The Marlowe Conspiracy (52 page)

Suddenly, a woman passed behind the window of an inn. Her blonde hair flashed in the lantern light, but she vanished again almost as quickly as she’d appeared. My heart fluttered and I stopped. Her name was Vannozza dei Cattanei. Our mother.

I nudged Cesare. “Over by the window. Didn’t you see her?”

“No,” he replied flatly. “But we shouldn’t stop here.”

I stood still. “She has three inns there now, or so I’ve heard. She owns
‘The Cow’
,
‘The Lion’
, and
‘The Eagle’
. We could cross the piazza and take a closer view?”

He peered into the gloom of the buildings. “Father wouldn’t approve. You know that.”

“Aren’t you even a little interested to look at her now?”

He turned to me quizzically. “Why? What is she to us? How many times have you spoken with her recently?”

“Not once in ten years. Not since my seventh birthday.”

“Exactly. She was just our father’s mistress, nothing more. Why should that make her important?”

“Cesare! How can you speak so coldly? She did more than simply give birth to us –

she also raised us for years in her house in the Ponte. Father would’ve married her, but he was a cardinal. If he hadn’t climbed so high in the Curia, he wouldn’t have ended his affair with her.”

“Is that what you think?”

“And he wouldn’t have taken us away, either. I wonder what life would’ve been like if we’d stayed in her care, and not gone to live at his palazzo instead?”

“It would’ve been a life without ambition. Why should I desire that?” He shook his head. “We don’t know her anymore, Lucrezia. When was the last time you even had a letter from her?”

“She stopped writing after father was elected Pope.”

“So you haven’t heard from her in at least five years. Tell me, then, what kind of a mother is she?”

My cheeks flushed and I couldn’t answer.

He walked off a few paces and urged me to follow. His voice became softer: “There’s no reason to stay here. Let’s go.”

I desperately searched for a way to prolong our visit. Even though my father hated the idea of us seeing Vannozza again, I yearned to walk just a few steps more into the piazza. I stared at Cesare, then let my eyes wander around the nearby street, hoping for something to spike his interest and delay our return to the palazzo.

“The Teatro di Pompeo is less than a hundred yards down that road, isn’t it?” I said innocently. “That’s where Emperor Julius Caesar was murdered. I don’t mind staying here for a minute, if you want to go and look at the site.”

He narrowed his eyes and considered it, his attitude slowly warming to the notion. From childhood, he’d always been fascinated with the dramatic life and death of his ancient namesake. My suggestion was irresistible.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s not safe for you to be alone.”

“But you’ll be able to see me the whole time, the Teatro is so close to Campo de’ Fiori. As long as I stay at the edge of the piazza, I’ll never be out of your sight.” I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. “Please, Cesare, allow me a moment longer. I promise not to move.”

He wavered before giving a reluctant nod, unwilling to upset me again. “Five minutes and no more.” He strode off from the piazza and called back: “And shout for me if any one approaches you, understood?”

I agreed and watched him saunter away down the road, his broad shape slowly merging with the other revelers.

As soon as he’d gone, I turned back to the piazza and stared opposite at the blazing windows of the inn. Vannozza was just a short, tantalizing distance away from me. I hadn’t been so close to her in years, and it was unbearable not to see her now. Without moving, I judged the length of the marketplace and realized that I could make it across to the inn and back in only a few minutes. Cesare would be so distracted that he’d never be the wiser.

I stepped forward, then paused remorsefully. My father had pleaded with me never to meet with Vannozza again, for he always feared that she might turn my heart against him in some manner. A good daughter would not defy her father over this matter now, I knew that. After all, for the last decade, I had lived solely in his care, enjoying a life of great privilege. He didn’t deserve such ingratitude from me in return.

And yet, what if I only looked at her from a distance? Was that really so awful? I didn’t have to speak with my mother, I could just peek through the window or the doorway. My father would never have to learn of my disobedience.

