Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (27 page)

“I have no idea who you mean—” But I did or at least I hoped, so wayward was what passes for my heart.

I went on a wave of trepidation, then forced myself to slow, intent on looking the soul of calmness and self-possession. But when I saw the man I had rejected as a husband yet who had stood with me through trials from which almost anyone else would have fled, I hurried forward to greet him.

“Rocco! Are you all right? What brings you here? Nando—?”

“My son is still in the country,” he said. Looking down at me, he smiled, which I observed transformed his features, making him appear at once younger and carefree.

“I came to make sure that you are all right,” he said. “A man at the palazzo, I think he was the steward, said that you were here. I hope you don’t mind—”

“For Heaven’s sake, Rocco, how could I mind? But tell me that nothing is wrong.” I did not think I could bear it if anything was. He had risked so much at my careless behest, if I had brought him harm, I would never forgive myself.

He laughed, a sound I had heard so rarely that I paused to relish it, and looked toward Lucrezia. She stood off to one side, eyebrows raised, smiling broadly.

“Who is this, Francesca? Have you forgotten your manners? You must introduce us.”

I did and Rocco sketched a more than credible bow. I could see that Lucrezia approved of him and that made me blush, which was ridiculous because obviously he must have sought me out on important
business. It was not as though we were lovers, after all, and given to foolish fancies of the heart. Nothing at all like that.

“A glassmaker,” she exclaimed. “How fascinating. I have often wondered how such marvels as I have seen are created. Perhaps you could show me?”

That was Lucrezia, seductress and charmer, but through all of it of good and kind heart.

Rocco laughed, amused by her but glad, too, I think that I had such a friend. For a moment, there in the sun-drenched courtyard, it was just the three of us, young and at ease.

It could not last, of course. But it was sweet while it did.

His smile faded as he recalled himself. Quietly, he said to me, “We must talk.”

I nodded and looked to Lucrezia, who nodded in turn and vanished back into the palazzo, but not without a glance over her shoulder and a smile.

Rocco and I walked a little distance away, toward the fountain. “Guillaume came to see me,” he said. “He is very worried.”

“Was our presence at Santa Maria Sopra Minerva discovered?” I hated to think what would befall the gentle friar if it became known that he had given us shelter.

Rocco shook his head. “No, not at all. It is what he is hearing.” He glanced around to be sure there was no one to overhear us, then said, “Torquemada is on his way to Rome.”

I inhaled sharply. Of all the news I could have received at that moment, this was the worst. As though matters were not in sufficient foment, we must now bear the presence of Spain’s Grand Inquisitor? One of the primary authors and supporters of the edict expelling the Jews? An implacable fanatic who made Morozzi look almost mild-mannered?

“Why? What purpose would he have in coming here now?”

“Guillaume isn’t certain, but from what is being said in the chapter house, it sounds as though he is coming to make sure that the next pope is one who will be willing to act against the Jews.”

“Then he comes to defeat Borgia.”

Rocco looked skeptical. “Perhaps, but rumor has it that Ferdinand of Spain was on the verge of canceling the edict expelling the Jews in return for an immense payment from them. If the story is to be believed, just as the king was about to act, Torquemada burst in upon him, hurled a crucifix at the floor, and demanded to know if Ferdinand wanted to make himself into the new Judas. That was enough to stay his hand and ensure that the edict was enacted.”

“Borgia is no Ferdinand.” If Torquemada thought he could dissuade the Cardinal from taking the Jews’ money by threat of eternal damnation, the Grand Inquisitor was in for a rude awakening. For all that he was a prince of the Church, Borgia was unabashedly worldly and secular. Some would go further and say he showed pagan tendencies, and they might not be entirely wrong. This was, after all, the man who had looked entirely at ease garbed as Jupiter.

“The Cardinal has utter contempt for Torquemada and everything he represents,” I assured Rocco. “I have heard him say as much myself.” And on more than one occasion. Borgia could be the most discreet and adroit of politicians, but on certain subjects he did not hesitate to speak his mind.

