The Serpent and the Pearl (A Novel of the Borgias) (27 page)

“More likely she took the wrong man home, whoever she was. That’s why women die. Drunken men, not Jews.” Carmelina yanked the last of my little knives free. “And I’ll wager most of those Spanish Jews are too tired and dusty to spend much time on satanic sacrifices.”

“You seem sympathetic to our newest batch of exiles, my dear lady.” A great many exiles; Jews fleeing Spain from the attentions of Torquemada. What
Signorina Cuoca
was fleeing, I had no idea. Though I found that almost as interesting as the pattern I was starting to see around Anna and Eleonora and now this new girl. This dead girl.

“I had a friend who died last year much like your friend Eleonora.” I laid all ten of my knives out on the stone balustrade, precisely arrayed from biggest to smallest. “I doubt anyone bothered to blame the Jews on her account. She was simply carted off and forgotten. Most whores like her and your Eleonora are.”

“Who says she was a whore?” Carmelina waved flies away from the carcass with her apron. “Men are quick to throw that word about. A girl takes a man home now and then, and if he leaves her a coin or two . . .”

“Any family to mourn her?” I polished a speck of ox blood off my biggest knife. “A husband?”

“No.”

Not for Anna either.

Patterns. Had Cesare Borgia brought this latest murder up to me deliberately, knowing as he did that Anna’s murder had been the event that brought me into his orbit? But I’d never told him how Anna died, or even her name—not even in our first probing interview.

I hitched myself up to sit on the stone balustrade beside my knives, and Carmelina put an automatic hand to my arm. “Careful, Messer Leonello—that’s a long drop.” Casting her eyes the long five stories down behind me.

“Worrying for me?” I was nearly on an eye level with her now, which was precisely why I’d done it. “How kind.”

“I could toss you off a loggia myself for what you did to my nice rack of beef,” she retorted. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

I captured her fingers before she could take them from my arm. “It’s you who should be careful,
Signorina Cuoca
. That’s three women I know of now who died the same way. I would be wary of strange men, if I were a woman like you.”

“What do you mean, a woman like me?” She cocked her head, not pulling her hand away from mine quite yet. She had a scatter of new summer freckles, and her wiry arms below their rolled-up sleeves were scarred and practical. Her fingers were callused in mine, and a black curl had worked itself determinedly out of her scarf to lie against her brown neck.

“A woman like you,” I repeated, holding her in my eyes. “More precisely, you are a woman like
them
. Low women, if you will forgive me. Two tavern maidservants and one fruit seller—working women. None of them whores, precisely—”

“I am not a whore!” Tugging against my hand. “No woman in my position could afford to be. Do you know how kitchens talk when a woman gets a reputation for spreading her knees?”

“Calm your feathers, Carmelina, I’ve no intention of insulting you—or the women who died. As you say,
whore
is a word that comes quick to men’s lips.” I gave a squeeze of her hand in apology. “These are women, rather, who met a great many men in the course of their work. Women who would not be missed once they were dead. Women without families of note. Women like you.”

Were there other women, dead the same way in the year between Anna and Eleonora the fruit seller? I had not heard of any such thing, but I had not been looking. Were there more than three?

Carmelina shivered a little, crossing herself. “God rest their souls,” she said soberly, and seemed to have forgotten her other hand still lay in mine. Her wariness of me had abated—a trick I knew well how to play. Everyone finds it easy to forget that a dwarf can be a threat. Her fingers were warm and rough in mine; she smelled of the fresh bread they must have been baking in the kitchens this afternoon, and I thought of tugging her to sit beside me on the balustrade. I could make her forget her shivers for the dead fruit-seller, make her laugh, flatter her and flirt with her until the moment came when I could lean in and snatch a kiss. I did like tall women. They even liked me, when I made an effort. Carmelina might come to like me, too.

So, of course, I had to ruin it.

“There’s one way you’re different from those women who died,” I said casually. “None of them seem to have had families. And you’ve got that wrathful father up in Venice, haven’t you?”

Her head whipped around, and I saw her eyes snap wide and wary. “How—”

I smiled. “Your cousin Marco likes games of chance. Even more, he likes to talk. Especially when he’s winning, which I grant you isn’t often. But enough to piece together a few interesting things here and there. Tell me, is your father still working in Venice? Has he managed to wrangle himself that job cooking for the Doge yet, considering you stole all his recipes?”

“It’s none of your business!”

“I don’t suppose your father’s forgiven you, even if he hasn’t pursued you here,” I continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “What cook forgives another for making off with his life’s work?”

