The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

d’Amico, who had suggested it to me.
    For the first time in my life, I was living on my own, a condition that I found agreeable. I had an older woman who came in to clean and do the washing. As for the rest, I enjoyed visiting the markets, the sheer number and variety of which make up one of Rome’s greatest treasures. Preparing meals for myself was both pleasant and practical, and not only because I needed to guard against attempts on my own life as vigorously as I protected la famiglia Borgia. The surest path up the ladder of professional success for those of my dark calling is to poison a renowned poisoner. Nothing assures one’s reputation as swiftly. I had taken that same route myself the previous year when I killed the man Borgia had intended to replace my father, claiming that position for myself instead. No doubt there were some in Rome or beyond who would have done the same to me, had they dared.
    I had another reason for wanting solitude. The nightmare that had visited me for as long as I could remember lost none of its terror through repetition. I woke from every encounter in the grip of fear greater than any I can express. It was not uncommon for me to cry out and to be distraught for some time after waking. I preferred that there be no witnesses to that.
    I approached the building with caution, still on the lookout for anyone who might be lying in wait. But activity on the street seemed entirely normal—the usual assortment of harried clerks, high-nosed clergy, liveried retainers, cheeky apprentices, stolid merchant wives, and the occasional enterprising thief all jostling along despite it being Sunday, the supposed day of rest.
    Like many buildings in Rome, the three-story structure roofed in red tile presented an almost blank façade to the street, punctuated only by a scattering of small, barred windows and a low, arched doorway through which I entered. Immediately beyond, everything changed as a spacious loggia gave way to a courtyard that served as both garden and open-air kitchen. It was still early enough that the portatore was not yet on duty. Relieved to be unobserved in my disheveled state, I took the closest steps and reached my apartment quickly.
    It consisted of three rooms on the first floor above street level—a salon where, as I rarely entertained, I had set up the apparatus I used in my work, and my books; a bedchamber with an adjacent space for bathing; and a pantry equipped with storage cabinets lined in sheeted metal to discourage the inevitable vermin, a stone sink with a drain to an outer wall, a small coal stove with its own chimney drawing off smoke to the outside on which I could cook simple meals, and a thick wooden worktable kept clean with vinegar and sand.
    The apartment was graciously designed with high windows that provided excellent ventilation and a balcony that ran the entire length of each floor. My furnishings were more than adequate for my needs. I had the large bed with the acantus-carved posts inherited from my father, as well as his puzzle chest with the lock meant to foil any would-be thief and my mother’s wedding chest carved with scenes of the Sabine Women. These, along with my worktable, apparatus, books, and clothing, were my sole possessions when I moved into the apartment. But as is the way of such things, in the few months I had lived there I had accumulated an ever-expanding assortment of belongings.
    Lucrezia had sent a quartet of benches in the newly fashionable Roman style. Each lectus was carved from mahogany inlaid with chestnut, the frame supporting crisscrossed leather straps covered with a feather mattress with pillows at either end, the whole ornamented in the finest deep blue velvet with gold tassels. Had I been inclined to entertain, my guests would have been more than comfortable. Further, several curved chairs with scrolled arms and a table set on a wide pedestal also arrived, the gift of His Holiness himself. Cesare, claiming disappointment