The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (33 page)

27

Riding back to my apartment surrounded by men-at-arms, I did my best not to give them any cause for alarm. The chances of lulling anyone into complacency regarding my intentions were negligible but I felt compelled to try, if only because I could think of nothing else to do just then. Despite the late hour, Portia was in the loggia as I arrived. She raised an eyebrow at my escort but held her tongue until I had slid to the ground and walked over to her.

“What have you done now, that he sends you back under guard?”

“It is for my own protection, don’t you know? I am a mere woman who must be sequestered so that she does not come to harm.”

Portia snorted. “Why is he really doing it?”

I wondered myself. It was not completely out of the question that Cesare wanted to protect me; he had saved my life the previous year. But the extraordinary possibility that had popped into my mind when I saw the look he and Vittoro exchanged could not be ignored. I told myself that I had to be wrong—or
pazzo,
as Borgia would say—but the idea would not loose hold of me.

“I will need for you to do a little shopping for me while I am so confined,” I said loudly enough for the guards to hear. “Come upstairs and I will give you a list.”

“Of course, Donna Francesca,” Portia said at equal volume. She bobbed her head in seeming deference while scowling at the men-at-arms as though they were so much offal beneath her shoe.

Alone together in my apartment, with a pair of guards directly on the other side of the door, I hurried to my small writing desk to find paper and ink.

“I must get a message to Signore d’Amico. Will you take it?”

“Certainly, but if those goons outside decide to search me—”

“Don’t worry, it will appear entirely innocent.”

My dear Signore d’Amico,
I wrote,
I am desolate that I will not be able to join you and our friends this afternoon as we planned. Please give my regrets to Sofia and Guillaume, as well. I remain, affectionately, Francesca Giordano.

I showed the message to Portia, as much to reassure her as to save her the inconvenience of having to open and reseal it. She grasped its meaning at once.

“Of course, he will understand that you want to meet and with the others present as well, but how are you to get there? It will be daylight soon and this building is surrounded by guards.”

“I’ll think of something.” I could only hope that I would. Weariness weighed so heavily upon me that my wits, such as I have, scarcely could stir beneath it.

When Portia was gone, I took off my gown, intending to lie down for a short time. As I disrobed, my fingers brushed the packet Sofia had given me. For a moment, I considered taking a small amount of the powder in the hope that I would sleep without dreams. Only concern that I would miscalculate the dosage and be unconscious for longer than I dared stopped me. That and the lingering knowledge that Sofia likely would be reluctant to give me any more of the drug I increasingly had come to depend on for sleep.

I did not expect to do so then, at least not deeply. Rather, I thought to doze, balancing on the boundary between sleep and dreams as I have seen acrobats do on corded lengths of rope suspended in the air across the piazza on the Corso where Borgia lived until he ascended to the papacy and where it was his pleasure to host entertainments for the citizens of Rome. If the nightmare came, I could leap awake. But I had misjudged how drained I was by the events of recent hours. Scarcely had I returned to the bed where Cesare and I had lately cavorted than consciousness slipped from me.

I have never been able to explain why the nightmare came under some circumstances but not others. By any reasonable measure, it should have come then. But instead of finding myself helpless and terrified behind the wall, I was walking in a vast piazza, the boundaries of it somewhere beyond my ken. I walked on until I heard singing, the voice high and pure. Only then did I stop and turn, seeing in the near distance a young blond woman in a long white gown who smiled at me and held out her arms, as though beckoning me to join her. A sudden wave of coldness moved through me. I tried to withdraw but was frozen in place. Flames curled at my feet but were held at bay by the wall of ice surrounding me. I watched the first drops of water herald its melting and cried out, my voice harsh against the song of the young woman. From nearby, I heard a man laughing and watched as Morozzi unfurled his wings and flew over a city that was cast by them into deep shadow.

