The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel (21 page)

With His Holiness’s grip on my life in mind, I took firm hold of the steel-tipped hammer bought from a blacksmith in the Via dei Fabbri, where the forges burn all day and night and the air rings with the clang of metal on metal. I inhaled deeply and, before I could think too much of what I was about to do, struck a blow against the leather pouch laid on my worktable. I really had no idea what to expect but I reasoned that if the gem cutters of Bruges so renowned for their craft could score facets into diamonds using a fine steel wedge carefully tapped, the stones had to be susceptible to dividing. The hammer was a brute-force method, but unlike a master cutter, I was not looking for precision. Crushed would do well enough.

I worked at the task for several days, going slowly and checking often to make sure that the results could not be detected when mixed with the finely milled salt I kept nearby for comparison. In between bouts of hammering, I secured the diamonds in the secret compartment of the puzzle chest that I had from my father. The chest itself was an ingenious mechanism designed to keep a false bottom in place. To free it, the right sequence of steps had to be carried out on the four outer sides of the chest itself, a procedure that involved sliding separate sections of wood in different directions until at last the hidden lock was released. Only then would the bottom tilt slightly, revealing itself. One misstep and the lock would reset.

I had put the diamonds away and was preparing to leave for the Vatican when I remembered that Minerva was overdue for a visit outside. When I went in search of her, she was not to be found. Well aware that cats take frosty pleasure in watching humans scramble about on their behalf, I refused to worry but made a show of departing anyway. Before I could do so, she emerged—I’m not entirely certain from where; like every building in Rome, mine had its secrets—appearing in the center of the salon, where she sat washing herself with admirable unconcern.

We returned from the garden to find Benjamin waiting for me. He bopped up and down and launched at once into his purpose in coming with great urgency.

“Donna Francesca, Padrone Alfonso wants you to know that the man you seek may have been seen in a tunnel under Trastevere in the early hours of this morning. It’s not certain but based on the description you gave, it sounds as though it could have been him.
Il re
asks what you want him to do?”

My heart beat a little faster as I strove to remain calm. After all my efforts, this was the first real indication I had received of where Morozzi might be hiding. I set Minerva down in the salon as I strove to gather my thoughts.

There really was very little to think about.

“Tell him to meet me in Trastevere just after sunset, at the fountain in front of Santa Maria.”

“You’re going into the tunnels?”

“I must. Tell him also to make sure his people know how dangerous this man is. They should do nothing to draw his attention to them.”

“I will go with you,” Benjamin said stoutly.

I grimaced and gave him a little shove out the door. The thought of another child coming within Morozzi’s reach— “Don’t think for a moment to do any such thing. Sofia would have my head, and that’s only if she got to it before David did.”

“Even so—”

I bent down—though not very far, for he had grown inches in recent months—took him by the shoulders, and spoke earnestly.

“Benjamin, hear me, I know that you have a great deal of experience on the streets and that you can take care of yourself in most situations. But Morozzi is … different. He has something inside him, a kind of darkness that makes him extremely dangerous.”

“How do you know that?”

What could I say? That I understood Morozzi in a way others could not because we were alike to some degree? The mere thought of that filled me with such horror that I was hard-pressed not to scream out in denial of it.

“I just know. You have to promise me that you will be with Sofia tonight or somewhere else safe. Otherwise, I won’t be able to concentrate. I’ll be distracted worrying about you and who knows what that could lead to.”

“I don’t want you to come to any harm,” he said with sincerity that touched my heart.

“Good, then promise me you will do as I ask.”

He needed a moment to think it over but finally Benjamin nodded. “I promise, but you have to promise, too, not to take any crazy risks.”

I tried a look of bafflement but he was having none of it.

“I know some of what happened last year,” he said. “You’re lucky to still be alive. You have to be more careful.”

More affected by his concern than I cared to admit, I assured him that I would take every precaution. As usual in such circumstances, I was lying.

