Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (28 page)

“Francesca!” she exclaimed and rushed to hug me. “How marvelous you look! Those colors are very good for you.”

I was wearing a mauve gown and topaz over robe, the gifts of my father at Easter. The last gifts I had received from him. I had worn them for courage, and because I had nothing else grand enough for the occasion.

Francesca was in royal blue embroidered with silver in perfect counterfoil to the golden fall of her hair. Had she stood perfectly still, she would have looked like a statue carved of ivory, precious metal, and gems, except for the slight flush of her cheeks and the eager rise and fall of her breath.

Turning, she gazed at her father with such adoration that it tore at my heart. “It is so good of
Papà
to allow me to come tonight, don’t you think? My first truly grand party. He says I will be meeting many important men.”

Oh, yes, I was certain that she would. One look at Borgia watching his only daughter with benign indulgence and I knew her true purpose in being there that night.

Il Cardinale was about to play for the greatest prize of all and Lucrezia—sweet, lovely Lucrezia—was merely one more chip for him to lay on the table.

“Stay with her,” he said as he passed me, speaking under his breath so that she did not hear. “She will be seated next to Sforza. Make sure nothing untoward occurs.”

Only Borgia would see nothing amiss in appointing his poisoner as doyenne to his daughter. Not that Madonna Adriana was absent; she was very much there in crimson silk draped with ropes of lustrous pearls, her head topped with a crown of golden plumes. She had just taken the hand and kissed the ring of—Did my eyes betray me? Was that youngish man with the watchful gaze and taut smile really Cardinal . . . ?

Professional discretion requires that I draw a veil over certain of
the events of that evening, particularly as they concern personages who, though present, played no direct role in what unfolded. Suffice to say that it was an odd company that gathered at Borgia’s table, made up of the great and greater, scions all of noble houses frequently at war with one another yet capable of amiability when it suited them.

No wonder Petrocchio, whom I glimpsed hovering nearby, had been so nervous. He, far better than I, swam in the river of rumor that floods Rome in every season. He, far better than I, had anticipated who would be attending. The Maestro and I shared a glance, mine no doubt shocked, his worldly and resigned. He went so far as to spread his hands and shrug as though to say, “What did you expect?”

“Open for business” was how Vittoro had put it, and clearly he was right. But Borgia’s audacity went beyond mere opportunism. By gathering together so many powerful men at odds with one another, he could be seen as proclaiming his intent to end old feuds and heal old wounds. That was an outcome devotedly to be wished for by all of Christendom. Certainly, it would make Borgia the favorite of the Roman populace itself, usually the first to suffer from the internecine struggles of Holy Mother Church’s princes.

Of course, there were also notable absences—della Rovere, naturally, and half a dozen cardinals most closely linked to him. Other cardinals were still en route to Rome and therefore could not have attended even if they had wished to. The remainder of those in attendance were bishops in positions of authority within the Curia, which was to say mainly Borgia’s men, and a handful of clerics, well-positioned men assumed to be on the way up. Madonna Adriana, Lucrezia, and I were the only female guests.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” Lucrezia whispered as we took our seats
within the silk tent scented with jasmine and patchouli. The tables gleamed with gold place settings and the finest porcelain. Turkish carpets covered the ground underfoot. Footmen waited behind each chair to attend to us, spreading squares of the finest white linen across our laps and hastening to offer wine in goblets studded with precious gems.

“Incredible,” I replied, though, truth be told, I spoke more to the sight of so many vain and ambitious men than to the unbridled luxury on display that night. With so many rivals and enemies gathered around the same table, I could only pray that no one would take the opportunity to slip something into a cup, onto a plate, or anywhere else. Done with proper finesse, such poisonings are all but impossible to detect in time to prevent their deadly effects. Moreover, if the culprit possesses sufficient daring, he can deflect suspicion by assuring that several others, himself included, receive a small dose of the poison, enough to appear also to be intended victims. A good show of vomit makes for an excellent alibi. But you have no need of such instruction and I should know better than to provide it.