I woke drenched in sweat. Minerva slept beside me, oblivious to my distress. Sunlight slanted between the chimney pots. I stumbled from the bed to splash water on my face, hoping it would chase the phantoms away. Below in the garden, I saw Cesare’s men on watch. They were not, as I would have hoped, lounging in the shade provided by the slender plane trees but instead were on their feet, weapons to hand, and clearly vigilant. Whether inspired by loyalty to their master or fear of him, their attentiveness to duty cut off any chance that I could escape through the garden. But then I had not expected to do so.

In the pantry, I found a little bread and cheese, and forced myself to eat. The plan that had formed in me while I slept required strength. Having dressed in boy’s clothes with my hair pinned under a felt cap, I went into the salon and stared at the wide fireplace built into one wall. Luigi d’Amico prided himself on including all the latest innovations in his buildings, hence the water piped in from a collecting tank on the roof and the latest model fireplaces that carried away all smoke.

But it was summer now and I had not lit a fire for months. I had to hope that the same was true of my neighbors.

On my hands and knees, I examined the dark passage leading upward from the fireplace. It appeared just wide enough to accommodate me. Cursing Cesare—for he had driven me to such desperate measures—I slowly inserted myself headfirst into the chimney. The bricks lining it were reassuringly cool, if a bit damp, and had been cleaned scant weeks before by the boys kept for such work. Moreover, the fit was as snug as I had hoped.

One floor lay between me and the roof. Taking the ceiling heights into account, I estimated that less than thirty feet. Not an insignificant distance but surely not insurmountable either. I wedged myself into the chimney and began, by dint of pressing my hands, feet, and knees against the surrounding walls, to climb using the hand- and toeholds built in to aid the sweeps. Inch by careful inch, I squirmed and squeezed my way upward. Had the chimney been any wider, I would have had no chance whatsoever of success. As it was, I had gone perhaps six feet—far enough not to be eager to fall—when it occurred to me that I truly was mad. Who does such a thing? A normal woman is at home with her husband and children. She cooks, sews, directs her servants, and the like. She does not resort to desperate measures to escape her guards in order to conjure dark schemes with people as liable to be burned as she is.

I kept going. At about ten feet, I told myself there was no turning back. If I released the pressure that kept me in contact with the walls of the chimney, I would fall and likely be injured. Never mind the pain stabbing through my arms and legs, or the frantic beating of my heart and my labored breath; high above I could see a faint ray of daylight. That strengthened my resolve when nothing else likely would have.

Twenty or so feet above the floor of the fireplace, I paused for a moment to gather myself for the final effort. Belatedly, and I have to say rather ridiculously, it occurred to me just then that the condottierre might have had the foresight to put men on the roof. If he had, all my effort would be for nothing. I might as well give up then and there and make my way back to the safety of my apartment as best I could.

I continued on. My knees, shoulders, and hands were rubbed raw but I scarcely felt them. I could see a growing sliver of sky above where the flue was topped by a copper brace holding a terra-cotta chimney pot, its span considerably narrower than the chimney itself in order to reduce the effect of wind on the draft. Gathering my courage, I pressed my knees against the chimney walls and freed my right hand. The steel mallet I had used to pulverize Borgia’s diamonds would have to serve me well now. Gripping it, I struck the brace. At first, it would not budge. I was just beginning to consider the possibility that having come so far, I could be stopped by a sheet of copper, when anger filled me. By God, I would not be defeated by such a paltry thing! With all my strength, I struck the brace again and again. Copper is a soft metal, easily malleable, and the brace was never intended to take such abuse. Gradually, it yielded enough for me to work the edge of the mallet under one corner and pry it loose. The terra-cotta chimney pot, being no longer secure, shifted to the side and broke free. I winced as it struck the roof tiles and shattered. If any of the guards below heard the sound or if pieces of the pot fell toward them, all eyes would be on the roof.

Even so, I had no choice but to go on. With the opening of the chimney no longer blocked, I pulled myself out as slowly as I dared while keeping crouched as low as possible. To my great relief, the roof was empty, and there was no sound of alarm from below.