“Then you are right,” Rocco said, “and he comes to defeat Borgia. If he and Morozzi are not already in league, they will be soon.”

“The Cardinal must be warned.” But in truth, it was likely that he already knew. Borgia had the finest intelligence service of anyone in Christendom, better than any pope, fellow cardinal, king, or prince. He took great pride in it, for all that he complained constantly about
the cost. There was every chance that he had heard rumblings of Torquemada’s plans before the Grand Inquisitor himself knew them fully.

Rocco nodded but his brow was furrowed. “Promise me that you will be careful, Francesca. Torquemada makes a very dangerous enemy.”

He did not have to convince me of that. Only the previous year, the Dominican had accused eight Jews and
conversi
of crucifying a Christian child. Despite the complete absence of a body or any evidence that a crime had even taken place, the accused were all burned at the stake. Torquemada had proclaimed their deaths to be a great victory for Christ who, in my estimation, was more likely to have wept over them.

Clearly, the Grand Inquisitor had a taste for the flames and the agony they inflicted.

“I will be careful,” I promised. “But I cannot hide from this.” We were standing very close together in the courtyard of the palazzo. Nearby, the fountain burbled as hummingbirds swooped down to drink. It was an idyllic setting, so harshly at odds with our troubled times.

“I would that you could,” Rocco said, and drew me closer.

Hardly aware of what I did, I cupped his face in my hands. “None of us can hide from what is happening,” I said. “We can only hope to turn events in the right direction.”

“I have other hopes,” he said, and kissed me.

As all Rome awaited Innocent’s funeral and entombment in the crypt beneath the main altar of Saint Peter’s, Il Cardinale announced his intention to host a dinner party. Let us not go so far as to call it a celebration. It was merely an opportunity to solicit votes under more gracious circumstances than would be available once the conclave began.

I was far too caught up in preparations for the event to think about what the kiss Rocco and I had shared meant, assuming that it meant anything at all, which I told myself, repeatedly, it did not. More than ever, I was convinced that he deserved far better than I could give him. Indeed, knowing me as he did, I marveled that he did not see that.

In the midst of assuring the safety of everything the Cardinal would take into the conclave with him, and securing both of his households, and worrying over what Morozzi intended, and anticipating
the Grand Inquisitor’s arrival in Rome, and thinking about Rocco, and wondering when Cesare would arrive, as he surely would—

In the midst of all that, I went to Renaldo for help.

“I cannot manage this dinner party by myself,” I told him when I had tracked him down to his burrow, a place he seemed of late to be avoiding.

Renaldo turned bright red, ducked his head, and peered up at the ceiling, bypassing my poor self. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you! You are steward here. Ultimately, everything that happens in this household is your affair.”

“It is a political matter,” he tried weakly. I perceived from his expression that he would be pleased to be involved. But worried, as Renaldo always was.

“Someone may try to kill Borgia,” I said. “Can you imagine what the consequences of that would be?”

Personally, I could not, the implications being so vast. But apparently Renaldo’s imagination exceeded mine. He blanched, then nodded hastily.

“I will do anything I can, of course.”

I set him to oversee the food and wine being delivered in vast quantities. “I will inspect everything,” I assured him. “But it is vital that nothing slip by without my knowing.”

He assured me solemnly that nothing would and I hurried off to examine the setting for the event, the courtyard being rapidly transformed to resemble a room in a Moorish palace. Like so many Spaniards, Borgia had a great fondness for the styles brought to that land by its infidel conquerors, only lately expelled by the
reconquista
of their Most Catholic Majesties, Ferdinand and Isabella. Given his nature, he no doubt would have enjoyed having four wives, assuming
he could still have had his choice of concubines. As it was, he had to satisfy himself with a night of Moorish luxury.

And what a night it was to be. There were no limitations on pleasing the Cardinal’s guests, yet given the circumstances, a certain decorum had to be maintained. Therefore, the “dancers” who would perform at the party would restrict their other activities to discreetly arranged assignations. So, too, would the acrobats, jugglers, musicians, and the sword-eater hired specially for the occasion, but I didn’t particularly want to think about that.

