Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (25 page)

Well and good, or it would have been if not for the shadow hanging over all. The man I now knew to be the true architect of my father’s murder remained at large, in all likelihood still somewhere within the precincts of the Vatican. I could not begin to imagine how enraged Morozzi must be that his plan had been thwarted by Innocent’s death. If he even suspected that the death had not been natural, his fury would be all the worse. There was no telling what he might do next,
and
he was in possession of the lozenge. That, above all, I could not forget. Whether he had access to other poisons or not, he had the most deadly form that I myself had created to end my own life if need be.

Now it might well end Borgia’s—and in such a manner as to implicate me in his death. I had a professional responsibility to protect Il Cardinale, and make no mistake, I took it seriously. Equally, at the very least, I was interested in protecting myself. But paramount above all, I was determined to fulfill my vow to avenge my father and deny Morozzi his victory before I killed him. How exactly I might accomplish that eluded me, at least for the moment.

With such dark thoughts nipping at my heels, I sought out Vittoro. He was busy giving orders to his lieutenants regarding the defense of the palazzo, but broke off when he saw me.

“Francesca,” he said with a smile, “you are well?”

“Tolerably so, and you?”

“Never better. No ill effects, I trust?”

Having assured him that my plunge into the
castel
moat had done me no apparent harm, I glanced around at the preparations that were under way. Guards were in evidence everywhere, from the entrance hall to the watch towers. Many I recognized but others I
did not, indicating that Vittoro was bringing in more men from the Cardinal’s outlying estates. That surprised me.

“We are not leaving?” I asked. During the last papal conclave, following the death of Sixtus IV, Borgia had sent his household to the country and, not coincidentally, sent all his most precious household goods along with us—every tapestry, painting, piece of furniture, chest of treasure, every plate and goblet that could be was packed up and transported outside of Rome. It had been a sensible precaution for a man considered by one and all to be
papabile,
a candidate for the papacy. One of the stranger customs among the Romans is to fall upon and loot the residence of a new pope. This is not seen as a sign of disrespect or even necessarily illegal, being merely the reasoning of the populace that, once elevated to the Throne of Peter, a man has no further need of his private property.

This being the case,
papabili
are in the habit of emptying their residences before the start of any papal conclave. By watching the cartloads of belongings being trundled out of Rome, one can determine what each Cardinal thinks of his chances. Indeed, the emptying out of one’s residence can be taken as a declaration that one is running for pope.

Therefore, what was I, or anyone, to make of Borgia’s decision not to send his household goods to safety?

“He’s lying low,” Vittoro said. “Proclaiming that in his modesty and humility, he cannot consider himself a candidate for pope.”

I all but choked. Borgia had been a cardinal for almost forty years, and for most of that time he had encouraged talk of himself as a future pope.

“That’s nonsense.”

Vittoro grinned. “Of course it is, but it’s good nonsense. It sows confusion and in situations like this, that’s always helpful.”

“What is the situation?” I had a general idea but I wanted the particulars.

“As you would expect. There are two factions. Della Rovere leads the one and Sforza the other.”

He named two of the most powerful cardinals in Christendom. Giuliano della Rovere was the nephew of Sixtus IV, the pope who preceded Innocent. He was a man of fierce temperament, even more so than Borgia himself, who had led troops into battle personally and delighted in crushing any who rose in rebellion against the Church. Endowed with vaunting ambition and endless confidence in his own abilities, he was said to believe that it was his destiny not only to be pope, but to lead the Church to greater glory than it had ever known.

Eight years before, he and Borgia had contested for the papacy following the death of Sixtus. When della Rovere realized he did not have the backing to make himself pope, he threw his support to the dissipated Cardinal Cibo, for no better reason than to deny Borgia the papal throne. It was an offense Borgia had neither forgiven nor forgotten in the years since. This time, della Rovere had secured the support of the French crown, the Venetians, and the powerful Colonna and Savelli families with ties to the Kingdom of Naples. Anyone could be pardoned for thinking he was unstoppable.