Before taking another step, I pondered the dangers of leaving my brother’s sight. We had many enemies in the city, including the powerful houses of the Colonna and Orsini. I knew that it was safer to stay here and not wander off; that it was easier to return to the palazzo and not see Vannozza for another year. But I couldn’t do it. Not tonight. I glanced around at the other people in their fantastical masks. The Carnival celebrated risks and rule-breaking, not safety and obedience. If not now, when would I ever find the strength to see her again?

At last, I summoned my courage, trained my sights on my mother’s inn, and hurried into the piazza. My feet tapped over the cobblestones, exhilarated and quick. My heart drummed in my ears. I wondered if she would still appear as beautiful as I remembered, still as graceful and gentle. What if she caught me peeking through the doors at her? Would she recognize my face? Had I changed so much since childhood? I longed to know the answers, but I never had the chance to find out…

Halfway across the piazza, I passed by a group of drunken men. One of them danced up to me with a menacing leer. He wore a mask with a long curved nose, like a scythe.

“What’s that, my dear?” he said, gazing at the candle I sheltered in my hands.

I didn’t reply and quickened my stride towards the inn. Unhappily, he kept pace with me, dancing around in circles, making me dizzy. His hand lashed out and snuffed my candle.

“Without a light!” he chuckled. “Without a light!”

I gave a thin-lipped smile and hoped he might leave me. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath sour with fumes of ale.

“Now, now, don’t be upset,” he said with a teasing, drunken slur. “You can have my flame, if you like.” He lowered his candle near his crotch and thrust his hips rudely. “I got another wick. It’s in me breeches. Want to see?”

“No, I think I’d vomit,” I replied coldly, trying to step around him. “Please leave me, good signore. I don’t wish for trouble.”

“I’m no trouble, my dear. All the harlots like me. I can pay, you know, I can pay.”

In horror, I realized that my disguise had confused him: from my plain skirt and tight bodice, he thought I was one of Rome’s many courtesans. Before I could explain, he lunged forward, slung his arm around my waist, and dragged me toward a nearby alleyway. I tried to scream. His hand closed over my mouth. I waved frantically at the other drunkards in the marketplace for help, but they only laughed and cheered the man onwards.

He thrust me into the alley and shadows enveloped us both, hiding us from the piazza. I tried to wiggle under his arms and yelled:

“Cesare! Cesare! Help!”

The man gripped me tight. His sweaty hands roamed over my bosom. A swarm of kisses landed on my neck and cheeks. He pressed against my thighs and his fingers clawed at my skirt, trying to lift it up.

“Off me, you lout!” I pushed back with all my strength, and tried to batter him with my fists. Sobs rose into my throat. “Stop it. Please, you don’t understand. I’m not a wench. This is just a disguise. It’s Carnival. Now stop! I beg you! The pope will know of this!”

He continued to grope me, but his mouth contorted into a snarl. “Who cares for the pope, ay? Bloody Borgias!” He pressed his kisses harder into my face. “I’m much nicer, my dear. You’ll like me. You can’t like them. They’re nothing but murderers. The whole lot!”

“They don’t murder! How can you say that!”

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a distant noise. The Ave Maria bells chimed out across the darkness from the tower of Basilica di San Pietro. It was twelve o’clock and the sound marked the end of Carnival and the onset of Lent. The man stood still and listened, as if the bells struck some cord of reverence within him. His grasp on my hips weakened slightly and I hoped his change in mood might work in my favor. I tried frightening him into releasing me and took off my mask, revealing my face.

“Do you recognize me, signore?” I said. “I am Lucrezia Borgia, daughter of Pope Alexander VI. Perhaps my costume has deceived you, but Carnival is now over. You shall free me this moment or it won’t be forgotten.”

I waited for his response, praying that he might bow down humbly and beg forgiveness. Instead, far from being submissive, he responded by stripping off his own mask. I scanned his pudgy cheeks, his dilated eyes, his thick nose and didn’t recognize him.

