A Borgia Daughter Dies Read online

  “Leonardo tells me you demand immediate payment?” His raspy voice was familiar, but unusually abrupt.

  “Those have always been our terms, Excellency.” She made her voice servile. Faced with silence, she looked up.

  There was a slight smile on his swarthy face. “Here,” he said, placing a small bag in her hand, then squeezing it. “If this is insufficient, apply to Leonardo.” Then he left.

  Standing and facing the wall, she peered inside the bag. It was filled with jewels and pearls—more than enough to pay for their inventory, considering that the Duke had supplied most of the materials. Whispering a quick prayer of thanks, she immediately palmed a handful, thrusting them in a pocket. These she would hide from Ugo so he would not suspect what she feared--that Il Moro expected to enjoy her body in return for his generosity.

  After thanking Il Moro effusively, Ugo hastened to her side, his hand outstretched. “Look, Ugo! We must hide these quickly,” she said as she handed him the bag.

  He glanced inside, then grabbed her and kissed her. “Our fortune is made!” he whispered. He took the jewels and disappeared upstairs.

  Caterina walked to the front of the shop, happily calculating their riches. The hangers-on at the court were laughing and conversing at the rear of the parade, preening in brightly-colored silks and velvets they could ill afford. Once, she was one of them. Wearing most of her savings on her body, and secretly proud that she was no longer a homeless, pregnant girl, disowned by her father when she found herself with child by Niccolò Machiavelli.

  She had come a long way since then. Now, she was respectable, with a small fortune in her pocket, and more with her bankers. But of late, she took little pleasure in life. And she no longer had pride, or pretty clothes. Or her daughter.

  Caterina was determined to give Nicola choices she herself had lacked. Her daughter would never have to hide her past, or go hungry, or marry for money. She would not have to wear mousy colors to hide herself, or stand on the side of the street, watching ladies without education or beauty strutting like the peacocks in Il Moro’s gardens.

  Suddenly, Caterina’s heart contracted painfully in her chest. She stepped backward into the shop and leaned against the wall. Could it be him? The short, slender courtier joking with a priest had the body and gait of Niccolò Machiavelli. But as he got closer, she could see his face and hear his laugh-- both unfamiliar. No, it was not him.

  Eight years now, and she still colored like a maiden every time she saw a man who looked like Niccolò. Would she never forget him?

  “What is wrong, Caterina?” asked Ugo, now joining her.

  Caterina smiled up at him. “I am just tired.”

  “We have been on our feet for a long time. Come and have something to eat,” he directed.

  Following him to their apartment, Caterina thanked God that she had married a good man, and wished she could love him as she should.

  Chapter 3—A Machiavellian Beginning

  Convent of San Sisto,

  Rome, December 1497

  Nicola Machiavelli watched intently from the front of the church as the white-habited Dominican sisters filed back into their private quarters from the nun’s choir above the rear door. For weeks, she had been hoping for a glimpse of Sister Annaluisa, her friend and teacher, who was missing. Lucrezia Borgia was watching the nuns, too. Did she know Sister Annaluisa well enough to be looking for her?

  Lost completely in thoughts of the absent nun, Nicola ignored a persistent whisper from the next pew. Then La Greca’s stick stung the back of her hand.

  The lay nun’s lovely face was angry. “Nicola, when will you learn to pay attention? The maestro is here to see you. Make him your curtesy.”

  With a last glance at the nun’s choir—still no Sister Annaluisa—Nicola turned to curtsey to the large male presence in the aisle next to her pew, ignoring her smarting hand.

  “Are you the daughter of Niccolò Machiavelli of Florence?” he asked in a booming voice.

  Startled, she looked up at him. “Si. Who are you? Do you come from my father? Is he coming to visit me?”

  “Nicola! I am sorry, Maestro. She is like a dog on a bone. Always questions. We are trying to teach her which ones are mannerly, and which ones are not, but. . .” La Greca shrugged her shoulders.

