The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (22 page)

As Vittoro had said, two concealed doors led from the office, one to a corridor that led to the private papal apartments within the Vatican and the other to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, where it came out near the entrance to La Bella’s quarters. The doors were not so much hidden as discreetly designed so that they fit so snugly into the surrounding walls and so precisely matched their decoration as to be undetectable by any but the most observant eye.

Neither was what I was looking for.

Quickly, I made my way around the perimeter of the room, tapping lightly on the walls as I went. You may wonder how I knew to do so, but recall, a good poisoner must be constantly examining objects that may hold concealed compartments filled with hidden dangers. I simply applied the same techniques to the much larger container that was the office.

Initially, my efforts yielded no results. I was beginning to wonder if the very premise on which I acted, namely that Borgia had a secret means of leaving his inner domain, was wrong when my attention drifted to the shelves along an outer wall. The more I studied them, the more they seemed not quite right. Only after staring for several minutes did I realize that one edge of the shelves, where they fit into the recess that held them, was thicker than the other.

Swiftly, I ran my hand down that side. Nothing happened. For a moment, I felt the hollowness of defeat but then a thought stirred in me. I was moderately tall for a woman but Borgia was taller still; indeed, he towered over most men. He could reach a hidden lever far above my grasp.

Hardly breathing, I scrambled around for an embroidered stool of the sort offered to visitors whose rank did not quite merit a chair. Having located one, I dragged it over to the shelves and clambered up on it. Scarcely had I begun to examine the space higher up than my hand encountered a concealed lever. With great anticipation, I pulled it.

The shelves moved very slightly, bumping against the stool. I scrambled down and shoved it out of the way, then eased the shelves open farther. They were very heavy but swung on well-oiled hinges. I had no difficulty making a space large enough to fit through.

I will admit that at that moment, I hesitated. Borgia was unlikely to approve of what I was doing no matter how good a reason I might give him. While the claim that I was acting out of concern for his safety had some merit, the truth is that I was overcome with curiosity.

Because of my father’s favored position in the household of then Cardinal Borgia, who also served as vice chancellor of the Curia, I had grown up more familiar with the environs of the Vatican than were all but a similarly privileged few. Not only had I been permitted to visit the Sistine Chapel, usually open only to the highest ranking clergy and noble guests, I had also visited the Vatican Library. It contains an astonishing four thousand or so works, mostly Hebrew, Greek, and Latin codices in addition to manuscripts acquired from the library at Constantinople. There is talk of commissioning a building solely to house the library, but so far nothing has come of that. In addition, I was aware of the existence within the library of certain archives said to contain the most sensitive correspondence, state papers, and the like. My father had seen them there, though I had not.

With all that, I was quite certain that the Vatican still concealed many secrets. No one person would ever know them all but I had the urge to discover at least a few.

All of which I hope makes clear why I left Borgia’s office behind me and ventured down the hidden passageway toward a destination I could only guess at. To my surprise, initially I did not need a lamp to see my way. Narrow windows near the ceiling admitted sufficient light while also informing me that I was still within an outer wall. Further, unlike many of the passages I was familiar with in the Vatican and elsewhere in Rome, this one was dry, clean, and large enough that even a man of Borgia’s height could walk without stooping.

I continued on for several minutes before noticing that the passage had begun to slant downward. A little farther on I came to a point where the outside windows ended and only darkness lay ahead. There I stopped, relieved to find several well-tended oil lamps along with flint and tinder on a shelf close to hand. I lit a lamp, lowered the wick to give a steady light, and kept walking.

A short time later I came to a heavy wooden door inset with brass strips heavily darkened by time. Despite its apparent age—the wood appeared wormy—and its considerable weight, the door yielded with only a light shove. Beyond lay a chamber—not large by any means but large enough that the light from the lamp only hinted at its farthest edges. An iron grille stretching from floor to ceiling and divided by a locked gate separated me from what lay beyond. I could see, but only remotely.

