A Borgia Daughter Dies Read online

  A Borgia Daughter Dies

  A Real History Mystery featuring the Borgias,

  Niccolò Machiavelli and Leonardo da Vinci

  By Maryann Philip

  Copyright © 2003, 2012 Maryann Philip, Real History Mystery Press (http://www.MaryannPhilip.com),(http://www.facebook.com/AuthorMaryannPhilip ( [email protected]

  Cover art, clockwise from top left: The Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci; Cesare Borgia, painter unknown; Lucrezia Borgia and Pope Alexander VI by Pinturicchio.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  • The History Behind the Mystery

  • Chapter 1—Giorgio Finds Another Body

  • Chapter 2—Caterina and Leonardo da Vinci

  • Chapter 3—A Machiavellian Beginning

  • Chapter 4—Sister Annaluisa’s Funeral

  • Chapter 5—Auto da Fé

  • Chapter 6—The Man in the Graveyard

  • Chapter 7—Lucrezia’s Borgia’s Wedding and Bedding

  • Chapter 8—A Dangerous Contessa

  • Chapter 9—Disaster in Milan

  • Chapter 10—Death in St. Peter’s Square

  • Chapter 11—Vendetta

  • Chapter 12—The Suspects

  • Chapter 13—Betrayed Trust

  • Chapter 14—Lucrezia Runs the Vatican

  • Chapter 15—Niccolò in Motion

  • Chapter 16—Bullfights in St. Peter’s Square

  • Chapter 17—Beauty Secrets

  • Chapter 18—The Abortionist

  • Chapter 19—Threats from Above

  • Chapter 20—Abduction

  • Chapter 21—Assassins in the Vatican

  • Chapter 22—Pia’s Wedding

  • Chapter 23—La Sforza Re-emerges

  • Chapter 24—Executions

  • Chapter 25—The Road to Rome

  • Chapter 26—A Reunion

  • Chapter 27—Another Poisoning

  • Chapter 28—Recriminations

  • Chapter 29—Another Funeral

  • Chapter 30—A Threatening Kiss

  • Chapter 31—At Sister Annaluisa's Grave

  • Chapter 32—New Suspects

  • Chapter 33—More Poison

  • Chapter 34—And Even More Poison

  • Chapter 35—The Princess

  • Chapter 36—The Mona Lisa and the First Musket

  • Chapter 37—Leonardo the Lutenist

  • Chapter 38—The Greek Woman’s Lover

  • Chapter 39—Cesare Borgia's Poisoner

  • Chapter 40—Ugo’s Will

  • Chapter 41—The Confession

  • Chapter 42—In the Roman Baths

  • Chapter 43—A Better Musket

  • Chapter 44—The Mona Lisa

  • Chapter 45—The Trap

  • Chapter 46—Niccolò Arrives

  • Cast of Principal Characters

  • Afterword

  • Partial Bibliography

  • About the Author

  • List of Images

  THE HISTORY BEHIND THE MYSTERY

  Truth is stranger and more interesting than any fiction that could be written about the flamboyant, creative and violent crucible of modern history known as the Italian Renaissance. The history you will read here is accurate, factually and chronologically, with rare exceptions noted in the Afterword. Historical persons, identified in the Cast of Characters at the end of the book, meet only when they did in real life. None has been moved further than across Rome, where necessary for the story.

  Chapter 1—Giorgio Finds Another Body

  Rome, Italy

  November 1497

  The fisherman spotted the corpse bobbing in the Tiber, in the dark eddy where bodies began surfacing after Rodrigo Borgia bribed his way to becoming Pope Alexander VI. Above it loomed the pope’s massive brick prison, the Castel Sant’Angelo, a dark silhouette against the gray dawn. Disembodied laughter floated down from the battlements as night torches winked out like fireflies. The day sentries were coming on duty. Soon, they would be able to see him.

  Like all good oarsmen, Giorgio rowed with his back to his goal. Imagining where the corpse would be, he rowed quietly toward the pope’s prison, feeling as though unseen eyes—some living, some dead--were searching for him. It was still too dark to see, but could they hear his oars? The guards’ voices, unnaturally loud in the damp stillness, gave no sign that they did.

