The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (26 page)

Desperately, I thrust backward with the knife but Morozzi was too fast. In an instant, he threw up his free arm and blocked my strike. Pain shot down through me. Only with the greatest effort did I manage to hold on to the knife.

At the same time, the other man, the one who had gulled me into thinking he was my quarry, rushed to assist Morozzi. He seized my wrist, intending to wrest the knife from me. His hood fell back and I saw a young man, not much older than myself, his eyes alight with the fire of a true believer.

Morozzi tightened his hold around my throat yet further. Black spots swam before my eyes. I knew myself to be only moments away from unconsciousness and death. With the last of my strength, I held on to the knife just long enough to nick the young man’s chin. Scarcely had I managed to do so than the blade fell from my numbed fingers. At first, the wound meant nothing to him; I doubt he even noticed it. But the poison is among the fastest-acting I have ever created. In the space of mere heartbeats, he staggered back as all the color drained from his face.

Seeing him, Morozzi must have realized that something was wrong. He tightened his hold around my throat even more. I clawed at his arm in desperation but it was no use. The blackness closed in around me and I went limp.

Moments later—it could not have been longer than that—I recovered to find myself lying on the floor of the church against a column where Morozzi must have hurled me. He was bending over the younger man, screaming at him.

“What is wrong? What did she do to you?”

Distantly, I realized that in the tumult, Morozzi had no more idea of what had happened than did the younger man himself. So far as they both knew, I had managed to strike him down with, at most, hardly more than a pinprick.

I crawled upright, holding on to the column, and saw what Morozzi saw. His lackey was writhing on the ground, gasping for breath as his eyes bulged and his limbs convulsed.

As I said, the poison is fast-working.

Which meant that I had little time to finish the job. Frantically, I scrambled across the floor, trying to find the knife. If I could only get to it quickly enough—

The younger man was in his final throes. Black foam spewed from his mouth. Morozzi recoiled in horror. He turned away and saw me just as light from one of the altar lamps glinted off the knife’s blade.

I lunged for it, sobbing with relief when my hand closed around the hilt. With the last of my strength, I struggled upright. I would meet Morozzi on my feet and, by God or the Devil—at that moment, I truly did not care which—I would kill him.

The mad priest froze, his face contorted in rage. He made to rush me only to halt suddenly as his gaze locked on the knife. To my despair, I watched as understanding dawned.

“Strega,”
he said again, with fear and loathing. The raw instinct for survival took command. With a furious snarl, he turned and fled down the aisle.

At the same moment, the last of my strength left me. I slid to the floor. My throat felt constricted by fire and every breath I struggled to draw was agony. Later, I might be glad that I was alive but just then I could think only that Morozzi had escaped me—again. Poor weak creature that I was, I lay on the cold stones and wept.

*   *   *

Slowly, I became aware that I was not alone. Kind hands touched me. Voices murmured. I was lifted and carried some distance through shadow and flickering light, up a short flight of steps and into a room.

“Bring the lamp closer.”

I winced and tried to turn my head away.

“It’s all right, I just want to see your throat.”

Sofia. I opened my eyes to find her bending over me, her face creased with worry. She leaned forward, listening as I breathed, then straightened and nodded to someone standing behind her.

“It’s bad but she can breathe normally, thanks be to God.”

Her hands moved over me gently. “Does anything else pain you?”

Only my heart, but I saw no reason to say that. Instead, I shook my head and struggled to sit up. At once, a familiar figure stepped forward to help me.

“David … how did you…?” My voice emerged as little more than a croak, yet he still managed to understand me.

“Benjamin kept his promise,” he said as he settled me against the bolster at the top of Sofia’s bed. It was set behind a screen in the workroom at the back of her shop. I could smell the drying herbs and hear the soft hiss of the fire in a nearby brazier where water was heating.

“He stayed out of the way but he made sure to put me in touch with Alfonso. He sent word that you were in trouble.”

“More fool I.” Done with tears, I steeled myself for what had to be faced. “Morozzi got away.”

“We know,” David said, not unkindly. “We found the other man. He’s been … taken care of.”

