The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (14 page)

The moment passed. I drew my hand away and, with greater difficulty, my gaze. The mundane sounds of the street—the creak of wagons, the bark of a dog, a man’s hearty laughter—gave me something safe to pin my attention on until such time as the ragged seam of my composure stitched itself back into the semblance of normality.

Rocco rose, pushed back his bench, and strode outside. I did not hear what he said to Nando but I was relieved by the boy’s quick smile and the eagerness with which he hurried back into the room.

“We’re going to visit the Vatican, Donna Francesca. Are you coming with us?”

“Of course.” My false brightness might fool the child but I could not hope to conceal my feelings from Rocco unless I found a way first to control them within myself. There was only one way I knew to do that; I had to turn away from the light he brought into my life and allow the darkness free rein.

And so we went out into the day—a man, a woman, a child. Anyone might be pardoned for assuming that we were a carefree little family, except that one of us moved through scarlet shadows, busily conniving at bloody death.

The streets were considerably more crowded but I did my best to take careful note of all those around us, the better to determine if we were being followed. I saw no one in the least suspicious but that did not necessarily mean that we were unobserved. Any of Morozzi’s allies among Il Frateschi might be watching. For that matter, so might Borgia’s “eyes.”

Vittoro was about to depart for the barracks when we arrived. His wife, Donna Felicia, was just smoothing his doublet over his shoulders as they stood together at the open door.

“Donna Francesca,” Vittoro said, his gaze going to Rocco and Nando. “Moroni, is it, the glassmaker?”

“I am, sir,” Rocco said, and extended his hand.

While the men assessed each other, I put an arm around Nando’s shoulders. As I had hoped, the boy’s wide-eyed stare and shy smile drew Felicia’s attention. She bent down to look at him.

“Who would this fine lad be?”

“My son.” Rocco drew him forward. When the introductions were done, he said, “Nando, I’m going to speak with Captain Romano for a few minutes, all right?”

The boy nodded, happy to go with Donna Felicia, who held out her hand to him with the suggestion that he might like a fresh-baked
boconnotto
filled with sweet cream. The three of us stepped into the small room Vittoro kept just beyond the front door where he conducted business. Once there, I wasted no time explaining why we had come.

Before I had finished, the good captain was nodding. “Of course, the boy can stay with us. Felicia will be delighted. Our grandchildren are here almost every day yet she still complains that the house is empty.” To Rocco, he said, “Be assured he will be well cared for.”

After we had both thanked him, we spoke a little longer about the situation with Morozzi before Rocco went off to talk with Nando. I don’t know exactly what he said to him to explain what was happening but the boy seemed to take it all in stride. Donna Felicia had him at the long wooden table in the kitchen where the Romano family—grandparents, daughters and sons-in-law, and grandchildren—still supped together most evenings. His face was smeared with cream and he looked well contented.

When father and son had taken leave of each other—hopefully only for a very short time—we stepped outside accompanied by Vittoro. Rocco stood silently, taking in the bustle of activity as the Pope’s guards drilled under the eagle eyes of their officers. I had the impression that training had been stepped up of late and appreciated that Vittoro was leaving nothing to chance.

“I know that you are doing everything possible,” Rocco said. “But hundreds of people come and go here each day. If Morozzi is determined enough, you may not be able to keep him out.”

“That is true,” Vittoro said readily. “A sufficiently committed assassin can penetrate anywhere. But remember, Morozzi has never shown any tendency to sacrifice his own life. That being the case, the riskier I can make it for him, the better.”

Turning to me, he added, “I am more concerned about your well-being, Donna Francesca. I trust you will take every care.”

I assured him that I would, fully aware that I lied. I would take every
reasonable
care but the fact remained that in seeking to kill Morozzi, there was every likelihood that I would be giving him the opportunity to kill me. I had to trust to my own skill, and possibly to the shade of my father who I hoped watched over me, that I would prove to be the more deadly.

Any comparison of myself to Morozzi inevitably risked rousing the darkness within me. I feared it was a matter of like calling to like, a possibility that brought with it unspeakable dread. To distract myself and because I was determined to let no weakness of my own intrude on what had to be done, I thanked Vittoro again for his help and bid him a quick farewell.