She tried to yank her hand away from mine, but I tightened my grip, holding her fast. My arms were short, but I had strong hands and odd double-jointed fingers, and they made for a vise grip.

“Why so skittish,
Signorina Cuoca
?” I cocked my head, wondering even as I said it why I was provoking her with my viper tongue, why I wasn’t kissing her instead. “Stealing recipes isn’t much of a sin, after all. Nothing they can put you in the stocks for. Unless you have a few more sins on your conscience than recipe theft, of course. Something they
can
put you in the stocks for.” I studied her, the white around her eyes, and smiled. “You have, haven’t you? What did you do? Steal from a lord? Burn a storeroom down to sell the supplies? Murder an apprentice?”

She wrenched away. “Keep your nose out of my affairs, dwarf.”

“Why should I? You interest me, Carmelina. People with secrets always interest me.”

“I don’t have any secrets.”

“Oh, but you do.”

She stalked away. “I’ll be sending my scullions up for that carcass,” she threw over her shoulder. “And if you ever steal from my kitchens again, I’ll geld you!”

“Always a pleasure,” I called after her, and laughed silently as the thud of a door was my only response. I hopped down from the balustrade, stretching my cramped legs for a moment.

A cook with a secret. A murderer in a mask.

“I wonder,” I said aloud, and as I slipped my gleaming Toledo blades home to their hidden sheaths, I began to whistle.

Giulia

T
hank you, Sandro,” I whispered as my brother pressed a kerchief into my hand. I raised it to my face to dab away a tear.

“Faker,” he whispered.

Thank the Holy Virgin for dead fish and stinking mud. Normally I wasn’t quite so happy to have such smells clogging up my nose, but today I was grateful for the stench of refuse and dead cats that drifted perennially off the Tiber. Juan Borgia was taking sail for his Spanish duchy and his Spanish bride, and I’d be expected to shed a graceful tear or two at his departure along with the rest of the family. And I knew I’d never manage it without that river stench making my eyes water. Juan gone from Rome? It was all I could do to suppress a happy wave and a carol of joy.

I wasn’t the only one rejoicing inside, but outwardly of course the whole party was Spanish gloom—gloom, and grandeur. I’d already watched Rodrigo bid Juan a private farewell among the half-finished frescoes of the private papal apartments, both of them getting very Catalan and emotional in their embracing and kissing of cheeks. There had been a good many final admonitions too, among the smells of wet plaster and paint. “You will write to Us often,” the Pope had admonished, very much the grand Pope with the divine
We
. “Listen to Don Gines Fera and Mossen Jayme Pertusa, they’ll not steer you wrong—pay Their Catholic Majesties all respect—”

“I will, Your Holiness.” Juan bounced on his curly-slippered toes, impatient to be off.

“And tend to your bride! We wish a son from her as soon as possible; a Borgia sprig on the royal tree of Spain.” Rodrigo cupped Juan’s face in his hands, voice thick as he lapsed from Father of all Christendom to father of a more mortal variety. “A princess is none too good for my son!”

Maria Enriques of Spain. Did she have any idea what kind of man she was getting? Girls all dream of a handsome young husband, but there’s more to husbands than a pretty face. Juan’s auburn good looks didn’t really make up for his more inexcusable habits: riding horses to death, harassing the maids, hanging about the Piazza degli Ebrei looking for Jews to taunt. Not to mention his habit of wearing lace
and
tassels on the same doublet. Still, maybe Maria Enriques of Spain would tame him. Or at least keep him in Spain a good long time.

“Your eyes are sparkling,” Sandro whispered at me.

“They are not.” I pressed the kerchief more firmly against my face.

“I won’t miss him either.” Sandro wrinkled his nose. “You know I’ve seen him go trooping around with his friends at night, getting drunk and killing cats in dark alleys?”

“And what are you doing in dark alleys, brother?”

“Taking the discreet route to visit my mistress, of course, and that’s a perfectly legitimate reason to be strolling down any dark alley. ‘Paolo goes to Francesca in the dead of the night—’”

“Shh!”

Private farewells were done now, and the Duke of Gandia had set out in state for the docks where four laden galleys waited to bear him off to Barcelona. Half of Rome had turned out to see him off this fine summer morning, clustering along the Campo dei Fiori and below the great crenellated pile of the Castel San Angelo. Rodrigo would be pleased by the crowds. He’d originally planned a more private family gathering for Juan’s departure, but after all the grumbling through the city about that poor murdered girl who was found spread out as though on a crucifix—well, my Pope had seen the wisdom of giving his flock something else to marvel at. After today, the prevailing gossip in the city would all be of Juan’s gold robe and the emerald in his hat that was the size of my eye, not satanic sacrifices and Jewish magic and the blood of innocent virgins spilled in the night. I’d had Masses said for the murdered girl’s soul, poor savaged thing. Such a hideous death in what was supposed to be the Holy City.

