Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance - By Sara Poole Page 0,115

for a moment I was not sure he had spoken.

I turned and looked at him with studied innocence that belied the sudden rapid beating of my heart. “When, Eminence?”

“Just now when you were no longer with us. What vision was revealed to you?”

I took a breath and let it out slowly. He was watching me closely. I feared he saw far too much.

“With all respect,” I said lest I appear to be instructing him in what he surely already knew. “Only those who find favor in the eyes of the Lord can hope to see beyond the veil of this world.”

He sat back in his chair, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Not for a moment did I fool him.

“Is that what you believe?” he asked.

“It is what Holy Mother Church teaches, is it not?”

“And Holy Mother Church is never wrong, is she?”

A moth, drawn by the flickering candles, flitted into the room. It circled a flame, swooping so close I thought its fragile wings must surely be singed.

“You are far better able to answer that than am I, Eminence.”

Softly, he said, “I should be able to, Francesca. I have known you since you were a child, watched you grow up in my household, taken note of your particular talents and, shall we say, your vulnerabilities. Yet in matters concerning you, I confess to a certain confusion.”

“You should not,” I said, startled by the notion that he had observed me so closely. “I am, above all, your faithful servant.”

Before he could reply, I said, “Do something for me, if you will. Send men to the shop of the glassmaker Rocco Moroni in the Via dei Vertrarari. He has had dealings with Morozzi and may have some idea of where he would hide.”

I hoped the predawn visit would not trouble Rocco overly much, but I was confident that he would understand the need for it. If I was wrong about Morozzi’s likely whereabouts, I needed to know that as soon as possible.

“All right,” Borgia said, and looked about to say more. Before he could do so I murmured my thanks and beat a speedy retreat from his office, down the broad steps into the night.

There Cesare waited, pacing impatiently, a splendid animal as eager as I to be loosed upon the hunt.

32

It is said that Rome was built on seven hills, yet these days only the Capitoline seems a true hill, the other six being much diminished by the draining and building up of the marshlands that once lay between them. But before Christ walked the earth, before there was a Holy Mother Church, there was an eighth hill that the old ones who were here even before the Romans called Vaticum. There, evil spirits dwelled close to the entrance to Hades, the mad Emperor Nero staged chariot races and executions, and the poor buried their dead. One such humble grave received the mortal remains of the martyred Peter the Apostle, companion and disciple of our Lord.

It is said, and I know no reason not to believe it, that as soon as Peter’s body was laid to rest, his followers began to venerate his grave. They kept watch over it, buried their own dead nearby, and did their best to assure that the spot was not disturbed.

Of course, all of this happened centuries ago, and much is lost to us in the turmoil and darkness that followed. But the great Emperor Constantine left records of the church he built a thousand and more years ago to shelter Peter’s grave, modeling it on the old Roman basilicas. It is whispered that to erect the monument to his own greatness as much as to the greatness of his faith, Constantine destroyed many other old Christian tombs, casting the bones of the faithful to the wolves. But it is best not to speak of that.

It is enough to say that from his vision so long ago sprang the great moldering pile of rock that these days threatens to crush us all.

Cesare and I entered through the atrium, past the Navicella mosaic, and continued on into the basilica proper. Despite the late hour, we were not alone in that vast and hallowed space. In addition to the several dozen men-at-arms who had come with us from the palazzo, Vatican guards were everywhere in evidence. Our arrival attracted some attention, but the sight of the Borgia livery discouraged anyone who might have challenged us.

The interior was lit by prayer candles and perpetual