The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole Read Free Book Online Page A

progressed over the years until the night he came upon me in the library. I was reading Dante, ever my favorite; he was drunk and in pain after yet another argument with his father. I could claim that his passion took me by surprise, but the truth is that I had my way with Cesare as much as he had his with me; perhaps more. The darkness within me was drawn to him, constructed as he was of raw appetites that left no room for morality or conscience. He was without sin in the sense that he recognized none. With him, I came as close as I could ever hope in those years to being myself.
    “I am not asking you to betray him,” Borgia continued. “On the contrary. Help him to be the man he is meant to be. Not merely a great prince of the Church but a future pope, leading the world into a bright new age. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
    Borgia knew full well that it was. My late father had belonged to a secret organization of scholars and alchemists, pursuers of truth who called themselves Lux for the light they hoped to bring into the world. After his death, I was accepted as a member. Borgia had reason to know the lengths I would go to to protect Lux. Even so …
    “I cannot stand guarantor for your son’s behavior.”
    “A pity since I expect you to do exactly that.”
    The very powerful have an advantage over the rest of us; they can engage in the most blatant unfairness without recourse. Like it or not, I was Borgia’s servant. I disobeyed his edicts at my own peril.
    “I will do my best,” I promised him and drained the wine to its dregs.
    The next day we came to Viterbo.
     

 
    4
     
    Cesare was not among the notables on hand to welcome his father to the fortified hilltop town that for centuries had been a favorite of popes in times of trouble. Accepting the greetings of the mayor and the commander of the garrison, Borgia did not comment on his son’s glaring lapse in propriety, but the thin white line around his mouth hinted at his anger.
    Mindful of it, I set out to find the wayward son without delay. Out of respect for Sofia, I had resisted using the sleeping powder the night before, but my restraint had left me with dragging steps and a bad headache. Not to mention that I had spent yet another day on a horse. All in all, I doubt that I was a sight to gladden any man’s heart.
    It was late afternoon. Sunlight slanted from the west across the scrubbed paving stones of the small courtyard behind the roofless loggia, its seven arched bays looking southward over the town while in the opposite direction it provided an unobstructed view of the steep Faul valley. The air was cool and scented with the aromas of wood smoke, newly cut grass, and the late-blooming roses in the nearby palace garden. A fountain bedecked with lions gurgled softly. Other faint sounds filtered up from the surrounding streets, but little disturbed the silence that, as always, set my nerves on edge. The backdrop of noise ever present in Rome provides reassurance when all is as it should be and prompt warning when it is not. Silence, on the other hand, gives away nothing while having the added disadvantage of amplifying one’s own thoughts.
    A page directed me to the sandy field of the old amphitheater adjacent to the palace. I went anxious to discover what so commanded Cesare’s attention that he would fail to greet his father. The crumbling stone tiers where once Romans sat to cheer their favorite gladiators had drawn a motley crowd of retainers, servants, hangers-on, and the same Spanish lords who had been present with Cesare in the taverna. Quickly enough, I discovered why they were all there.
    Two men stood at the center of the field, posed in an oval of golden light. Both were stripped down to their shirts and breeches, both armed with rapiers. The clash of their swords rang out against the stillness and the swiftly inhaled breath of their audience. They were similar in height and build, although the one I perceived to be