By contrast, Ascanio Sforza was the brother of Ludovico Sforza, the formidable Duke of Milan. His faction enjoyed the support of the Orsinis and Contis, as well as a host of cardinals opposed on principle to interference from either France or Naples.

At first glance, it was not an even struggle. Della Rovere had more allies, seemingly more money, and significantly more chance of success. Yet one dismissed the power of the Sforzas at one’s own risk. And then there was Borgia . . . the bull . . . a man who had learned a hard lesson from defeat and vowed not to experience it again.

“The betting in the taverns is five to three for della Rovere over Sforza,” Vittoro said. “A lot of the action is going to side bets that della Rovere will win even if he has to throw his support to another nonentity he can control like he did Innocent.”

This was no small matter. If gossip is Rome’s primary industry, gambling is its second. Vast amounts of money would change hands in the coming days as sums great and small were bet on who would become the next pope.

“What about Borgia?” I asked. “Where does he stand in the rankings?”

“Third, maybe fourth, but some of the smart money is starting to trend his way, the rumor being that he will spend to the heavens and beyond to win the papacy this time.”

“Who’s putting that rumor out, I wonder?”

Vittoro grinned. “Borgia himself, of course. He wants the cardinals to understand that he is open for business.”

“Even as he proclaims himself too humble to stand as a candidate?” I asked.

Vittoro smiled. “Even so. The Cardinal said to bring you back with me. He wants to talk to you.”

“You aren’t staying here?”

“Not until His Eminence returns. I think it prudent to be where he is.”

We looked at each other in silent agreement. With Morozzi at large and possibly soon to be allied with della Rovere, Il Cardinale could not be guarded too closely.

“How much does he know about what happened?” I asked as we left the palazzo. Vittoro was mounted on the gray he favored. I rode a mild chestnut mare, one of those kept on hand for riders like me who, let us say, lack a certain equestrian skill. I don’t dislike riding;
I merely see no reason to do it very often. God gave us feet for a purpose.

The day was overcast and leaden, lacking a breeze to blow away the pall of smoke that hangs over the city even in summer from cookfires, furnaces, and the like. The streets were unusually quiet, in no small measure due to the squadrons of troops brought in to patrol the city. With the memory of what had happened at the last papal death still fresh in many minds, people were inclined to stay in their homes and shops, keeping to themselves as they waited to find out whether Rome would once again erupt into violence.

“I had a quick word with him,” Vittoro said. “There wasn’t time for anything more. He and della Rovere were both at the deathbed. They nearly got into a brawl even as the pope was taking his last breath.”

That was a scene I could envision all too easily—the two cardinals, sworn enemies, each determined to wrest the ultimate power for himself. Absently, I wondered if either of them or anyone at all had thought to give Innocent the rite of extreme unction before his demise. Not that I believed anointing him with holy oil and saying a few prayers over him would spare the Pope when he was called to account for his earthly deeds.

However, I did have another interest. Hesitantly, I inquired, “Do you have any idea of his condition at the end?”

“You mean what killed him?”

Put that baldly, I had no choice but to nod. “I did wonder.”

Vittoro shot me a look. “Don’t dwell on it, Francesca. You did what had to be done.”

“Then it was the blood?” I, too, would be called to account someday. I could justify killing a man poised on the edge of committing a great evil. But how did I account for killing the Vicar of Christ on
earth? Where did the man cease and his holy office begin? I truly had no idea but I feared the answer all the same.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” Vittoro said in a tone that made it clear that he did not think it mattered. “What counts is that he’s gone. Let’s be glad for that and not worry about the rest.”

We were approaching the Pons Aelius, the bridge we had crossed with Morozzi to enter the
castel
. I stared at the brooding walls of the fortress and marveled that David and I had managed to escape from within them. Lifting my gaze to the statue of Saint Michael, I gave silent thanks. At the moat, I did not so much as glance.

A little farther on, we entered the precincts of the Vatican itself. Unlike the rest of the city, the vast square in front of Saint Peter’s bustled with activity. Clergy and laity from throughout Rome and the outlying districts had hurried there upon first word of the Pope’s death to sniff out whatever advantage could be found, campaign for their favorite candidate, or simply enjoy the intrigue and excitement. Hard on their heels would come delegations from the Italian States and much of Europe. Every inn in Rome and many private homes shortly would be bursting at the rafters.