As we were being seated, I had a chance to study Sforza, who was busy for the moment chatting with the bishop to his right. Rumor had it that the banquet the Cardinal had given for the Neapolitan prince Ferdinand of Capua several months before at His Eminence’s palace in Trastevere was of such unbridled opulence and magnificence as to defy all description. Surely, Borgia had heard the same. I wondered how Il Cardinale would strive to outdo him.

The brother of the Duke of Milan was in his late thirties but looked younger. Although fit enough, he had a smooth, round face with a soft double chin. He was said to aspire to win the papacy for himself, but not even his brother’s power could obscure the fact that he was far too young for serious consideration.

The danger in electing too young a pope is obvious. Not that he will prove inept—ability is at best a secondary qualification for the papacy, far less important than animal cunning—but that he will live too long, thereby denying others their own chance at the trough. Older men, preferably dissipated in their habits and not likely to live many more years, tend to be the favorites.

At sixty-one, Borgia should have had the advantage, but he was known to be in robust health and more vigorous than many men half his age. That would count against him.

Sforza had turned his attention to Lucrezia, who blushed prettily. He was asking her if she enjoyed music, and she was assuring him that she did when I remembered that the Cardinal was cousin to the young, and at the moment unmarried, Giovanni Sforza, lord of Pesaro and Gradara. If my memory served, he was in his mid-twenties, which would make him twice Lucrezia’s age. Even by the standards of our time, she was still too young to wed, but she could certainly be betrothed—yet again—if her father willed it.

But ties of marriage alone could not possibly be enough to assure Sforza’s support, especially considering how he coveted the papacy for himself. I was wondering what else Borgia would promise him as the first course—larks’ tongues in honey—was set before us.

Such occasions being an opportunity for
maestri della cucina
to show off their most exotic skills, it is prudent to eat well before sitting down to table. The arrival of the larks’ tongues signaled that we were in for an evening heavy with the likes of swan, porpoise, and boar stuffed with venison stuffed with suckling pig, a popular dish that season, although do not ask me why. Give me a good chicken any day. But I digress.

I was sipping a pleasant claret, slightly chilled and not too robust for the warm evening, when I happened to glance toward the entrance
of the tent. Much as I like to think it was a mark of my strong nature that the goblet did not fall from my hand, in fact it was a near thing. I barely managed to set it down safely as I stared at the man who had just entered.

A few paces from Borgia, within easy reach of him, having apparently gotten past every guard in the palazzo, Father Bernando Morozzi stood smiling.

At the sight of Morozzi, a gasp escaped me. At once, I began to rise from my chair but in the same instant, my gaze caught Borgia’s.

Il Cardinale shook his head and made a small but unmistakable gesture with his hand, telling me to sit down. I obeyed with utmost reluctance.

Morozzi went at once to Borgia’s side, made the merest inclination of his head, and said, “A thousand apologies for my late arrival, Eminence. I was unavoidably delayed.”

At once, all ears were on him, though almost everyone pretended otherwise. A mere priest, albeit one very well connected, “unavoidably” delayed and therefore late for a party hosted by the vice chancellor of the Curia who was, at least possibly, the next pope?

The sheer effrontery was breathtaking. Even so worldly and blasé an audience was shocked into attentive silence. Along with all the
rest, I waited for the scalding lesson in manners that I was certain Borgia was about to deliver.

Instead, Il Cardinale smiled and said, “Nonsense, my son, no apology is necessary. Sit, enjoy yourself.”

For a moment, Morozzi looked taken aback. Clearly, he had been prepared for a confrontation with the Cardinal and appeared chagrined to be denied it. Under the circumstances, he had no choice but to take the seat he was shown to, which, surely not by happenstance, was directly across from me.

We stared at each other. If Morozzi felt any unease at being seated at his enemy’s table, he did not show it. His golden hair framed his face in perfect, unruffled curls any woman would envy. His features were smooth and unlined, his smile seemingly both pleasant and unforced. He truly did look like an angel.