Bent almost in half, I skittered across the narrow span at the top of the roof, ever mindful of the steeply sloping sides covered with smooth red tiles that would give me no purchase if I fell. Mercifully, the water tank was behind me, otherwise I would have had to find some way to maneuver around its wide bulk. My palms were slick with sweat and my stomach so tied in knots that I could scarcely breathe. I am no fan of heights but I had learned the simple lesson of not looking down. It afforded me no great comfort but it did keep me moving.

I dropped several feet onto the roof of the adjacent building and crossed it quickly, still taking every precaution not to be seen. The street below was filled with the usual crowd of merchants, shoppers, beggars, pickpockets, and wide-eyed travelers all jostling amid the crush of carts and horses. At any moment, someone might look up and see me. I scurried on, across another rooftop and another before finally reaching the building at the end of the street. It was one of many structures thrown up in haste in recent years to take advantage of the burgeoning population of the city. Rather than spend the money to install an interior staircase, the landlord had contented himself with a ramshackle wooden affair attached to the outside of the building. I spared a moment’s thanks for his penury as I hurried down it.

Once on the street, I moved swiftly to lose myself in the crowd. Several times, I stopped and pretended interest in something or other in order to gauge if I was being followed. When I was finally convinced that I was not, I turned in the direction of Luigi d’Amico’s palazzo.

The banker must have given instructions that I was to be admitted without delay for scarcely had I stepped into the loggia than an unctuous servant whisked me away to a room on the upper floor, well removed from the bustle that fills any great man’s domain. I entered a small study to find Sofia and Guillaume waiting. Luigi joined us moments later.

“Dear girl,” he said as soon as the door had closed behind him, “we have been worried sick about you. The terrible event last night…”

“How could such a thing happen?” Sofia was very pale, her hair in less than its usual good order, and her hands, when she clasped mine, were cold. “It is horrible enough when those madmen in the Church decide to burn someone, but for anyone to do so on his own authority—”

I took it as a measure of her trust in Guillaume that she did not hesitate to name his fellow clergy as what they were. That good friar showed no sign of disagreeing. On the contrary, his usually bright, eager gaze was dimmed with sadness.

“It was Morozzi, was it not?” he asked. “There are whispers in the chapter house that someone very powerful here in the city is protecting him. I have tried to find out who that is but without success.”

“Have you been able to discover anything else?” I asked.

“Only that six members of Il Frateschi are in residence at the guesthouse adjacent to Santa Maria. They are disguised as visiting merchants from Florence come to discuss renovations for the church.”

This was potentially useful information but I could scarcely stop to absorb it. “It was Morozzi last night,” I confirmed. “I tried to kill him earlier but, alas, I failed.”

“And in the process almost lost your own life,” Sofia said.

Luigi did not look particularly shocked, leading me to suspect that he had already known about the incident inside Santa Maria. But Guillaume was horrified.

“We are blessed that the Lord God protected you,” the good friar said. “You must take greater care as to your safety.”

It was not in my heart to disabuse Guillaume of the idea that God protected such as I. Instead, I said, “There can be only one reason for Morozzi to risk returning to Rome. He wants to ensure that Borgia falls not to the French king or to della Rovere or to any enemy save himself. Control the circumstances of the Pope’s death and the chances of controlling who succeeds him are greatly increased.”

“Savonarola.” Sofia spit the name.

Luigi paled. For a moment, I thought he meant to cross himself, but he said only, “Heaven and all the saints forbid that man gain such power over Christendom.”

Guillaume nodded. “Truly we live in wicked times, that men of God would engage in such an enterprise.” He did not seem surprised.

“You have a plan to stop him?” Luigi asked.

If the desperate, not to say bizarre idea I had conceived in the boundary between this world and the world of dreams could be called a plan. I half wished it had evaporated upon waking but instead it had clung in my mind, growing more solid by the moment, even as I scaled the chimney, made my way across rooftops, and alit finally in Luigi’s private study where all three looked at me expectantly.

“Let us sit and be at such ease as we may manage,” I said, bidding for just a little time to get my thoughts in order.

The problem with friends is that they are so much more difficult to lie to than enemies. Scarcely had we sat down than Sofia asked, “Is there a reason why Rocco is not here?”