On the other side of the grille, I made out a large, high-backed chair of intricately carved wood padded with cushions, a footstool similarly fashioned, and a pair of small tables. Nearby were several lamps and, I could not help note, a wooden rack holding bottles of claret. The room was far enough below ground to be cool even on so warm a day. However, that, too, had been considered. A cooper brazier stood near the chair, ready to give warmth if needed, and more light.

Someone was making himself very comfortable in this hidden room below the Vatican Palace. Someone who could come and go at will from the pope’s private office.

Of course, I realized at once that I likely had found the explanation for Borgia’s mysterious disappearances. But what drew him to the room? What was hidden there? Try though I did to discern the contents by peering beyond the iron grille, going so far as to press my nose through it, I could see only obscure shapes.

However, I could just make out the words on the tarnished plaque set in stone above the grille.

MYSTERIUM MUNDI

The mystery of the world. And, it seemed to me, a play on the sacred words of the holy Mass in which the priest calls upon the faithful to rejoice in
mysterium fidei,
the mystery of the faith.

Above me, the life of the Vatican went on, the chanting of the hours, the saying of Mass, the buying and selling of indulgences, the confessions for the sake of the immortal soul. All that is required by God, so we are told, including the getting and keeping of power.

But here, beneath the surface, buried in the earth, here was the mystery of the world, the very reality that we of Lux sought to pierce not on the basis of faith but through reason. Where, it seemed, Borgia had been spending his stolen time.

Lacking a key, I could go no farther. Even so, I was reluctant to leave. I stood for some unknown time straining to get a glimpse of what lay just beyond my reach. Eventually, my eyes adjusted to the dim light sufficiently that I could make out pigeonholed racks of what might have been scrolls or possibly maps, as well as shelves of bound books, some of which appeared to be extremely old. I thought I saw slabs of carved stone covered with what might have been lettering. There were also chests of various sizes, and objects I could not make out at all.

Eventually, I returned to the surface but only with the greatest reluctance. The papal office remained hushed, devoid of activity save for a few dust motes dancing in the rays of sun that penetrated through the high windows. Beyond I could hear the quotidian noise of the day beginning to wind down as the sun dipped toward the chimney pots.

My hand strayed to the leather sheath holding my knife close to my heart. I had an appointment to keep. But I resolved that, assuming I was able, I would find a way to return to the secret room beneath the palazzo and discover what treasures it concealed.

I was at the octagonal stone fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere just before sunset. A dozen or so local boys were gathered around, drawing water for their families or masters for the night. They lingered in the waning light, bragging of their exploits, pushing and mock-wrestling with one another until the great bell in the tower of the church di Santa Maria behind us rang out the call to vespers. Then they scattered, vanishing into the surrounding lanes and alleyways, leaving only puddles behind them.

Except for a handful of beggars bedding down for the night in front of the church, I was alone. Around me I could see lamps being lit in people’s homes and in the nearby taverns, hear the clink of dishes and the murmur of conversation. Someone, probably in one of the taverns, broke into a song that was popular that spring—yet another ditty about a ripe young girl and the swain who loved her—and a second voice joined in. The heavy, fecund scent of the river vied with the aroma of wood smoke and the ever-present odor from the sewers.

I looked toward the church. It is said to be the oldest house of prayer dedicated to the Virgin in all of Rome, although the clerics at the church of Santa Maria Maggiore on the Esquiline will tell you otherwise. At any rate, it has the look of great age despite having been razed to the ground and entirely rebuilt by Pope Innocent II less than five hundred years ago. (It is a measure of the antiquity of Rome that anything a mere few centuries old must be considered young.) Innocent II used enough of the old building to preserve its venerable appearance but in the process destroyed the tomb of his rival, the Antipope Anacletus II, which was likely the point of the whole exercise. The victor lies there now, keeping company with the head of Saint Appollonia, yet another virgin martyr, and a piece of the Holy Sponge.