  Ignoring La Greca, Nicola memorized the face of the big, beardless man who looked like the fresco of Pontius Pilate at the back of the church, but in a bright blue tunic, black hosen, and floppy brown hat that looked like a fig. The odor of sweat and horses clinging to his clothes overpowered the spicy scent of incense, lingering from mass.

  “I do not come from your father,” he said. I come from your aunt.”

  “I have an aunt?” Her voice was loud, even to her own ears. She shot a reproachful look at La Greca, who gestured back, commanding silence.

  “Yes, you have an aunt. Very far away, in Milan. Now take her letter, and go answer it,” La Greca snapped.

  The man handed Nicola a letter sealed with red wax. “Nicola Machiavelli, Convent of San Sisto, Rome” was written across the front in a sprawling hand.

  “She asked me to give this to you. If you want to reply, I need it soon. ‘Tis a three week journey back to Milan and I need to leave as soon possible. Is there somewhere I can water my mules, Suora?”

  “Of course, Maestro. Go, child! Quickly!”

  Rubbing her hurt hand, Nicola trotted through the side door of the church, ignoring the other black-clad students who clustered there under the frescoes of martyred saints, looking down on her like a flock of crows. As she crunched the leaves on the flagstone path to Girl’s House, she opened the brown wax seal of the first letter she had received in her eleven years of life, with trembling hands. Who could this aunt be? Sister to her dead mother? Or sister to her powerful Florentine father, who left her at San Sisto when she was three, and never came back?

  After separating the seal from the paper, she read:

  Carissima Nicola,

  I write quickly having just learned that Maestro Luca is leaving for Rome. This letter is long delayed—please forgive me. Many a time I considered a messenger, but they are untrustworthy. And, I feared it would cost too much of the fortune I am trying to save for you. And truthfully, I did not know whether you would want to think of me.

  I taught you your alphabet when you were three, so I’m sure you can now read this. You already know that your father is Niccolò Machiavelli, who gave you his name and provided for your future in the convent. Here is what you now need to know: I have also tried to provide for your future. You are my heir. If I die before you take vows as a nun, my money can be your dowry if you would prefer to marry instead. If my husband dies first, and chooses to leave me part of his fortune, it will be a handsome dowry indeed. Do not give my money to the nuns, unless you are absolutely sure you want to become one yourself. And please delay your vows as long as possible, until you are old enough to make a reasoned decision about your future.

  I hope for a long life, of course, and I will need my funds if I am blessed with one. But the French are about to invade again, and Il Moro will oppose them. You probably heard what happened the last time the French invaded, to those who fought back.

  We are better prepared than most, so you must not worry. You are, as well. Your father and I made sure of your safety when you were small, knowing what would become of Florence when Lorenzo Il Magnifico died. You are as safe as any can be, in Rome and under the protection of the pope.

  If you think you might like to marry, make friends with the students of good family who are betrothed. But stay away from the daughters of courtesans! Even though their fathers are important churchmen, they may follow their mothers, who are sure to die young of the French Disease.

  If you don’t marry, I beseech you to become a nun. Don’t be tempted to make your living on your back.

  “Nicola, watch where you’re going!”

  Nicola looked up from her letter, discovering she had nearly run hea
dlong into an older student who was setting the schoolroom tables for Sunday dinner. Anna glared at her, clutching crockery to her chest as if she were protecting a baby from invading soldiers.

  “Anna, what is a courtesan?”

  “Nicola, where do you get these questions? What are you reading?”

  “Nothing,” Nicola said over her shoulder. She spotted the brindled cat Omega dozing in a warm spot on the brown tile floor, in front of the crackling fire. Nicola picked him up for comfort, and plopped down on the bench beside the massive stone fireplace to finish reading her letter:

  I hope you will forgive me and write me back. What I really want to know about is your life. Are you happy at San Sisto? Do the nuns treat you well? How is your health? And your looks? Are you a good student? Who are your friends? I long for your reply.

  Know this: that I love you very much. Every day I think of you, plan for you, and worry about you. I hope to visit you someday, but my husband may not permit it. He knows I have a niece in Rome, but that is not important to him.