Rocco and I walked a short distance away when I felt compelled to say, “I am sorry to have brought such trouble on you. Hopefully, Nando will be able to come home soon. I will send word to you the moment the problem is resolved.”

Given that he had just been forced to leave his child in the care of people he did not know, I expected his mood to be grim. But I was unprepared when he stopped suddenly and faced me. His eyes glittered with a hard light I rarely saw in them and his face had darkened ominously.

“What do you think, that I will hide from this? That is all well and good for Nando, he is a child. I am a man. You would do well to remember that, Francesca.”

I was taken aback. Far from failing to think of Rocco as a man, I thought of him that way far too often.

“I know perfectly well who you are. You are a good and decent man who has the misfortune to be caught up in events not of your making but—”

“I cannot protect him by doing nothing!” His face twisted and for just a moment I caught a glimpse of the full extent of his fear. “My own son, and I must entrust him to strangers to keep him safe. And I cannot protect you either. You won’t allow it.”

Without warning, he took hold of both my arms and drew me closer. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel, Francesca? Any idea at all?”

I truly did not, but only because I never allowed myself to think in such terms.

“You … do not like it, clearly. But none of this is your fault save that you have befriended me. The blame is mine for involving you. If I were as other women—”

“We are as God makes us. If only you would accept that, you would find—”

Accept it? Accept that I was just as the all-knowing and all-merciful God wanted me to be? How could I accept such a possibility, hinting as it did at cosmic cruelty beyond any mortal’s capacity to endure?

“What is God, then?” I demanded. “A puppet master pulling the strings for His own cruel amusement?”

Fortunately, no one else was standing close enough to hear me, for my words were heresy, plain and simple. For them I could—many would say
should
—burn. Even Rocco, the very soul of tolerance, appeared taken aback.

“God is never cruel, Francesca. When we falter, He weeps for us.”

“So you believe and so I would like to but—”

The anger went from him as swiftly as it had come. Without a word, he gathered me into his arms. A wave of longing rose up in me so powerful that for a moment, I could not breathe. I gasped and leaned my head against his chest, letting his strength enfold me.

The sweet balm of Rocco’s embrace drove away all else. My awareness of the world around us—all the bustle of Saint Peter’s Square and the nearby looming wreck of the basilica that still so haunted me, and beyond the turbulent city baking in the late spring heat—faded to nothingness. We stood, the two of us alone, in a stolen moment of time all the more precious for having come so unexpectedly.

Perhaps God truly does show us His mercy if only we allow ourselves to receive it.

But whether by divine compassion or merely the hungry yearning of two souls, the world would not be held at bay forever.

In a heartbeat, it returned … with a vengeance.

12

“What is this?”
Cesare strode toward us as though out of a thundercloud, scattering dust, pigeons, and hapless passersby in every direction. He came with a hand on the hilt of his sword and an unholy gleam in his eyes. The boy/man filled with arrogance and pride and, worse yet, whatever demons the confrontation with his father and brother had raised in him.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on Rocco. “You’re the glassmaker, Pocco Somebody? What are you doing here?”

I was tired to the bone, having slept little and badly. Worries crowded my head, leaving scant room for yet another. It was there all the same—in black velvet, a froth of lace at his throat, a flash of ruby in the ring on his left hand that caught the sun as he gestured.

“Why are you holding my father’s … servant in the middle of Piazza San Pietro in front of hundreds of people and why is she letting you?”

This was the moment for Rocco to step back, bow his head, and murmur something conciliatory. Surely, he knew how volatile noble sons are, how easily stung in their vanity, how quick to take offense for any reason or none at all. He was an intelligent man and no stranger to eloquence. He easily could have put the matter to rights.

Which made it all the more alarming when he thrust me behind him, took a step toward Cesare—entirely the wrong direction!—and said, “What I do is not your business, signore. I am not answerable to you.”