  Fear made Giorgio sweat, despite the morning chill. They had already beaten him once, for failing to report the death of the pope’s oldest son, Juan Borgia--though Giorgio told them repeatedly that there were too many dead in the Tiber to notice one in particular. To avoid more beatings, he now caught corpses as well as fish. He also searched the richly-clad ones, since Juan Borgia’s mangled remains bore jewels and a rich purse, along with all the stab wounds. So the pope’s soldiers had told him, anyway. But meddling with the dead had paid him only in nightmares, so far.

  Giorgio’s fear gave way to surprise, when he turned to gauge how close he was to the corpse. He was nearly atop it—and it wore the white habit of the Dominican order, faintly luminescent in the first light of day. Madre di Dio, this one was a nun! He stowed his oars to examine the bloated body, which smelled even worse than the sewage stink of the Tiber. The slit-eyed face, swelling from the nun’s white wimple, was whiter than bread dough, and fruited with red pockmarks--fish bites, probably. Some pèssimi fish ate anything. He closed his eyes, trying not to gag.

  Forcing himself to look at her again, he noticed the garrote, so tight around her veil and wimple that it threatened to behead her. What was an assassin’s weapon doing around a nun’s neck? Dead prisoners from the Castel Sant’Angelo landed in the Tiber, along with the garbage—but surely the pope would not bother with nuns. Did the vendettas that killed so many in the great families now include their women? Giorgio knew that the rich rid themselves of troublesome daughters by forcing them into convents. But killing a nun? That, he couldn’t understand.

  She had to be a runaway, he decided. Such a one might well carry money--how else would she start a new life? He groped in the chilly water for her purse, which was slimy and heavy with coins. Cutting it free, he quickly hid it in his fishnets, hoping the pope’s soldiers were not watching. Then he towed the body to the pope’s jetty, wondering who would kill a nun without robbing her as well.

  Chapter 2—Caterina and Leonardo da Vinci

  Milan, Italy

  November, 1497

  Caterina Biaggi watched nervously from inside the shop as Leonardo da Vinci inspected the cannons her husband Ugo had manufactured to defend Milan against the imminent French invasion. She remembered da Vinci from the Duke’s court because of his bella figura: tall and muscular, he wore his tunics only to the knee, his hosen tight, and his shoulder-length gray hair and beard groomed carefully into a wavy mane. Now dressed in browns and yellows, he reminded her of the lion in the Duke’s animal park-- dignified and deliberate, yet powerful.

  Da Vinci was inspecting the last of her husband’s six brass cannons, lined up like soldiers on the cobbled street outside the Biaggi workshop. Caterina, who kept the books, knew how much was at stake this day, and hoped for immediate payment. Otherwise, if the war went badly, the
y might not be paid at all. She watched anxiously as da Vinci peered into a cannon barrel, holding the candle so close to his bushy gray brows that she feared they would catch fire. When finished, da Vinci handed the candle to his apprentice, a delicately handsome young man with bleached blonde, shoulder-length curls, clad in a bright yellow tunic.

  “Well done, Maestro Biaggi,” da Vinci said to Caterina's husband Ugo as he entered the shop. “The casting is perfect. I would like to observe your technique sometime.”

  “There is no more metal to cast, for now,” Ugo responded. “I know this brass was intended for your grandissima statue, Sire. A thousand apologies.”

  “No apologies. The Duke has promised I can melt the cannons down again, after he defeats the French. My colossal horse can wait. I may hire you to help me with it!”

  Trumpets sounded, drawing Caterina out the door to look down the street. Color and movement appeared in the distance: jugglers, and men in motley, carrying bright silk banners on long staffs. Behind them, lords and ladies in bright colors, a moving fresco framed by the brown brick buildings on either side of the cobbled street.

  “Is the Duke coming?” she asked.

  Da Vinci looked at her quizzically. “Si. To thank the armorers lining this street. And, to distract his loyal subjects from thoughts of the French.”

  He strode across the shop and grabbed a crossbow. “Do not worry, Madonna,” he called back to her, as he examined it. “He is unlikely to remember you, dressed as you are.”