When Benjamin was gone, I delayed my own departure long enough to make the necessary preparations for the night to come. That done, I walked briskly toward the Vatican, being sure to keep my wits about me and maintain a sharp eye for any sign of trouble. Along the way, I noticed more condottierri than usual in the streets. Despite the gathering warmth of the day, they wore full armor and the plumed helmets of the papal household. I wondered if the show of power wasn’t Borgia’s way of sending a message to a populace too well amused of late at his expense. Of the graffiti, I saw no sign at all, although I did notice that quite a few walls appeared freshly scrubbed.

The sun was bright, the day all but cloudless. The incessant wind that had plagued us of late had died away, if only temporarily. In its place was a light, fresh breeze that smelled of the distant mountains to the north where the ice we Romans love to eat flavored with lavender and rose petals has its birth.

I was crossing the Piazza San Pietro—noting as I did that the crowd appeared sparser than usual and the guards more numerous—when I saw Rocco coming from the direction of the barracks. He had not yet seen me and for just a moment, I was tempted to dart into the kitchens until he had passed. But although my vices are manifold, cowardice is not among them. I stood my ground and found a smile. Glimpsing me, his brow knit together and in the moment before he spoke, I sensed that the reluctance I felt was not mine alone.

“How is Nando?” I asked after we had exchanged stilted greetings. I assumed Rocco had come to visit his son and in that I was correct. Nonetheless, his reply surprised me.

“He is … happy.” A rueful grin forced its way past his guarded manner. “Donna Felicia is the soul of kindness. She pampers him unabashedly, as do her daughters. I swear he has been more cosseted, more admired, and generally made more of in these few days than I have managed to do since he was placed in my arms.”

Having had the benefit of a loving father myself, I knew full well that Rocco was a devoted parent—caring, patient, and wise. No child could have asked for more.

But when I said as much, he passed a hand through his hair in which buried gold glinted and replied, “I don’t know whether I am or not but I do know what I am not—and cannot be. A mother.”

It was then I noticed that his eyes, usually so clear and candid, were focused somewhere over my shoulder. He was not looking at me directly.

“Francesca—”

Did I know? Did some secret sense warn me that the ground was about to shift beneath my feet and assumptions I had made unknowingly come tumbling down? I have wondered that from time to time but have never really found an answer.

Suffice to say that I was not prepared when, having fortified himself with a deep breath, Rocco said, “I have been wanting to tell you … that is, I think you should know … there was a reason why I wasn’t at the meeting at the villa.”

That had been more than three weeks ago and a great deal had happened since. I had long since ceased to wonder at his absence; indeed, I had never given it more than passing notice. Such was my trust in Rocco that I assumed he had a sound reason for his not being there.

But Sofia had asked after it, hadn’t she? She had wondered, even if I had failed to do so.

“I had planned to attend,” Rocco said. Something fascinating must have been going on in the direction of the stables because he was still looking toward them and not at me. “I’d arranged for Nando to stay with Donna Maria at the bakery. But at the last minute, a visitor turned up.”

“A visitor?” I heard my own voice—cool, polite, moderately interested—as though from a distance.

“Signore Enrico d’Agnelli. He came himself … alone. I was almost out the door and suddenly there he was.”

The memory of Rome’s most renowned glassmaker’s visit seemed to fluster him. He reddened. “As you may know, his only son died last year. A fever of some sort, I believe.”

“Did he?” I had heard of that, for Rome was—still is—a chatty city in which everything is grist for the gossip mill. I had never known the young d’Agnelli or any of the family, for that matter. Why then the sense of dread that was growing in me?

“D’Agnelli has a daughter. Her name is Carlotta. She turned eighteen last month.”

“Did she?” I was parroting myself but could not help it. Eighteen was an interesting age for a young woman, a time when even the most indulgent father will feel compelled to turn his attention to the subject of marriage. Mine had.

For the first time since he had begun to speak, Rocco looked at me directly. He appeared torn between conflicting—and irreconcilable—realities.

“D’Agnelli has a notion that I should come into his business. I told him I was flattered but not interested, and that was the truth … until just now. Seeing Nando with Donna Felicia and her daughters … it made me realize what he has missed by not having a mother to love him.”

