Page 63

Nineteen

F orgive me, Messer, but I understand you have a room to let.”

“Then your understanding is at fault.” Luigi Sarponi had a deeply creased, heavily jowled face, and the scowl now twisting it was obviously meant to discourage and intimidate.

“I have no room to let and, if I did, it would not please you. My house is not for such as you. Find somewhere else to stay. There are plenty of lodgings going begging since summer is here. Rome in summer isn’t a healthy place to be. ”

“Are you not Luigi Sarponi?”

“I am.”

“And did you not work in the kitchens of His Holiness until the month of April three years ago?”

Luigi nodded warily. “I did.”

“Then you’re exactly the man to whom I wish to speak. Allow me to present myself. I am Lorenzo Vasaro.” Lorenzo took a step forward and, as the light from the candle on the table fell fully on Lorenzo’s face, Luigi instinctively took a step back.

“We have many matters to discuss.” Lorenzo smiled. “And I think after we have had that discussion you will find you do have a room to let.”

“You speak in riddles.” Luigi Sarponi poured wine in Lorenzo’s wooden goblet and then his own before sitting down at the scarred table across from him. “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you want for yourself.” Lorenzo leaned forward across the table. The light from the tallow candle cast shadows beneath his high cheekbones and lit the crystal coldness of his eyes. “What you’ve wanted for over three years.”

“And what is that?”

“The death of the Borgias.”

Sarponi went rigid. His gaze searched Lorenzo’s impassive face. “You are misinformed.”

“Because you’ve not shouted your hatred of them to the four winds? If you had done so, I would have no use for you.” Lorenzo smiled. “But if I should be wrong and you have no interest in the subject, I’ve no wish to bore you. Should I leave your house?”

Sarponi lowered his gaze to his goblet. “Why did you come to me?”

“I’ve been asking questions, very discreet questions, but I find my inquiries are usually answered.”

“I can see how they would be,” Sarponi said sourly. “And after you leave, they cross themselves and pray to the saints you’ll never come back.”

“Exactly.” Lorenzo chuckled. “But you do not fear me, do you, Luigi? I did not think you would. I’ve heard you’re a surly, bad-tempered rascal who fears neither God nor the devil.”

Sarponi lifted his goblet to his lips. “Neither God nor the devil can do any more to me than they’ve done already.”

“Which of them took your son, Luigi?” Lorenzo asked softly.

Sarponi paused for an instant and then drank deeply and set his empty goblet down on the table. “The devil.” He looked up to meet Lorenzo’s eyes. “What do you know of my Mario?”

“I know he was murdered one night by a masked band roving the streets of Rome. They killed and mutilated for the pleasure of it, and I know that shortly after his death you resigned your position as second cook in the kitchens of His Holiness to take a far less lucrative position in the kitchens of Messer Obano. You gave no reason for leaving the Vatican, and it was assumed Messer Obano paid you a fat bonus to come to him.”

“But you do not believe it?”

Lorenzo shook his head. “Rumor has it that Cesare Borgia led the band that murdered your son. Indeed, there are stories he and his bodyguards still find it amusing to indulge their tastes in that fashion, but now they tend to go abroad to do so.”

“They are not stories,” Sarponi said hoarsely.

“It is the truth. What is the blinding of an artist or the murder of a boy to the great Il Valentino? The duke and his father are in league. Alexander sits on the papal throne and we kiss his feet and he lets his beloved son indulge in any act of cruelty and—” He halted the rush of words and drew a deep breath.

“Mario was not like me. He possessed a sweet nature and always had a smile for everyone. He was apprenticed to become a cobbler. I told him he should become a cook like me, but he said as long as people had to walk he would not go hungry.”

“You’re sure it was Borgia who killed him?”

“He was attacked only a short distance from here and was not dead when he was brought home to me. He had eight sword thrusts through his body but he was not dead.” Luigi gazed blindly at the flickering flame of the candle. “They toyed with him. They felt safe because of their masks, you see.”

“But he still recognized Borgia?”

“No, it was the medal. Borgia’s cloak fell open and Mario saw the order of St. Michael that the French king had given the duke. Il Valentino takes great pride in the gift and wears it always.”

“But you said nothing to anyone?”

Luigi’s lips twisted. “Who would I tell? His Holiness? Or perhaps Michelotto Corella, the duke’s favorite assassin?

No, I would only have ended up in the Tiber.

But I will no longer serve either that serpent in the Vatican or his vile offspring.

” His gaze shifted from the candle to Lorenzo. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“Why should I do that?”