Studying the priest, I found myself wondering how old he was. It has been my observation that the truly deranged appear to age more slowly than the rest of us. Some would take that as proof of an unholy pact to preserve youth. I have come to believe it is more likely evidence that nothing they do truly affects them. They lack the essential sense of connection that animates our consciences and writes the story of our lives, for good or ill, on our countenances. That, more than anything else, is what makes them so dangerous.

And what makes it so essential that we never yield to them.

I turned and spied Petrocchio who, ever quick to sense trouble where there should be none, was studying Morozzi as intently as I was. The Maestro caught my look and hastened over. He bent close so that we could speak privately.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked, prepared to tell him if need be, but as I had expected, Petrocchio’s knowledge surpassed my own.

“I have heard rumors. He was very close to Innocent, procured the boys to be bled for him, so they say. What is he doing here?”

“That is for Borgia to know.” And for me to find out at the earliest opportunity, but first— “This priest needs to be taken down a peg or two, I think.”

“More than that,” wise Petrocchio said, “but it will do for a start.”

He straightened, nodding solemnly as though I had been instructing him. Conversation around the table had resumed but the Maestro spoke loudly enough for all to hear.

“Yes, Donna Francesca, of course. Just as you say, at once, Donna Francesca.”

He hurried off, making a show of snapping his fingers at several servers, who sprang to attention and followed him.

Moments later, a golden plate was set before Morozzi. On it was a sampling of each of the delicacies served so far that evening. Next to it was placed a jewel-studded goblet filled with the same claret that I was enjoying. Petrocchio hovered nearby, as though to assure that all was done precisely right.

Morozzi stiffened, looking from me to the delicacies and back again. An expression of wariness, even of fear, flitted across his handsome features. Surely I would not dare to attack him in so direct a manner, in front of so many prelates of the Church and in the presence of Borgia himself?

And yet, I was the woman who had gone into the
castel
to kill the Pope. And come back out again alive.

It was my turn to smile.

The entertainment began, the acrobats appearing first to appreciative applause. They were followed by jugglers, a fellow with a pair of trained monkeys, and the sword swallower. The monkeys in particular, fascinated me. Dressed in the exaggerated style favored by
wealthy merchants who some say aspire to rule their betters, they hurried about, setting up a table for themselves, then sat down and dined with as much aplomb as many people I have seen.

Meanwhile, course followed upon course—
maccheroni
cooked in capon stock and flavored with saffron, eggs baked with spinach, grilled sardines wrapped in grape leaves, snails sautéed in wine, pickled eels, roasted heron, on and on and on, all accompanied by the superb wines of Tuscany and Liguria.

Through it all, Morozzi did not eat, nor did he drink. He did not so much as touch anything on the table before him. His hands remained out of sight, in his lap. Each course was brought to him, each taken away intact. So complete was his abstinence that Lucrezia broke off charming Sforza to voice her concern.

“Is the food not to your liking, Father?” she asked. I will swear with absolute certainty that she had no idea who he was. It was enough that he was a guest, therefore his comfort mattered to her. Anyone who has had the pleasure of supping at Lucrezia’s table will tell you that she is always the most caring and attentive hostess.

Her innocent inquiry only heightened Morozzi’s unease and drove him to answer rashly. His voice overly loud, he said, “I find it impossible to sup so grandly mere days after the death of our beloved Holy Father.”

Had he emitted a loud and gaseous fart, he could not have more clearly pronounced himself a boor before such worldly company. A ripple of laughter went round the table, followed by the deliberate averting of eyes, as though from a display too embarrassing to be borne.

Realizing his mistake, Morozzi flushed. I did not help matters by making a show of tucking into my own food with rather more enthusiasm than I actually felt. Not that it wasn’t delicious—some of it was—it was just that anyone foolish enough to indulge too heartily
would regret it come morning. Either that or they would be following the old Roman custom and vomiting in the bushes.

“You must try this,” I said to Lucrezia at one point and slid a slice a Bolognese tart onto her plate. She agreed that it was very good and encouraged me in turn to try the stuffed mushrooms, which I have to say were excellent.