  Please forgive me.

  I sign now as you must always call me,

  Loving you for always,

  Zia Caterina

  Post Scriptum: If your father contacts you, do not tell him where I am.

  Nicola stared at the signature, feeling like she had a stomachache, but in her heart. Her mother had taught her the alphabet. Her mother’s name was Caterina. This woman who called herself aunt--zia—could only be her mother.

  Clutching the cat and her letter to her chest, Nicola laughed with joy, then twirled in circles in front of the fire. Her mother was not dead, and her parents had not abandoned her! They had placed her at San Sisto to protect her from the evils of the world, such as the French. Her mother was providing for her, as best she could. God had finally answered her prayers. She felt like a bubble, growing bigger and about to burst.

  Her mother had always remained alive to her. She remembered being three, and confused by the nuns’ insistence that the strong and busy mamma she had just left behind in Florence was now “in heaven.” She knew that her father had brought her to the Eternal City, surely an outpost of heaven. From this, she decided that the white-habited nuns were angels. Therefore, she concluded, her mother had moved from Florence to Heaven, which was somewhere close by. She had spent many hours searching for her as a young child, continuing out of habit and longing even after she was old enough to understand death. Now, she had found her.

  Soft laughter burst her bubble of happiness. Looking up, she saw that several of the older students had returned from the church, and were watching her. They did not know what had happened, she realized—all they saw was a little girl, capering around the room with a cat.

  Her cheeks hot, Nicola stopped her dance, and allowed Omega to jump to the floor. Seizing quill and paper from the school supplies, she sat back down by the fireplace, her mother’s letter clutched against her chest, and thought about what to write.

  Questions filled her thoughts. Why did her mother not trust the nuns? Did Sister Annaluisa run away because of something wrong at the convent? What was a courtesan, and how did they make their livings on their backs? What was the French Disease? Did you get it from lying on your back? Why was her mother hiding from her father? And above all, why did her mother insist she be called “aunt” instead of “mother”?

  Nicola frowned, considering this last question. The answer was obvious, when she thought about it. Her mother had to hide their relationship because she, Nicola, was a bastard. Being a bastard was bad, but being the mother of one was even worse, according to the nuns. Except if you were the Virgin Mary, though the nuns would never explain why Mary and Joseph were a special case. So Zia Caterina was probably afraid her husband would be mad if he knew about her bastard daughter. And she, Nicola, was that bastard daughter.

  Nicola vowed silently to keep her mother’s secrets. When her hands stopped trembling, she wrote:

  Carissima Zia Caterina,

  I nearly died of joy to hear from you. I thought you were dead. There is nothing to forgive but I forgive you, anyway. I will obey you in all things. I am a good student but my teachers say I ask too many questions. My health is good and I am almost always happy, except for when I first came. The nuns are nice, usually. The best one was Sister Annaluisa, but she left. But I have a new best friend named Pia, who is betrothed and from an important family. Maybe she could help me find a husband, if I decide I want one. She says I am pretty but there are no mirrors here, so I don’t know. Write to me when you can, and please come visit with my new uncle.

  Your loving niece,

  Nicola.

  After blotting the letter, she shot like an arrow out the door, seeking the man in the floppy hat who would deliver it to her “Zia Caterina.”

  Chapter 4—Sister Annaluisa’s Funeral

  Three weeks later.

  “No, Nicola. You may not see the body. It is no sight for a child. What are you doing here?”

  Sister Beatrice closed the coffin abruptly, to prevent Nicola from peering inside. She had been pushing sweet-smelling herbs under the lid in a vain attempt to disguise the odor of Sister Annaluisa’s rotting corpse, which Sister Bernina had fetched from the Castel Sant’Angelo in the convent supply wagon. What remained of Sister Annaluisa now lay at the center of the cross formed by the transepts and main aisle of the frescoed church. Jesus, bleeding from his crown of thorns, looked down on it with sadness from the garish carved crucifix above the altar.

  “I came to pray,” Nicola responded, sounding a bit like a crumhorn because she was holding her nose against the smell. Sister Beatrice smiled despite herself.