I did not have to ask how the man who had lost his only son envisioned joining forces with the most gifted young glassmaker in Rome. Obviously, the fair Carlotta—already I tormented myself with thoughts of her beauty—would have a key role to play in any such arrangement.

“Not all women make good mothers.” I regretted the words the moment I spoke. The acrid taste of their bile stung my throat. I knew too well that it was not of Carlotta that I spoke, but of myself.

“Even so—” His eyes darkened. He reached out a hand—square, blunt-tipped at the fingers, scarred here and there from the fire he wove into wonders. For just a moment, I thought he meant to touch me.

We are all of us balanced on Fortuna’s wheel, clinging as best we can lest we tumble heedlessly into Fata’s dark maw. Yet we can, if we dare, let go and in that golden moment find the strength of our own wings unfurling.

But I did not know that then.

A single step toward him, likely nothing more would have been needed. Had I taken it, everything else, the entire course of my life from that moment on, would have changed. Or so I imagine.

A cloud drifted across the sun. In the sudden gloom, I froze. But for the slow beat of my heart tolling in my ears, I might have been a statue.

Rocco stared at me a moment longer. “Even so—,” he repeated, and dropped his hand.

I watched him walk away, the sight of him wavering like a reflection in a pond rippled by the fall of a stone. He disappeared into the crowd and was gone before I could move again.

18

The day passed with unbearable slowness. I cannot tell you what I did although I must have done it well enough, for no one commented on my behavior or so much as looked at me askance, at least not within my viewing.

I was alone, Renaldo being off somewhere or other, the secretaries occupied as usual, and the rest of Borgia’s vast staff being disinclined to seek my company. In the midst of the busy stream of comings and goings, moderated by Vittoro’s increased vigilance but still significant, I felt my solitude more keenly than usual.

That being the case, when I had finished with the necessary inspection of goods, I sought diversion until that hour when I had engaged to meet Alfonso. It did occur to me that I should visit Lucrezia but the thought of yet another conversation about her anticipated wedding just then filled me with such disquiet that I could only make a silent promise to remedy my neglect as soon as possible.

Instead, I turned my attention to the lingering mystery of Borgia’s disappearances. Where was he going and how was he managing to get there?

At that hour—it was by then midday—His Holiness was scheduled to be hosting a performance by the papal choir in honor of the hapless Spanish envoy, after which the two men would adjourn for further discussions, free, it was to be hoped, from any more flying tableware. As always, Borgia’s secretaries would be in close attendance upon him. His office would be empty.

One advantage to being held in fear and dread is that scarcely anyone ever thought to question what I did. The guards on duty throughout the Curia knew of my friendship with their captain but they would have avoided challenging me strictly on the basis of my own dark reputation. The same could be said of the various clerics scurrying back and forth, all burdened with armfuls of ledgers, reports, correspondence, and the like, without which no large institution, certainly not Holy Mother Church, can function. These priests made a particular point of averting their eyes as I sallied up the marble steps, down the long gilded corridor, through the antechamber, and to the very door of Borgia’s inner domain within the Vatican Palace.

There I paused, but only briefly. While it is true that an excess of audacity can lead to disaster, more often than not it will carry the day, or so has been my experience. A quick glance through the
spioncino
confirmed that the office was empty. I eased one half of the double door open and slipped inside. Leaning back, I let my weight close the door behind me and surveyed the room.

Partly, my intent was to make sure that I did not inadvertently displace anything and thereby leave evidence of my intrusion. But mainly I was curious to see the office without Borgia’s overwhelming presence. Most people leave touches of themselves in any place they inhabit. Surely so outsized a figure as His Holiness would have an imprint larger than most. But the more I looked around the ornate space, the less I saw of him. The wide marble expanse of his desk was bare save for the elaborate ink and pen set. The shelves behind it held such objects—small sculptures and the like—as could have been found in the home of any wealthy man. In all fairness, Luigi d’Amico had better, but then the banker’s taste was far more refined than was Borgia’s. A few books were in evidence on the shelves but they appeared untouched. The paintings were good enough but again, nothing remarkable or any in way personal. The whole seemed designed solely to give the impression of great riches and power while concealing the man within. Of the religious nature of his office, there was no hint at all.