  Caterina lowered her eyes. She was indeed worried about seeing the Duke—called Il Moro, “the Moor,” by the people of Milan because of his dark skin. Caterina had been carefully celibate at the Duke’s court, having paid dearly for youthful sins. They had ignored their mutual attraction when she worked for his brilliant Duchess, Beatrice d’Este, who awed them both. But Duchess Beatrice had died in childbirth, after Caterina left to marry Ugo. And the grieving Duke began plucking mistresses from the populace like wildflowers from the roadside--or so it was said.

  She was seized with a sudden fear: if Il Moro saw her now, he might want her again. Her marriage to Ugo would not stop him. And if she succumbed, Ugo would kill her—or if he didn’t, the Duke would soon discard her. Assuming the war with the French did not kill him first.

  Just as quickly, she quelled her panic. She was too old to be all aquiver like a young maiden. The future of their shop was at stake. Da Vinci was right--it was unlikely the Duke would notice her, now.

  She walked from the doorway to watch him inspect the crossbows and pikes Ugo had made. “I am flattered that you remember me, Maestro da Vinci.”

  “I am a painter, Madonna. I see, and I remember. I sketched you once, thinking you would be a perfect Salome, if I ever painted her story.”

  Caterina laughed. “Salome? Who danced for King Herod? Whose head would I demand, in exchange for my exotic dance?”

  “Only you can answer that question,” da Vinci responded, amusement glinting in his deep-set eyes. “Thank you, Maestro,” he said to Ugo, who placed quivers of arrows beside the table and began stacking weapons da Vinci had already inspected

  “Why would the Duke not remember my wife? Is there something wrong with the way she is dressed?” Ugo’s tone was sharp, reminding Caterina that he did not like her laughing or even talking with other men.

  “Not at all, Maestro. She is dressed modestly, as befits a married woman. But I know the Duke. Rest assured, his eye is first for clothing—the more rich and revealing, the better. A beautiful face—like your wife’s—is not what first catches his eye.”

  Caterina acknowledged the compliment with a quick smile that Ugo could not see. Da Vinci kept his eyes on her husband.

  “Are these the rest of the weapons the Duke has ordered, Maestro Biaggi?” he asked.

  “All. He ordered all. Where is Carlo, Caterina?”

  “I’ll look for him,” she promised, retreating across the cobbled floor past the massive brick foundry, still smoking from the morning’s labors, to mount the steep wooden stairs to their apartment. Her stepson was not there, she knew, but she could search for him through the second story window. It was no use looking out the door of the shop, at the moment. Crowds were now forming in the street outside, waiting to gawk at the parade of wonders accompanying the Duke.

  As she scanned the crowd from above, Caterina savored da Vinci’s compliment and her brief laugh. Laughter was a rare balm, these days. She tucked a wheat-colored wimple around her face and under her veil, hiding the curve of her breasts beneath her simple brown cammora. Even she scarcely recognized herself in this wimple, which made her face look as white as a fish belly. It also smelled like the shop: of charcoal smoke, hot metal, and sweat. All smells she hated. But she looked and smelt like an artisan’s wife, now. Surely Il Moro would not notice her.

  And then she spotted her stepson, disappearing into an alley across the narrow street. Carlo held a wineskin in one hand and a girl from the local tavern in the other. Though Ugo wanted Carlo’s help, Caterina was glad he was gone. Her stepson did not know or care about the family business. He could easily make a mess of everything.

  She would not tell Ugo about the girl, she decided. Carlo worried him too much already. She hurried back down the stairs.

  “Excellent work, Maestro,” da Vinci was saying. He grabbed the quill Ugo handed him, laid the sales contract down on the scarred wooden table now covered with crossbows, then signed it with a flourish. “The Duke will see to your payment.”

  “Payment before delivery,” Caterina said. “Those are always our terms. Will the Duke pay us now?”

  “Perhaps if you apply to him personally,” da Vinci said uncertainly.

  “I am applying to you personally,” Caterina smiled, her eyes beseeching him. Surely he knew the risks she would take if she applied to Il Moro.