I nodded, understanding that it was never good for the Jews for a body to be found in a church. Inevitably, they would have been blamed.

Thought of that reminded me of what Borgia had said regarding their purpose. My mouth twisted. Still struggling to speak, I gestured for Sofia to bend closer.

“I am sorry to have failed you,” I whispered.

A tear slipped down her cheek, silver in the pale light. Her arms enfolded me. I inhaled the faint aroma of vinegar that always clung to her. But just beneath, rising up to replace it, I smelled lavender mingling with lemon, a perfume I had never associated with Sofia. I had only a moment to wonder at it before I heard a woman singing softly. An extraordinary sense of contentment washed over me. For the space of a heartbeat, I felt utterly safe and loved.

With my next breath, terror roared through me. It came without reason or warning. The faint thought struggled through my mind that it was some sort of reaction to what I had experienced in the church but it was quickly evident that this was far more. I was plainly and simply petrified. My heart pounded so frantically that it seemed intent on exploding from my chest and I was hard-pressed to breathe. Mewing sounds that I scarcely recognized came from me. I clung to Sofia even as I lost all awareness of her presence.

I was behind the wall but it offered no protection; a wave of blood poured in beneath, above, around, engulfing me. I heard screams and a voice pleading but the words made no sense, coming as they seemed to from some moment just before the world shattered.

“Stay very quiet, sweetheart. Don’t make a sound.”

Who spoke? Whose hands pressed me gently into the darkness?

“Please God, don’t let her see…”

“Mamma!”

A great silence engulfed me. It went on for what seemed a very long time. I lay within it, curled deep inside myself, safe so long as I did not move. Some unknowable while later, I saw shards of sunlight, tasted broth spooned onto my tongue. A sparrow flitted within my sight. The sheets under me were cool. Someone spoke to me.

My father?

But he was dead and I had failed yet again to avenge his murder.

“Francesca—?”

I opened my eyes. Sofia still held me but it was David who had spoken. When I did not respond, he asked, “What is happening to her?”

“It is as I feared; the strain has been too much. She is remembering.”

“Remembering what?” David asked, and I wondered myself, but I think in some way I already knew.

I slept then, deeply, and mercifully without dreams. When I awoke, it was morning. I smelled porridge cooking and heard voices nearby. I moved but tentatively, feeling as fragile as the glass I loved to watch Rocco create. Yet I managed to sit up and even to swing my legs over the side of the bed. From there it was only a matter of gathering enough strength to rise.

The world spun but I held on, waiting until it righted. When it had, I took one step, followed by careful others. Sofia and David were sitting at the table in the front of the apothecary shop. They jumped up at sight of me.

“I am fine,” I said, but failed to fend them off. Truth be told, I didn’t try very hard. In my weakened state, the notion of being taken care of was an irresistible temptation.

“Sit down,” Sofia urged. When I had done so, she set a cup of tea in front of me and stood at my side until I had drunk the better part of it. The taste was faintly bitter but not unpleasant. Soon enough, I began to return more fully to life.

First and most important, I had to know, “Did you find my knife?” Although I had used it on Morozzi’s lackey, it would still be coated with the contact poison, making it extraordinarily dangerous to anyone who might handle it carelessly.

Sofia moved quickly to reassure me. “We assumed, given the circumstances, that it had to be dealt with carefully. I have it locked away in a box.”

Relieved, I nodded and pressed on. “What is happening in the city?” My voice sounded like gravel rolling around in a barrel but I was determined to speak.

“There is no sign of Morozzi,” David said. “Alfonso has his people looking but to no effect, at least not so far. Borgia’s men are at your apartment, asking after you. Rumor has it that you are dead.”

Ah, Rome and its gossipmongers, ever ready to spin a good story.

“How do they say I died?” You may think my curiosity morbid but I was truly interested in knowing.

“Struck down inside a church,” Sofia replied. She looked grim. “Opinion is evenly divided as to whether that was punishment for your wicked ways or Borgia’s.”

“Borgia’s, of course. On my own, I am hardly worthy of so dramatic an end.”

