Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (36 page)

“Where are we?” Cesare asked in a whisper that seemed to suit the place.

“Still under the basilica, I think . . .” In the darkness lit only by darting flame, I had lost track of how far we had gone. Trying to orient myself, I narrowed my eyes and stared straight ahead as far as I could see down the passageway.

“It looks almost like a street,” I said. “With shops to either side but all roofed over and buried underground. How could that be?”

Cesare was close enough for me to see that, despite the cool air, sweat was beading on his forehead. “Who knows? Who cares? Do you still think Morozzi is down here somewhere?”

“If he has taken a child, he has to hide him until he does whatever he intends. The funeral starts in a handful of hours. I don’t think he will wait longer than then to act, but what better place to conceal himself in the meantime?”

He did not disagree but he did point out what I had just begun to realize for myself. “The basilica is vast. If this passage extends through much of it, there could be hundreds of places for him to hide, perhaps even more.”

And if the passage extended farther, out beyond the limits of the church, we could search for days and find no trace of Morozzi.

Rather than let myself think that, I said, “We have to try. If he has been down here, surely we will find some sign of his presence.”

“We could lose our way very easily,” Cesare said.

The truth of that was undeniable. Even with the torches, after only a few twists and turns, we would have little idea of how to find the way back to our starting point. And if we should be trapped long enough for the torches to go out—

“You, there,” Cesare said, pointing to one of the guardsmen. “Take your sword and carve the sign of the cross in the wall to your right every twenty feet. Make it large and deep enough that we can find it by touch if need be. On your life, do not fail to do so. Understand?”

The young man swallowed hard and jerked his head in acknowledgment. He drew his sword and quickly made the first cross.

Satisfied, Cesare faced down the passage, into the darkness.
Without hesitation, he said, “Let us go on and may the Good Lord protect us.”

Unlike his father, who I am convinced truly was a pagan, Cesare was sincere in his faith. Yet he made no pretense of strict adherence to the teachings of Holy Mother Church, not even after he took the red hat and became a cardinal. As to what was in his heart when asked for the Lord’s blessing, I will say only that there are hidden places in Rome and elsewhere, chambers well buried in the ground, where there are images of a young warrior god, whispered to have been a worker of miracles born to a virgin mother and to have ascended to Heaven in a golden chariot. I never heard Cesare speak his name but I do not doubt that he knew him in his heart.

We went on, moving within a small stream of light surrounded on all sides by impenetrable darkness. I was relieved that the torches continued to burn brightly. Although I cannot explain why, when a flame is placed in insufficient air, it will snuff out. Fortunately, as deep as we were underground, I could feel a slight current of movement past my face, suggesting that there were openings somewhere to the surface.

Glancing down at the floor, I saw that it was covered with swirls of dust that must have fallen from the ceiling above us. The dust was sufficiently disturbed to give me hope that others besides ourselves, most important Morozzi, had passed along the passage recently.

The passage widened suddenly and we found ourselves in a large space, the dimensions of which we could not make out, so far did it stretch beyond the reach of the torches. But I did take note that the walls we glimpsed to either side were curved and, unlike in the passage itself, the floor was dirt instead of stone. There appeared to be remnants of tiered seating along one of the walls, cut off where the space had been roofed.

A little farther on we reentered the passage and not long after that, it split in two directions, one leading straight ahead and the other going off to the right. Cesare stopped and frowned.

“Which way did he go?”

He did not seem to expect me to reply but I took it upon myself to find the answer. Staring down at the floor, I walked straight ahead and saw a coating of dust undisturbed except for tiny eddies such as would be made by the passage of the air over time. Having returned to my starting point, I walked to the right and saw immediately that someone had been along there recently.

“This way,” I said, indicating the right.

“How do you know?”

When I pointed to the dust, Cesare flushed as though embarrassed that the explanation was so mundane yet had escaped his notice.