You can see why Santa Maria is a popular stop for visitors to the city, but only in daylight. With the gathering gloom, the piazza in front of the church rapidly filled with shadows. The moon, not yet quite full, had hovered as a pale daytime presence over the city during the hours of light and would not return until shortly before sunrise. In its absence, the cold stars offered scant company.

I had just begun to wonder if perhaps Alfonso had not gotten my message, or more likely was choosing to ignore it, when a stirring off to the side alerted me that I was no longer alone.

Shapes emerged out of the shadows, staying close to the walls, moving swiftly. Two … three … vanishing into alleys, reappearing, edging nearer. I saw a face—young, pale, caught in the sudden light from a window. It disappeared and another took its place only to vanish in turn. They came quickly but with care, not venturing out into the open piazza until they must have been certain that I was by myself and posed no danger.

Then three formed a perimeter around me. I spied the glint of steel in their hands and drew a quick breath. If they were not Alfonso’s men … if Il Frateschi had somehow followed me …

I reached for the knife in the sheath near my heart and was about to draw it when
il re dei contrabbandieri
himself emerged from an alleyway and walked toward me. Previously, I only had seen Alfonso seated in the thronelike chair surrounded by his loot and his acolytes. Standing, he was taller than I expected and reed thin, with long, gawky limbs that for all his height, he seemed not yet to have grown into. He came with a cheeky grin and a sweeping bow as graceful as any young nobleman could manage.

“Donna Francesca, well met.”

I took a breath to steady myself and got to business. “And you, Signore Alfonso. What can you tell me of the man who was seen?”

“He matched the description you gave—tall, blond-haired, face of an angel. My man only caught a glimpse of him but he was clear all the same. There is no doubt.”

Perhaps not, but still I wanted to be sure. “What was he wearing?”

“A dark cloak, covering him from head to foot. It had a hood but that was pushed back. My man thought he caught a glimpse of a priest’s cassock underneath.”

I nodded, satisfied, and went on. “This happened in a tunnel near here, during the day?”

“In one of the passages, yes, a little after sext in mid-afternoon. My man was … making a delivery. You understand?”

I understood that the tunnels under the city were an excellent means of avoiding the attention of the condottierri who, while they might very well not stop the passage of untaxed goods, would certainly exact their own fee for looking the other way.

“Was the man he saw alone?” I asked.

“He was, and seemingly in a hurry. He disappeared around a corner and was gone from sight.”

Frustration welled up in me. If not even the smugglers who knew the Roman underworld better than anyone could track Morozzi, what hope had I?

“Do you have any idea where he went?”

“
Sì,
of course, otherwise I would not have bothered you with this. Come, I will show you.”

Alfonso led me up the steps to the church. I hesitated a moment before entrusting myself to the mercy of Our Mother, who always seems so much more inclined to accept us as we are than does the harsh and vengeful God men worship. We entered through the ancient stone porch with its sloping tiled roof beneath the fresco of the Virgin suckling her son and into the nave lined with richly carved capitals that some whisper bear the face of another Queen of Heaven, this one called Isis, the capitals having been taken from her temple on the nearby Janiculum. The great Pietro Cavallini’s mosaics of the life of the Virgin infuse the interior with light and color despite now being two centuries old. I could just make them out in the dim illumination of the oil lamps reflecting off their gilded surfaces. Vespers had concluded but the lingering perfume of incense drifted on the air. The interior was empty save for ourselves. The Church fathers do not allow the poor to seek shelter within Holy Mother Church lest they pollute her glory, although they are allowed to huddle outside around her skirts.

We were about halfway down the nave when Alfonso touched my arm lightly and drew me off into one of the aisles. He pointed to a small wooden door all but hidden in the shadows.

“That’s where I figure he would have come out, going by where my man saw him disappear. There’s an old stone staircase in that part of the passage that leads up into the crypt right under here. From there, it’s no trick to find your way out.”

I was not surprised that Morozzi would use a church to come and go surreptitiously. He had done much the same the previous year with no less than Saint Peter’s. But that raised the troubling question of whether he had allies within Santa Maria’s ancient walls.