“You may jest, but this is a serious matter. You could have been killed. As it is, you—”

“I am fine,” I said before she could continue. Fragments of memory were surfacing in my mind. Vaguely, I recalled being in a considerable state when I was brought to the apothecary shop. In truth, I remembered rather more than that but I was in no mood to acknowledge it. Not with matters of such import closing in around me.

“I must go,” I said, and made to rise, only to be pressed back into the chair at once by both Sofia and David, each with a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sofia said. “You aren’t going anywhere until I am convinced that you can stand for more than a moment or two. In the meantime, you must eat.”

To my surprise, my stomach rumbled. I was genuinely hungry; indeed, I was ravenous. I spooned the porridge she set before me into my mouth with unseemly haste, and not only because I was anxious to go. Truth be told, I often eat without really tasting the food, my mind being preoccupied with some other matter. But the porridge was creamy, sweet with a hint of salt, delicious.

“This is good,” I said, and held out my bowl for more. As a child might.

Sofia and David exchanged a glance but neither spoke. When I had finished the second portion, I sat back with a huge sigh, a hand on my comfortably full stomach. For a moment, all seemed right with the world.

Of course, it was not. Morozzi was at large; Borgia was likely frantic, though he would never admit it; and I had tarried long enough.

“I really have to leave,” I said. This time when I rose, they did not object but both looked concerned and, worse yet, uncertain. Plainly, they were at a loss as to how to deal with me. I could hardly blame them. Neither David nor Sofia had any familiarity with the kind of deception that I worked so readily upon myself.

Even so, my friends were determined to help me.

“I’m going with you,” David said as he stood.

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” I cautioned. Bad enough if the leaders of the Hebrew Quarter learned of his return; if he was spotted in the presence of Borgia’s poisoner, or worse yet her ghost, they would be beside themselves.

“We’ll go the way we brought you here,” he said. “Through the tunnels.”

I was beginning to wonder why anyone in the city ever went about on the surface, being rained on, stepping in piles of manure, dodging horses and carts, and the like. Were it not for a tendency to collapse without warning, becoming instant tombs, Rome’s hidden byways would have been even more popular than they obviously were.

“Take this with you,” Sofia said as I prepared to leave. She pressed a small packet of herbs into my hand. “The tea has a reviving effect but it is also calming.”

I nodded but said, “If you wouldn’t mind, I could use more of the sleeping powder.”

Given what had happened in the church and afterward, I feared that when the nightmare came, as it surely would if I was not drugged sufficiently to prevent it, it would so overtake my mind as to render me unable to escape it. I was willing to do anything to avoid that.

Sofia hesitated and for a moment I feared that she meant to refuse. Panic rose in me. With the benefit of hindsight, I should have taken it as warning of my true state. Instead, as I always did, I pushed it aside.

“I can give you a little more,” she said finally. “But the powder is too dangerous to be used regularly. We must find other ways to help you sleep.”

So great was my relief that I wasted no time assuring her of my heartfelt intent to do just that, when in fact I had no wish to do anything of the sort. Lest you think me utterly without conscience, let me say that I did feel a twinge of guilt at so misleading her, but it was far too weak to give me other than momentary discomfort.

Having received the powder from Sofia, and my knife as well, I took my leave with David. He led me back through the underground passages until we emerged into a narrow lane adjacent to the Piazza di Santa Maria. At that hour of the morning, the square around the fountain was thronged with passersby on foot and on horseback, as well as carts and wagons jockeying for position. No one took any notice of us. Still in my boy’s garb, I looked no more remarkable than any young apprentice, but my anonymity could not last. Deliberately, I averted my eyes from the church where I had so lately confronted death, and bid David farewell.

“You will be careful?” he urged, his brow furrowed as he studied me. “Now that Morozzi knows you are hunting him, there is no telling what he may do.”

The same thought had occurred to me but I did not say so. The mad priest was not likely to take my failed attack on him as anything other than a blatant provocation. He was certain to retaliate soon, making the urgency of stopping him greater than ever.