To soothe him, I said, “My father taught me to look at small details. I think it was the nature of his work that made him so attentive to them.”

That was putting it mildly. It is the very nature of poison to be concealed in the simplest and most ordinary places where few ever think to look. It is the task of the poisoner to look into such places and understand what is to be found within them.

Mollified, Cesare nodded and we went on but not very far. Almost at once, the way ahead was blocked by what looked at first glance to be rubble. Cesare took one of the torches and walked forward. When he returned, he had an odd expression on his face.

“There is enough room for us to get through.”

“That is good—” I began.

“But it won’t be pleasant.”

Without waiting for my reply, he turned to his men. “Remember who you are and what I will do to anyone who fails in his duty.”

Before I could think of why he should find it necessary to give such a warning, he took my hand and with the torch held high, moved deeper into the passage.

I did not scream. To this day I take pride in that, although the plain truth is that my horror was so great that when I opened my mouth, only a tiny squeak emerged.

The pile of debris almost entirely blocking the passage was made of bones spilling from the rooms on either side where the walls seemed to have collapsed from the pressure of holding them. Leg bones, arm bones, pelvises, whole and partial rib cages some still attached to parts of spines, and above all, skulls. In all, there were thousands and thousands of bones of all sizes, some whole, some disintegrating, but all recognizable as human. Apparently, Constantine really had emptied the old Christian cemetery and he had dumped the pitiful remains like so much discarded trash.

So vast was this midden of the dead that it stretched above our heads several feet until it met the ceiling. The space in which we had to pass was little more than a foot wide, tight enough that we had no
choice but to turn sideways in order to squeeze through. Bones crunched under our feet, poked into our sides, and caught in our clothing as we struggled to move forward.

The worst were the skulls with their leering smiles and sightless eyes. Some jutted out of the pile so close that my nose brushed where theirs once had been. God forgive me, I know they once were people like myself, but I shuddered in revulsion. Behind me, I heard at least one of the guards retching and really could not blame him. There was no stink of putrefaction, the bones all being far too old for that, but there was still a heavy smell of death coming from the crumbling, yellow remains, and along with it, the all too vivid reminder of our own mortality.

I have heard that there are people in far lands who burn their dead. It is forbidden by Church teachings, yet it seems a sensible practice, one that I would prefer for myself. Assuming, of course, that I am dead before the burning begins.

I clung to Cesare’s hand as he moved forward, never faltering. Whatever his own fear, he understood full well the responsibility of a leader. Not for a moment would he show his men anything other than courage and determination. It is fair to say that he pulled us all through that horror, bringing us finally and safely to the other side.

Barely had the passage widened again than we all stopped and, responding to the must basic instinct, shook ourselves frantically. I held my breath lest I inhale even more of the dust of the dead.

Cesare gave us a few moments, then cut short our efforts.

“Let’s go,” he said, and continued on down the passage.

We followed and very soon found evidence that we were not the only people who had discovered the city of the dead beneath the basilica.

It is really not fair to say that Rome is a lawless place. There are times when the law is very much in evidence. Speak a word against Holy Mother Church, for instance, and prepare to face the fire. But as with so much else in life, it is all a matter of weighing risk and reward.

From time to time, an effort is made to tax various items Romans consider essential to our well-being. These are mainly in the category of luxury fabrics, fine wines, and the like. But even cheese has been taxed on occasion, and I can remember one misbegotten attempt to levy a tax on wheat.

As a result, every Roman aspires to know a good smuggler. I am no exception. However, I had never given any real thought to how exactly one goes about smuggling. Obviously, a place is needed in which to secure goods on their way to the customer. After running the gauntlet of the bones, we found ourselves amid a series of rooms that had been cleared of all debris and secured with iron gates in good repair. Behind the gates we caught glimpses of chests, boxes, and barrels hinting at all manner of luxuries.

“Something to remember,” Cesare said with a wolfish smile.