Even so, they all had to be vetted, which would have been an impossible task given the shortness of the time available had they not been provided by the same
maestro dei maestri,
the impresario beloved of the Roman elite, who had he not been forced a few years hence to flee the city after a scandal involving a beautiful boy, might still be staging the extravagant entertainments beloved by all.

I found Petrocchio, as he styled himself, in the courtyard, where he was supervising the installation of a billowing tent complete with luxurious carpets and intricately carved tables and settees, the latter to be covered with plump pillows for the comfort of eminent behinds. Servants waved incense burners to scent the air and chase away the bugs. Musicians were arriving and tuning up. Acrobats were turning practice flips on the nearby grass. The overall effect was at once alien, chaotic, and enticing.

Petrocchio was a tall, stocky man with the girth of a
goloso,
one who loves his food too well, and the vocabulary of a dockworker. He was shouting curses at the workers struggling to erect the tent. So vivid was his invective that I paused for a moment in admiration. When he reached the point of describing exactly how the workers’ mothers had coupled with apes, I interrupted.

“It seems to be going well,” I said.

“Well! They’re all idiots! I can’t get anyone to do the slightest thing without—” He broke off, only belatedly noticing who had spoken. “Oh, it’s you, Donna Francesca, a thousand apologies. You caught me at a bad moment, but be assured, everything will be as it should be.”

“I’m sure it will. I just wanted to speak with you about the entertainers.”

The Maestro wiped his face with a kerchief and managed a tight smile. “Yes, of course. Every one of them is known to me, obviously. All professionals I’ve used countless times. Not a novice among them and no one who might be contemplating retirement and looking for a large purse to finance it, if you take my meaning.”

I assured him that I did before asking, “And they all understand . . . should anything untoward occur . . .” I paused delicately, confident that I need not say more.

Petrocchio blanched. He waved a hand for an assistant who ran up and put a flagon of chilled wine into it. When the Maestro had refreshed himself, he said, “Absolutely they understand, Donna Francesca. They are all, as I said, professionals. You have nothing to worry about, nothing whatsoever. You have my word on it.”

Given that he had been the most successful and sought after impresario in Rome for almost ten years without a single incident to besmirch his name, I was reassured that the entertainment, at least, would pose no risks.

That only left the food, wine, and the guests themselves. The first two kept me busy the remainder of the day and earned me more enmity from Il Cardinale’s chefs than I will be able to erase in a lifetime. On a more positive note, I acquired an impressive vocabulary of obscenities, which I still find useful on occasion.

The matter of the guests was more intractable. Renaldo reported
that Borgia was being coy about who was coming, saying only that “various and sundry princes of the church and other personages” would be in attendance. I took that to mean that he wasn’t absolutely sure who would accept his invitation and didn’t want to admit as much. All well and good, but at some point, he and I were going to have a serious discussion about the need to keep me properly informed.

As the hours wore on, I could not shake off a sense of nervousness but attributed it to the circumstances. The dinner was the first large event I had supervised since obtaining my position. Naturally, I was concerned that everything go well. Between one thing and another, I barely had time to bathe and dress before returning to the courtyard moments before Il Cardinale descended to greet his guests. He had made it clear that my presence was required. Almost at once I discovered why.

Lucrezia was with her father. Understand, at this time the Cardinal was considered the soul of discretion when it came to his children. Never had he flaunted them, as certain other princes of the church were known to do, the late Innocent among them. Lucrezia and her three brothers, Cesare being the eldest, lived apart from him in their own households. Although the sons received preferential treatment, titles, and benefices to which they would otherwise have had no claim, most Romans could only speculate about their true relationship to Borgia, who claimed straight-facedly to be their uncle. All this was taken as evidence of Il Cardinale’s good sense and, remarkably, even as a sign of his self-restraint.

Yet here was Lucrezia, looking excited and lovely, at twelve a child woman trembling on the brink of whatever future her father decreed for her.