  “You came to snoop,” she murmured. The child was constantly poking into things and popping up in strange places, even inside the nuns’ private cloister.

  Nicola let go of her nose and gave Sister Beatrice her most plaintive look. “Maybe a little. But can I please, please look? People say she was murdered. I need to know how she died.”

  “You need to know no such thing. You are too young even to think of such things.”

  “Don’t worry, Suora. I know all about death, from studying the saints! Death on the cross--right-side up and upside-down--death by arrows, death on the wheel, death by drowning, death by burning, death by lions—“

  “Basta, Nicola. What a list!” Sister Beatrice exclaimed, disconcerted that the child was counting off grisly deaths on her fingers, not five feet from a rotting corpse. “It is best not to dwell on such things. You must take my word for how she died: she was strangled. You can still see the cord around her throat. Also, her purse was cut from her belt. So, she was robbed and strangled, then thrown in the Tiber.”

  “Why did she run away, Suora?”

  “Only God knows, Nicola. You must promise me you will never do such a thing.”

  “I promise. But, I have made a vow to find her killer. So, I need to know everything about her death.” Nicola’s face was solemn. She was obviously serious.

  “I have told you how she died,” said Sister Beatrice, staring at her. “Nicola, you have no business making a vow to find her killer. You are a child! How in Heaven’s name can you keep such a vow? Even the pope’s soldiers could not find her killer, and they do not live in a convent!”

  To Beatrice’s dismay, tears welled from Nicola’s eyes. She surrounded the girl with a comforting arm. “Please do not cry, Nicola. When you started with your questions, I thought you were finished with your crying.”

  “She was my first friend,” the girl said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her black gown. “I need to find out who killed her.”

  Poor child, Sister Beatrice thought to herself. When Nicola was three, she had clung like a burr to Annaluisa’s hip, her enormous brown eyes studying everything with the intensity of a flame. Later, she followed Annaluisa like a pet dog. The two spent time together, even after Annaluisa took vows as a nun. Of course Nicola “needed” to pursue her friend’s killer.

  S
ister Beatrice took Nicola’s hand, and led her away from the coffin. “Try to find the murderer if you must. But promise you will not leave the convent, or start climbing on the roofs or up the outside of the bell tower again.”

  “Yes, I promise! Why does the coffin smell so bad?”

  “You will feel better if you pray for her. Come.” Ignoring Nicola’s question, she settled herself on the embroidered kneeler in front of the first pew, crossed herself, and gestured to Nicola to join her.

  When Nicola was settled, Sister Beatrice looked down on her fondly. Such a beautiful child. Those enormous, wide-set eyes were so expressive, and the small, full-lipped mouth was pretty, even when she pouted. And those eyelashes—a courtesan would be jealous of such lashes. But how had she managed to muddy a newly-washed gown, between the girls’ dormitory and the church? Of all the students, only Nicola managed to look dirty in black.

  The poor child had suffered so many losses, Sister Beatrice reflected. Perhaps that was why she behaved as she did.

  Even at her most docile, Nicola was a problem in the classroom. Tenacious and bright, she was full of questions that frequently flummoxed the nuns. How could God be male—didn’t She have a Son? How could Eve sin by eating an apple? Surely the original sinner was her murdering son, Cain. Why was Earth at the center of the universe, and not God? If earth, air, fire, and water were the only four elements, how could there be so many colors? The questions went on and on. “She will grow up a heretic,” her teachers pronounced in despair.

  But Nicola’s schoolroom heresies were nothing compared to the problems she caused outside of class. At age four, she began invading the nuns’ sleeping cells, their library, and even their private religious observances, where they would find her hiding behind the door. Always, Nicola had rejected their attentions and demanded her mother. “Your mother is in Heaven!” they told her. “Where in Heaven?” she would reply. Her quest for Heaven led her to the rooftops. Annaluisa, then a student, had often helped to coax her down. The priora, the mother superior of the convent, vowed never again to admit so young a student.