The race was on to reach the city before the conclave began, the cardinals were sealed away in the Sistine Chapel, and there was nothing left to do except await their decision.

Somewhere in the complex of buildings that make up the Vatican, Morozzi was laying his own plans. He surely knew that his only hope now of getting the edict signed lay in the election of a pope who hated the Jews as much as he did. There were any number of candidates who might fit that description, but chief among them was Giuliano della Rovere himself. Borgia’s great rival had been the power behind Innocent’s throne. As such, Morozzi must have secured his approval for the edict before proposing it to the Pope. It
was reasonable to believe that he was now the mad priest’s patron and, as such, was protecting him.

There was little doubt that della Rovere would go to any lengths necessary to continue his control of the papacy. If he could not get himself elected, he was still young enough that he could settle for a candidate of his choosing and wait to make his own bid another time. For Borgia, it was a different matter. At sixty-one, he could not afford to lose again and still have any real hope of ever becoming pope. He had wanted the papacy for too long and with too great a fervor to restrain himself now. Only della Rovere matched him in the unbridled intensity of his ambition.

“A clash of Titans,” I murmured, looking toward the unadorned façade of the Sistine Chapel, where the struggle ultimately would be played out. No one other than the cardinals themselves and their attendants knew exactly what went on during a papal conclave, but the process by which God is said to make the choice of his Vicar on earth known seems to me to be little more than an invitation to human avarice and venality.

“What’s that you said?” Vittoro asked.

I turned in the saddle and looked at him. “How far do you think della Rovere will go to win?”

“As far as he has to, as will Borgia,” he replied as we dismounted. “There will be no backing down for either of them.”

Our reins were taken by a squire wearing the mulberry red and gold Borgia livery. Looking up, I saw the vice chancellery banner flying over the Apostolic Palace. For the moment, Borgia was supreme head of the Church in Rome. But that could change all too quickly. Would change, if Morozzi had his way.

We went up a flight of steps, passed between a brace of armed guards, and continued down a corridor and into a warren of offices
teeming with clerks who paid us no mind whatsoever as they rushed about the business set to them.

“Wait here,” Vittoro said, and disappeared behind burnished oak doors studded with brass.

Left alone, I felt the stares of the dozens of petitioners lined up along one wall of the outer office, awaiting the chance to entreat Borgia for some favor or other, never mind that he had larger matters to concern him. Lawyers, clerks, factors, and what looked to be an artist or two, perhaps a musician here and there, all subjected me to intense scrutiny. I was the only woman and it was clear that my presence was an occasion for comment. A particularly plump toad of a man, probably a lawyer, leaned toward a similarly well-fed personage and whispered. Together, they looked at me and laughed.

I restrained the impulse to inform them that I was not, as I was sure they assumed, one of the Cardinal’s women. That I was instead his poisoner. Their reaction would have been most satisfying but not at the cost of drawing attention to my presence. Instead, I stared off into the middle distance for the little time it took Vittoro to return.

The Cardinal’s office overlooked the square in front of the basilica. Tall windows were open to admit what air there was. The corbeled ceiling high above was decorated with carvings of seraph and seraphim. Tapestries lined the walls. Long tables were piled with documents—scrolls, ledgers, and the like. I saw Borgia’s secretaries, all three of them, hard at work, along with a host of priests and monks who bustled in and out, no doubt on weighty errands.

Borgia himself sat behind a vast expanse of polished chestnut and marble. He looked up as I entered and smiled.

And then he stood.

The Cardinal rose at my arrival, came out from behind his desk, and greeted me warmly. “Donna Francesca! How good to see you!”

All movement stopped. The secretaries, the clerks, everyone froze in place and stared at us. Or more correctly stared at me. Such signal courtesy, virtually unheard of in this place where women count for so little, was sure to set tongues wagging. Since Il Cardinale never did anything without thought and purpose, that was clearly what he intended.