Aiiee,
Blessed Mary and all the Saints! The man I had thought the soul of good sense and stability chose that moment to reveal himself as a raving lunatic. Moreover, I was not alone in realizing what he had done. Already an avid crowd was gathering. What better entertainment than to watch the Pope’s son hack some presumptuous commoner into tidy tidbits?

Another moment and the touts would be upon us, laying odds and collecting bets. Cesare would be favored, to be sure, but only for the most obvious and practical reasons: He had been trained from tenderest youth to kill. Rocco would be the sentimental pick by far although I was sure that anyone betting on him would lay off side bets to balance the risk. Round and round it would go until it ended the only way it could—with gore and sorrow and Morozzi off somewhere laughing as his adversaries bloodied each other.

I have no particular skill in the womanly arts but even I knew what had to be done.

“Where are you going?” Cesare demanded as I turned on my heel and began to walk away. I let my back speak for a moment before I stopped and glared at them both over my shoulder.

“To see to business. Obviously, one of us has to.”

They both gaped at me in a most satisfactory fashion, which served to embolden me further.

To Rocco, I said, “
If
you could manage to tear yourself away, perhaps you would inquire of Guillaume whether he has discovered anything of use.”

Rocco frowned, uncertain how to deal with my refusal to play the passive female. He should have known better.

Cesare did, however loath he might be to admit it. From the corner of my eye, I saw his reluctant grin. A little of the tension in me evaporated as he said, “And do you have instructions for me as well, Donna Francesca?”

I answered as diplomatically as my lingering ire would allow. “For you, signore? Surely you do not believe that I would be so presumptuous. However…”

“However?” Cesare repeated. Mercurial as he was, his good humor was returning. I suspected that I knew the reason why. For all his often overweening pride, Cesare respected nothing so much as audacity. Thanks be to God, I had that in abundance.

“If you would be so kind, Captain Romano is doing his best to strengthen the defenses hereabouts. I am certain that he would be grateful for your help.”

I did not speak lightly in that regard. Cesare was a born warrior with all the instincts of such. Vittoro, being of the same mind, knew his worth better than Cesare’s own father did.

Mollified and, I think, not a little amused, Cesare nodded to me, spared Rocco a slighting glance, and took himself off. With his going, the disgruntled crowd, disappointed at being denied a show, dispersed.

I exhaled in relief but did not linger. Before I turned to go, I said more gently, “Send word, if you will, if Guillaume knows anything. In the meantime do, please, try not to get yourself killed.”

Far from looking grateful for my intervention, Rocco merely shrugged. He seemed inexplicably pleased with what had transpired.

“If I’d gotten that sword away from him, he would have found out what it is to eat dust.”

As it was beyond my capacity to imagine how Rocco thought he could have disarmed Cesare Borgia, I did not reply. But as I walked away, I could not resist a glance over my shoulder at the man who truly did not seem to have any sense of his own limitations. Rocco was looking after me, his expression thoughtful and, to my way of thinking, far too perceptive.

Later, perhaps, I would consider the significance of the two men who unknowingly shared my affections actually having met—and so nearly come to blows. But just then I had more important matters to consider. Borgia had left certain questions in my mind that I intended to resolve without further delay.

I hurried on and shortly reached the Palazzo di Fortuna, Luigi d’Amico’s principal residence in Rome. Like most people of exalted means, he had private accommodations scattered about the city, places he could slip away to in times of trouble or simply to conduct confidential business. But this being a Tuesday, I knew he would be at home and receiving.

Even so, after entering the gilded hall at the front of the palazzo, I made no attempt to join the line waiting for admission to the main salon. Instead, I lingered, pretending great interest in the wall paintings drawn from Greek and Roman allegory until Luigi’s steward saw me and approached.

“Donna Francesca,” he said, “if you would be so good as to accompany me.”

I was led to a small room in a nearby wing where I was bid to wait. The room was graciously furnished with couches in the Roman style, small marquetry tables, and tall, padded chairs. High windows looked out over the gardens. Scarcely had I entered than a servant slipped in carrying a silver tray upon which rested a carafe of chilled lemonade and a dish of
biscotti.