I crossed myself and tried to put her from mind. Whoever had killed her, she was with God now. Cesare Borgia was leading the swarm of churchmen now, tallest of them all. What I would have given to hear what thoughts were going on behind
that
immobile face—he wasn’t mourning his brother’s departure, that was for certain! My mother-in-law bustled along with Lucrezia and a bouncing Joffre, I came next on Sandro’s arm; then a crowd of Juan’s cronies jockeying and pushing for precedence. Fortunately he was taking most of them to Spain with him, young louts . . . and there was Vannozza dei Cattanei, blowing Juan a farewell kiss. She must have bribed my robe makers to see what I was wearing, because she was decked out in the exact same shade of sunshine-yellow satin, only with a great deal more gold embroidery and silver embroidery and pearls. She looked like a lemon, and she might as well have been sucking on one too from the set of her mouth. She tossed her head as she caught my eye, and I sent her my sweetest, sweetest smile.

My Pope—oh dear, he looked very grand in all his papal finery, elaborate robes fluttering about his sedan chair, but his swarthy face was as immobile as Cesare’s, and that meant he was fighting back tears. Rodrigo’s favorite son (though only God Himself knew why!) was gone from the nest. Lucrezia would have to be released to join her husband soon—and after that, I supposed it would be Joffre’s turn. Little Joffre, who stood hand in hand with Lucrezia at the dockside beside their papal father, both of them biting their lips. Just little lambs, really, but lambs grew up fast in the Borgia fold.

Juan Borgia dismounted his horse with a flamboyant toss of his dagged gold hem, holding his hand up to the crowd, who roared applause. He knelt, sweeping his cap from his head in a waft of plumes and pearls, and Cesare Borgia stepped forward, handsome face stony, to pronounce a blessing.

“I’ll bet you an archbishopric that he’s just mouthing that blessing,” I whispered to Sandro. “They’re not very fond of each other, those two.”

“Cain and Abel,” my brother said with one of his mountebank flourishes. “Joined by blood and bound by hatred—”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Nobody’s killed anybody yet. Though it did get close when Juan poached Cesare’s favorite horse last year and ended up breaking its leg over a jump.”

“—locked at each other’s throats for all eternity—”

“Holy Virgin, Sandro!” I stifled a giggle, casting a guilty glance at my Pope, who didn’t care what people said of him but took a very dim view indeed of any errant gossiping about his children. “I’ll see you get made an archbishop if you just shut up.”

“Don’t you dare ask the Holy Father for any favors on my behalf!”

“Now it wasn’t my idea, his making you part of the Roman Curia. He appointed you because he likes you, Sandro.”

“How dare he like me. I don’t like
him
—”

My big brother: making his way up the ladder of the Church with surprising speed—though he hadn’t accepted the Curia position until I begged and cajoled him for a full fortnight.

“I didn’t want to take it,” Sandro scowled. “And I don’t want anything else from His Holiness’s hands, so don’t you dare go asking.”

He glowered at the white and gold figure of my Pope in his sedan chair, now raising a hand to sketch a cross over the crowd as the blessing concluded. My brother still wasn’t very happy about my status. It’s not really what any fond big brother wants to say, is it?—
My little sister, the Pope’s concubine
. I counted it a miracle, really, that Sandro had come as far as grudging acceptance. All through the papal elections and the subsequent festivities, Sandro had been swearing vengeance up and down on “that Spanish whoremonger,” threatening castration and decapitation and the
strappado
, despite all my insisting that I’d chosen my position in all contentment. I’d had to plead for days and days even to get him to
meet
with Rodrigo—and my wily Pope had been clever enough not to appear in full regalia, but in rumpled shirt and doublet like any Roman merchant, patting my hand like any fond husband, pouring wine for my stiff-faced brother like any charming host. My two favorite men in all the world, dining privately together that first time, some weeks after the election’s frenzy had subsided. “Leave it to me,” Rodrigo said blithely, and left me to my pacing up and down outside the room where they dined, biting my nails and wondering if my favorite brother was going to shun me forever as a harlot. Men! But then Sandro had reappeared, no longer purple-faced but puzzled and slightly glowering, to tell me, “I don’t like this at all,
sorellina
. Not one bit. So I don’t understand how I’m no longer furious. He’s . . .”