  “I do not carry the Duke’s purse, Madonna. Alas. But I will do what I can.”

  “Leonardo?” said a female voice from the doorway. Caterina recognized the lady—it was the Isabella d’Aragona, widow of the last Duke. Clutching her hand was her young son, whose dukedom had been usurped by Il Moro, his uncle. Da Vinci hastened outside to greet the two of them. As he spoke with Isabella, the child twisted around to watch flaming truncheons, redolent of pine smoke, spinning in the air above the cheering crowd. The Duke’s jugglers had arrived outside.

  A memory pricked Caterina. The boy’s big brown eyes, now filled with wonder, reminded her of her daughter Nicola. But Nicola was now older than this child, she reminded herself. Eleven years old. What did she look like now? Ugo had never let her travel to Rome to visit Nicola, thinking the child was merely her niece. She didn’t dare tell him the truth.

  “Caterina, you are mad to demand immediate payment.” Ugo’s voice was cold. “The Duke can take what he wants. If we anger him, he may never pay us.”

  “Of course the Duke can take what he wants,” Caterina agreed, in as meek a voice as she could muster. “But why should it anger him that we demand immediate payment? Those have always been our terms. Besides, if he does not pay us now, we may never be paid.”

  Caterina rarely defied her husband, but now was willing to risk it. Ugo could die in this war, and would likely leave his fortune to her stepson, who hated her. Il Moro had never reliably paid his bills, and might be defeated. She needed this money for herself, and for Nicola.

  As yet, she had devised no means of seeing her daughter. However, she was determined to find one. In the meantime, she planned constantly for Nicola’s well-being. Dio grazie, the child was safe in Rome. Was her own gold safe from the French? Many a time she had considered fetching it and burying it in the shop yard, always concluding that her savings were safer in her banker’s vault. The French king needed the goodwill of Italian bankers, who frequently loaned him money. He would protect them from his soldiers, whatever other atrocities he allowed when he invaded Milan.

  Caterina watched as Isabella d’Aragona, wearing an inscruta
ble smile, parted from Maestro da Vinci and returned with her son to the parade of lords and ladies now streaming down the street. Rumors were circulating about da Vinci and Isabella, Caterina remembered. Well, why not? Da Vinci was older, but he was still handsome. Isabella had money, leisure, and a great deal to worry about, as mother of the rightful Duke. She deserved some pleasure in her life.

  “Was that Isabella d’Aragona, talking to Maestro da Vinci?” Ugo asked. “Still dressed in mourning, after all these years?”

  “Si. It doesn’t suit her. She should not wear dark colors.”

  “It’s a slap in the face to the Duke. He would rather forget his brother.” Ugo left unspoken what all knew: Il Moro had poisoned the former Duke, to assume his throne.

  “She is endangering her little son,” Caterina agreed. “Il Moro would rather forget about him, too.”

  “Il Moro will never forget about him. And neither will the French king. That little boy’s claim to Milan is better than his. Look--there he is, Caterina!”

  The Duke, clad in a glittering diadem and a purple tunic gaudy with jewels, now stood in front of the Biaggi cannons. He patted each one like a mastiff while he conferred with da Vinci. Behind him, a group of soldiers laughed at one of his court jesters, a dwarf in motley who made obscene gestures with his hips, pretending he had a cannon in his codpiece. The crowd was singing a familiar love song, drowning out the lutes that played the melody.

  “At least look like you are expecting payment, Ugo,” Caterina said before she retreated hastily to the back of the shop. There she seated herself on a wooden bench, bowing her head to hide her face.

  She had forgotten how homely Il Moro was. A head shorter than da Vinci, he was clean-shaven and massively built, with chin-length black hair and a nose like a sail. His aura of danger and personal charm were what made him attractive, she decided. She smiled despite herself.

  Her smile faded as she heard him enter the shop. He strode past Ugo and stopped directly in front of her, close enough to touch her. Smelling of lavender, as always. Her cheeks burned as she felt him looking her over, as if she were merchandise. She kept her eyes lowered, hoping her dull, modest clothing would disguise her, and worrying how Ugo would react to Il Moro’s rapacious stare.