Luigi shrugged. “It occurred to me you might be one of Borgia’s assassins tying up loose ends.” “But still you spoke to me.”

“I have no great fondness for life anymore. I have no wife and my son is dead.” He rubbed his neck. “I work, I come home, I sleep. There’s little reason to fight to hold on to such a life.”

“I have no intention of killing you.”

A spark of interest flickered in Luigi’s dark eyes at Lorenzo’s slight emphasis on the last word. “Borgia? Truly?”

“Both Borgias.” Lorenzo smiled. “With your help. Do you not think this project could stir a bit of interest in you?”

“Possibly,” Luigi said cautiously. “But how can they be murdered? Both go about with guards.”

“I wasn’t thinking about a knife between the ribs.”

“Poison? There’s no taster at the Vatican, but that’s because none is needed. One of the guards is in the kitchen the entire time the meal is prepared and accompanies the servants to the dining hall.”

“Hmm, I didn’t know that. It’s a circumstance that may present difficulties.”

“Difficulties?” Luigi laughed shortly. “The guard never takes his eyes off us. It will be impossible.”

“The Borgias will be dead within a month’s time.”

Luigi started to argue, then stopped and studied Lorenzo’s face. “I…I believe you.”

“But will you help me?”

Luigi hesitated. “You want me to go back to work at the kitchen of His Holiness?”

Lorenzo nodded. “And help me to get work as a cook’s helper there also. I understand the duke has been dining with his Holiness at almost every meal since his return from the Romagna.”

“They say his pox has flared up again and he won’t be seen abroad.” Luigi shook his head. “You don’t look the part of a kitchen lackey.”

“Then you must help me to change my appearance so that I do.”

Luigi regarded him critically. “Perhaps if you don’t gaze at anyone directly. Your eyes—”

“I’ll be as shifty-eyed as you could want me to be.”

“And you’re too clean. You must have clean hands, but a bit of grease and dirt on your face and hair would help.” He smiled maliciously. “And no more baths for you. You smell too sweet.”

Lorenzo flinched as he glanced at Luigi’s unkempt gray hair. “I’m sure no one is a greater authority on the subject of dirt. I place myself entirely at your disposal.” Lorenzo paused. “Agreed?”

Luigi nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

“Bellissima,” Lion said as Sanchia opened the door at his knock.

Sanchia made a face. “At least I no longer smell of horse.”

“I thought you would like to visit Elizabet and Bartolomeo this evening. Then we could sup at the tavern on the piazza. It will be more pleasant than eating here.”

Sanchia brightened. “Could we? I was going to visit them tomorrow, but I would like to see them right away.”

“And they will want to see you.”

Her smile faded. “I’ll have to tell them about Piero.”

“I’ve already paid them a short visit to advise them you were coming. I informed them of Piero’s death.”

Sanchia felt a surge of warmth at his thoughtfulness. Then Lion gently took her arm in a protective clasp and escorted her down the hall. “You’ve suffered enough. Now it’s time to lean on me and let me take the burdens.”

He was doing it again, she thought worriedly, treating her as if she were the helpless child Bianca had been. She must do something to put a stop to it.

Yet after they had paid their visit to Elizabet and Bartolomeo she was passionately grateful to have his strength to lean on again.

“What’s wrong?” Lion’s gaze was fixed anxiously on her face as he led her toward the piazza. “You seemed happy enough when you were with the newlyweds, but now you look…” He seemed to search for a word. “Melancholy.”

“It’s nothing.” She felt the foolish tears brimming and determinedly blinked them back. “It’s stupid of me, but I suddenly feel…alone. Elizabet and Bartolomeo are so happy and busy with their own lives. They don’t need me anymore, do they?”

“Didn’t you want it so?”

“Oh, yes. I told you I was being foolish.” She walked faster, not looking at him. “I suppose it’s because I feel they’re now as lost to me as Piero.”

“Sanchia.” Lion’s hand grasped her arm. “You’re not alone while you have me.”

She swallowed. He was showing her that exquisite gentleness and sweetness again, as if she were a frail invalid who needed great care or she would slip away from him.

Perhaps that was the way he did view her, she thought with sudden panic.

What if he felt no passion for her, only guilt and responsibility?

Suddenly, she saw where she must lead them.

“You’re right. I’m not alone. I have you and Lorenzo.” She walked faster. “No, I don’t really have Lorenzo. No one has Lorenzo now. Except perhaps you. Do you think he does well in Rome? I did not like—”

“It’s not only Elizabet and Bartolomeo, you’ve been acting strangely since we arrived at Giulia’s casa . If you wish to withdraw from the plan, only tell me and I will go another way.”