described as improbable in size before both disappeared under lather and bristle brush.
To settle my stomach, I stopped long enough to buy a honeyed cornetto from the tray of the boy peddling them and ate it as I made my way toward the Vatican. The walk, short though it was, gave me time to absorb what I had learned and decide how best to proceed.
I had finished my breakfast and brushed the crumbs from my bodice by the time I spied Vittoro just leaving the apartment he shared with his wife adjacent to the Vatican Palace. Donna Felicia waved to me from the open ground-floor door and gave me a warm smile, by which I concluded that the captain had said nothing to his spouse of what had required his attention the previous evening.
“When were you planning to tell me?” I asked as we walked together across the piazza.
Vittoro made no pretense of not understanding. “I thought to wait until you were more yourself, as I am glad to see you are.”
I accepted his explanation and went on. “What do you make of it?”
“To be frank, I have a hard time believing that della Rovere was behind the attack on you. He has motive, of course, especially if he is responsible for the attempts on our master’s life or he suspects that you may be sent to kill him. But surely he would have gone about disposing of you more subtlely.”
I agreed. “He’s made mistakes in the past, to be sure, but he’s far from a fool. Really, what assassin wears his master’s colors to do the deed?”
“My thoughts exactly, but before you jump to the conclusion that—”
“It was Borgia?” A conclusion that Vittoro surely must have dreaded, as it would have transformed me at once into His Holiness’s most dangerous enemy.
“I’ve already considered that,” I said. “If he did send the assassin to inspire me to want to kill della Rovere, he would have had to be certain that I would survive the attack.”
In which case, His Holiness knew even my darkest secret, a possibility I could not bear to contemplate.
“Our master values your services far too much to put you at such risk,” Vittoro countered.
“He is at least toying with the idea of sending me to Savona, where I surely will die nastily.”
“He can’t be serious about that. You realize,” he added quietly, “that leaves only one other possibility.”
Thus for the second time in as many days I heard the name of my father’s killer on the lips of a friend.
“Morozzi.”
9
I knew of only one person who could tell me for certain if the mad priest was back in Rome. The distance from the Vatican to the Jewish Quarter was not far, being less than a mile. I walked swiftly, stepping around the piles of waste, animal and otherwise, that cluttered the streets. Despite the looming threat of upheaval, war, and even schism, Rome was a thriving city. Her hearty citizens appeared ever ready to follow the old adage of carpe diem and seize the day. However, I would have been very much surprised if a goodly portion of those I passed did not already have a bolt-hole in the countryside in the form of a bumpkin relative who could be cajoled or forced to take them in. At the first sign of serious trouble, the roads would clog with wagons and the river with barques as everyone who could flee did so. Only the old, the very poor, and the despised would be left. I was on my way to visit the last of those.
Sofia Montefiore’s apothecary shop was on a narrow lane not far from the Via Portico d’Ottavia, the piazza at the heart of the ghetto that still contains the remnants of an ancient forum named in honor of the sister of the great Augustus. Although no wall surrounds the ghetto—one is always being proposed by someone or other—many of the streets leading out were blocked by the piles of stone and rubble designed to limit access for any seeking to enter or leave the area. Borgia had promised to have the streets cleared but nothing had been done about that so far.
Situated so close to the
To settle my stomach, I stopped long enough to buy a honeyed cornetto from the tray of the boy peddling them and ate it as I made my way toward the Vatican. The walk, short though it was, gave me time to absorb what I had learned and decide how best to proceed.
I had finished my breakfast and brushed the crumbs from my bodice by the time I spied Vittoro just leaving the apartment he shared with his wife adjacent to the Vatican Palace. Donna Felicia waved to me from the open ground-floor door and gave me a warm smile, by which I concluded that the captain had said nothing to his spouse of what had required his attention the previous evening.
“When were you planning to tell me?” I asked as we walked together across the piazza.
Vittoro made no pretense of not understanding. “I thought to wait until you were more yourself, as I am glad to see you are.”
I accepted his explanation and went on. “What do you make of it?”
“To be frank, I have a hard time believing that della Rovere was behind the attack on you. He has motive, of course, especially if he is responsible for the attempts on our master’s life or he suspects that you may be sent to kill him. But surely he would have gone about disposing of you more subtlely.”
I agreed. “He’s made mistakes in the past, to be sure, but he’s far from a fool. Really, what assassin wears his master’s colors to do the deed?”
“My thoughts exactly, but before you jump to the conclusion that—”
“It was Borgia?” A conclusion that Vittoro surely must have dreaded, as it would have transformed me at once into His Holiness’s most dangerous enemy.
“I’ve already considered that,” I said. “If he did send the assassin to inspire me to want to kill della Rovere, he would have had to be certain that I would survive the attack.”
In which case, His Holiness knew even my darkest secret, a possibility I could not bear to contemplate.
“Our master values your services far too much to put you at such risk,” Vittoro countered.
“He is at least toying with the idea of sending me to Savona, where I surely will die nastily.”
“He can’t be serious about that. You realize,” he added quietly, “that leaves only one other possibility.”
Thus for the second time in as many days I heard the name of my father’s killer on the lips of a friend.
“Morozzi.”
9
I knew of only one person who could tell me for certain if the mad priest was back in Rome. The distance from the Vatican to the Jewish Quarter was not far, being less than a mile. I walked swiftly, stepping around the piles of waste, animal and otherwise, that cluttered the streets. Despite the looming threat of upheaval, war, and even schism, Rome was a thriving city. Her hearty citizens appeared ever ready to follow the old adage of carpe diem and seize the day. However, I would have been very much surprised if a goodly portion of those I passed did not already have a bolt-hole in the countryside in the form of a bumpkin relative who could be cajoled or forced to take them in. At the first sign of serious trouble, the roads would clog with wagons and the river with barques as everyone who could flee did so. Only the old, the very poor, and the despised would be left. I was on my way to visit the last of those.
Sofia Montefiore’s apothecary shop was on a narrow lane not far from the Via Portico d’Ottavia, the piazza at the heart of the ghetto that still contains the remnants of an ancient forum named in honor of the sister of the great Augustus. Although no wall surrounds the ghetto—one is always being proposed by someone or other—many of the streets leading out were blocked by the piles of stone and rubble designed to limit access for any seeking to enter or leave the area. Borgia had promised to have the streets cleared but nothing had been done about that so far.
Situated so close to the
Similar Books
