was telling the truth—a question as yet unresolved in my mind—he had gone a great deal
further. Far enough to worry that anyone associated with him would soon be in grave danger.

He had, according to her, been seeking a way to kill that would appear to be completely natural.

I wrapped the shawl more tightly around myself in a vain effort to contain the fear bursting within me. Beyond the window, rising as a dark shadow, I saw the towers of the Vatican, the citadel of Christendom where I fancied His Holiness the Pope slept well, his health much improved since my father’s sudden death.

In the morning, I slipped out of the palazzo early as the street cleaners who found ready employment in the wealthier neighborhoods were spraying water over the cobblestones and preparing to scrub them with their thick bristle brooms. Mindful of the Cardinal’s injunction, I dragooned a young guardsman into escorting me, refusing his tentative request to inform his captain before we departed.

“I have no time for that,” I informed him loftily. “Perhaps you would like to explain to Captain Romano why I had to leave without you?”

“No, no, Donna,” he said, and trotted after me as I strode past the watch gates and out onto the street.

I kept up a brisk pace all the way to the Palazzo Orsini, but the effort to outrun my thoughts failed. With every step, I struggled to convince myself that my suspicions were misplaced and my fears exaggerated. It did not help that my ribs still throbbed and that each breath I drew was a painful reminder of the beating I had received—and the warning that came with it.

My visit, as with everything I did, was certain to be reported to Il Cardinale. That being the case, I went at once to the storerooms, where I busied myself inspecting supplies that had arrived for the
household in the past few days. Fresh food was less a concern for me since that is extremely difficult to poison without leaving telltale traces in smell and taste, and even in color. However, it is possible to hide small quantities of poison in the folds of meat, for example, so every carcass has to be checked carefully. Similarly, it is difficult to taint wine, although not impossible. Here clarity as well as bouquet are the best indicators of safety. Poisons added to wine will dissolve but only partially; they tend to leave a certain murkiness immediately evident to the experienced eye.

It is helpful to my purposes that any merchant supplying goods to noble households understands full well the terrible retribution that will fall on him and his family if he is even suspected of conspiring to do harm. Even so, no conscientious poisoner allows the purchase of very much in the way of prepared foods for a household he—or she—is guarding. Sausages, smoked meats, dried fish, and the like must all be prepared under my direction. This is simply good sense. So are the precautions taken with fabric. Poisons that can penetrate the skin, rather than needing to be ingested, are rare, but they can be very potent. I used one such to kill the Spaniard, but about that I will say nothing more.

I will say that the simplest way to deliver a poison is to conceal it within a spicy dish—a stew, for instance, or anything else expected to have a rich and complex flavor. As such dishes are a favorite of those who can afford them, they must be prepared with the greatest care.

As a matter of routine, all food and drink must be offered first to animals kept for that purpose. It was the part of my job I disliked the most and I was glad when it was completed without incident.

Once determined to be safe, the provisions were sealed until
they were about to be used. I saw to the sealing myself using the small bars of wax and the insignia my father had kept for that purpose. After being unsealed, all household provisions became the responsibility of the master cook or, beyond the kitchens, the majordomo. Woe betide either if any harm came to a member of La Famiglia.

Having performed my duty, I tarried until the hour was respectable enough that I might ask to pay my respects to Madonna Adriana and the other inhabitants of
il harem
. But her ladyship, it seemed, was away visiting a friend in the country and Giulia la Bella, ever the late riser, remained abed. Only Lucrezia was in the garden, having breakfast.

She waved me over to join her. “Francesca, come and sit. I am so glad to see you. Are you hungry? The strawberries are delicious.”

We sat in the shade of the loggia within sight of the fountain. Already, the day was warm. Lucrezia wore a light chemise of finely spun linen. The Maltese pups lay at her feet, their tongues lolling.

“What happened to your face?” she asked when I had taken my seat. She offered the bowl of strawberries, perhaps to sweeten the question.

I selected one and took a bite before responding. The bruise on my forehead no longer hurt unless I touched it, but it had darkened enough that my hair could not conceal it entirely.

With a smile, I told the same lie I had told her father. “I took a fall.” As is the way with lies, I found myself elaborating. “I tripped really, nothing more. It was a little embarrassing.” With the last, I hoped to deflect further inquiry.

Lucrezia’s perfectly arched brows drew together. People raved about Giulia’s beauty, understandably enough, but Lucrezia herself was also lovely. She had been a skinny child but, having become a
woman in recent months, was beginning to sprout curves. Her features were delicate and very feminine but her hair was her crowning glory. Pale blond and coaxed into ringlets, it made her look like an angel surrounded by a halo of light. Later, when she was accused of such terrible crimes, people would remark on that.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, demonstrating the persistence that ultimately made possible her survival in the face of calamity that would have destroyed most anyone else.

“Not at all,” I assured her.

“Good.” She smiled mischievously. “I have a secret you will want to hear.”