“Free you?” he slurred in reply, grinning. “Why would I do that, my dear? I’m a guard in the House of Orsini.”

My heart sunk at the name. In revealing my face, I had made the worst of all mistakes – the Orsini were the greatest enemy of my family.

“See that tower?” He pointed across to the nearby rooftops. The prow of a watchtower peeked over the rooflines. “We’re not far from Sant’Angelo, the rione of the Orsini. This may be your city, my dear, but that’s our district.” With a chuckle, he yanked my arm and tried to drag me off toward the watchtower.

I ran my heel down his shin and stamped on his foot. He yelped and clutched at his leg instinctively, releasing my hands.

I span around, dashed out of the alley, and ran back across Campo de’ Fiori.

His drunkenness didn’t slow his pursuit. Within seconds, he caught up with me, grabbed my arm, twisted it back, and pinned me against the wall. On the next street, a few people gawked at the sight of our struggle.

“Let’s take you to Palazzo Orsini,” he said loudly into my ear. “I’m sure the pontiff will pay handsomely for your safe return.”

I struggled and screamed: “Cesare! Cesare!”

The guard lifted his fist to hit me.

Luckily, my brother had been searching the area since I first entered the piazza. At the sound of my voice, he sprinted around the corner and into the marketplace. Without the slightest hesitation, he tore off his mask, whipped his sword from it’s sheath, and stalked directly toward us. The onlookers parted the way.

The Orsini guard swore, threw me aside, stepped back, and drew his sword fast. He struck out and made a poor thrust at Cesare. My brother sidestepped it easily, slashed down at the guard’s blade, and broke it in two. The severed piece tinkled onto the ground. The guard held up his fractured sword feebly and Cesare hovered over him, unsure whether to run him through.

I recovered my breath and hurried to my brother’s side. “No, don’t do it,” I pleaded. “He’s not worth it, Cesare. He’s just a drunkard. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Cesare glared. “It’s too late. He insulted you. I can’t let it pass.”

The guard panicked and fumbled at his belt to draw his dagger. Cesare reacted instantly, raised his sword, and sliced downward.

It was done before I could shut my eyes.

A stream of blood coursed over the cobblestones and shone blackly against the light. Just a few feet away, the guard lay flat on the road, his body slashed, quivering, and lifeless. I’d seen executions before, but never so dreadfully close. The crowd ran off in shock.

By now, the sleepy watchman on the Orsini tower was awake. A horn blasted the alarm.

Cesare returned to my side and searched the nearby street for a quick escape. Panting heavily, he shouted: “Follow me!”

He grabbed the reins of a passing horse, knocked off the rider, and jumped up into the saddle.

“Hurry!” he yelled, hoisting me onto the horse behind him.

My arms encircled his torso and I held on tightly as he whipped the reins, kicked his heels, and spurred us into a gallop.

With frightening speed, we rode from one neighborhood to another, swerving around corners, desperately evading any sign of the Orsini. After galloping to the edge of Rome and crossing the Tiber river, we raced back to the protective walls of Città del Vaticano.

At long last, we returned to the safety of our home.

II

A Dangerous Decision

W
ithin the grounds of Palazzo Apostolico, Cesare drew our horse to a halt at the stable house. We dismounted, our feet thudding onto the straw-matted ground, and I felt a sudden sense of relief weigh upon my limbs. A groom hurried towards us, offered a formal greeting, and led the horse away into a stall. As he did so, I spied something interesting at the far end of the stables: my brother Juan, accompanied by his personal valet.

I hadn’t seen Juan all evening, for he’d chosen to spend the Carnival with his friends, rather than Cesare or me. He was now dressed in the silk costume and white turban of a Persian gentleman. Unlike us, he and his valet were not returning home. Instead, they waited for their horses to be saddled and intended to go into the city. I dashed up to them immediately.