“People have to earn a living,” I reminded him. Should they gain power, I had to hope the Borgias would restrain themselves. We all need hope, however misguided it turns out to be.

By then, we had been below long enough for me to be concerned that we had found no trace of Morozzi. Time was fleeting. I had to wonder how much more effort we could expend without concluding that it was wasted.

I was about to say as much to Cesare when the passage curved again. Just beyond we found a room that, like the others, was used by smugglers, but in this particular case the chain holding the lock
had been cut and the metal gates hung on their hinges partly ajar. This struck me as strange enough to be worth a closer look.

“Why would anyone do that?” I asked Cesare, gesturing to the severed chain.

He shrugged and followed me into the chamber. At the back of the room, several heavy iron rings were cemented into the wall. From one of the rings, a rope dangled. Not an old rope, frayed and worn, but a fresh rope, the end newly cut.

“Someone was tied here,” Cesare said as he examined the end of the rope.

I nodded but did not let myself think too much of it. “A dispute between smugglers?” I suggested.

“Perhaps . . . but why a rope?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might . . . a chain requires a manacle.”

One small enough to hold a prisoner securely. But a manacle made for an adult could slip right off the limb of a child.

“Oh, God—”

Cesare glanced at the rope again and barred his teeth in what an innocent might take as a smile. “Newly cut. With a little luck, he isn’t too far ahead of us.”

He plunged into the passage, his men racing after him. I followed hard on their heels, cursing the skirts that tangled around my legs. We ran . . . I don’t know how far. Several times I thought I heard sounds ahead of us, but we were making enough noise ourselves that I could not be sure. The passage began to slope upward. I caught a faint whiff of incense on the air.

Cesare burst through a door, the rest of us tumbling after him. I heard a scream and the clatter of metal hitting stone. A wall of
condotierri ahead of me blocked the way forward. Try though I did, I could not see past their broad backs and shoulders until finally a crack opened between them and I realized that we were in the sacristy filled with priests preparing for Innocent’s funeral.

The sudden appearance of armed men with smoking torches and wild eyes emerging as though from the netherworld appeared to test the faith of more than a few of the holy men. There was an unseemly scramble to escape amid shouts, cries for help, and the like.

That all stopped abruptly when Cesare, sword drawn, shouted, “Halt!” At his order, his men fanned out to block the exit.

“We are in pursuit of a priest with a child,” he announced. “Where did they go?”

Silence greeted this demand, followed swiftly by a babble of responses, some fearful, others outraged, none in the least helpful until one old priest, gathering up the shreds of his dignity, approached Cesare directly.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked. “By what right do you come here?”

For just a moment, Cesare looked uncertain. What right indeed? The right of the sword, of course, but did he really want to brandish that in such a place? Shouldn’t there be at least the pretense of respecting the authority of Holy Mother Church, the ultimate arbiter before whom even mighty warriors must kneel?

“I am Cesare Borgia, son of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia! You will do as I say or face my fury!”

So much for the renowned discretion of Il Cardinale, who by the standards of our time had gone out of his way to avoid flaunting his children.

The old priest paled but did not back down. While the others hissed and whispered among themselves, he drew himself up and confronted Cesare.

“This is a holy place! Sheathe your sword, son of Borgia, and do not draw it again beneath this roof!”

There are times when I dare to think there may be hope for Holy Mother Church.

Fearful of how Cesare would respond to so direct a challenge, I was about to say something about the priest meaning well, being an old man, not taking offense, and so on, but before I could utter a word, a cacophony of shouts and screams broke out that surpassed any that had gone before.

“A woman!”

“How dare she—!”

“Sacrilege!”

“Strega!”

Witch. For daring to set foot in God’s holy sacristy. My presence alone was a source of pollution so vile as to make me deserving of death by fire.

To give the old priest credit, he ignored the others and said earnestly, “I would help you if I could, but truly no one appeared here until you and your companions. Now you must go.”