Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole

an entirely natural death. I knew of no way to accomplish that.
    Not that some poisons aren’t subtler than others. Arsenic is an old favorite, of course, and its symptoms can be confused with those of malaria, but such is the nature of our times that anyone of consequence so stricken would suspect poison immediately. Wolfsbane yields a useful substance that in the proper dose stops the heart; so does foxglove, such a pretty flower, but again not without arousing immediate suspicion. Hemlock, Socrates’ slayer, is highly effective but not in the least discreet, causing paralysis and agonizing pain before bringing on death. Belladonna, which some foolish women use to brighten their eyes, can cause a rapid heartbeat, disorientation, and the like before it slays.
    You see the problem? If the goal is simply to kill, there are no end of ways to do it. But to kill without raising suspicion, that is another matter entirely. I could say more, but I fear I am telling you too much. God forbid I give you occasion for sin.
    My point is that if there was any thought that the Pope’s death was unnatural, Borgia’s reputation was such that he would come under immediate suspicion. He was of an age when this was his last chance for the papacy, and there were others, as strong as he, who would contend for it. No matter what incentives he might offer for their support, there was a line beyond which they would not go. Killing the Pope was on the furthest, darkest side of it.
    My imagination would not venture there. Try though I did, I could not begin to fathom what my father had done, assuming he was actually responsible for Innocent’s recent illness. I could not discount entirely the possibility that it had been a coincidence.
    Which would not spare me the Cardinal’s demands. They came shortly after nones—the priests again, did they do nothing but chant? Although he had been gone only a few hours, His Eminence was not a man to arrive or depart anywhere without due notice. The household turned out at the first shouts of the escort announcing his approach.
    I went along to get a sense of his mood. It was not good. Amid the sharp ring of hooves on cobblestones, the jangle of harnesses, the clash of shields as the guardsmen sprang to attention, and the babble of voices from servants, retainers, and hangers-on, Il Cardinale was a dark and glowering presence. He threw his reins to the cowering stable boy and stomped off toward his apartments without a word to anyone.
    Moments later, I was summoned. The Cardinal was still being divested of his heavy garments when I arrived. I hung back, gazing into the middle distance, until he was decently attired. He waved off his valet, accepted a cold, wet cloth to put at the back of his neck, and grunted in my direction.
    “You saw the Jewess.”
    It was not a question and I did not take it as such. Nodding, I said, “As you instructed, Eminence.”
    Borgia took a long swallow from a goblet of chilled wine and nodded. “What did she tell you?”
    We were not alone. One of his secretaries was present, the valet was still in the room, the anxious steward, Renaldo, was hovering nearby, and likely there were others just out of sight. Men such as Borgia tend to take the services they receive so much for granted as to be oblivious to the people who provide them. My silence was a pointed reminder that they had ears.
    The Cardinal waved a hand and, like a magus, made them allvanish. They might as well have evaporated as rain does on hot stone, so quickly were they gone.
    “Well, then?” he asked.
    “There are no records. I am certain my father stopped committing anything to paper months ago.”
    Borgia gave a quick, sharp nod. “What else did she tell you?”
    I had thought long and hard about what I would say to him. Do not ask me why I had decided to protect Sofia Montefiore; I could not tell you. Perhaps it was simply because she had been my father’s friend.
    “She told me that His Holiness intends