This is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this

novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

the borgia mistress. Copyright © 2012 by Sara Poole. All rights reserved. Printed in
the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Poole, Sara, 1951–

The Borgia mistress : a novel / Sara Poole.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-02352-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-312-60985-6 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-01092-6 (e-book)
1. Alexander VI, Pope, 1431–1503—Fiction. 2. Borgia, Cesare, 1476?–
1507—Fiction. 3. Borgia family—Fiction. 4. Women poisoners—Fiction.
5. Family secrets—Fiction. 6. Conspiracies—Fiction. 7. Church and
state—Fiction. 8. Renaissance—Italy—Rome—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.E42 B677 2012
813'.54—dc22 2012007569

First Edition: May 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 1
Rome
O c t o b e r 1 49 3

onna Francesca . . .”

D
tell him.
I was in the Campo dei Fiore, walking toward Rocco’s
shop. There was something important that I needed to

“Lady . . .”
I quickened my pace, avoiding the pushcarts and passersby,
the piles of manure and the importuning peddlers, afraid I
would be too late.
“Wake up!”
I really had to . . . it was important . . .
The street in front of me dissolved. I blinked in the sudden
glare of light piercing the cocoon of my curtained bed. Portia,
holding up a lamp, grasped me by the shoulder and shook me.
“For pity’s sake—” I squinted, trying without effect to cling
to the dream.
 Sara Poole
“Condottieri are here,” the portiere said. “His condottieri. They
say you must come.”
“They say—what?”
“You must come. They wanted me to let them in, but I said
I would wake you myself. Even so, they are right outside. They
won’t wait for long.”
Despite the coolness of early autumn, I slept naked. A film
of sweat shone on my skin. The nightmare had come as usual,
leaving its mark on me.
“I’ll kill him, I swear I will.”
The dwarf chuckled. She jumped down from the stool,
found a robe of finely woven Egyptian cotton dyed a saffron
hue, and held it out.
“No, you won’t. He’ll charm you as he always does and
you’ll forgive him.”
Slipping my arms into the sleeves of the robe, I winced.
“How can the sharpest-eyed portiere in all of Rome be such a
romantic?”
Portia shrugged. “What can I say? He tips well.”
I started to laugh, coughed instead, caught myself, and strode
out of the bedchamber, through the salon filled with my books
and the apparatus I used in my investigations, all feeding the
rumors about me. The robe billowed around my legs, gold
mined from the crushed stigmas of Andalusia crocuses. I went
quickly between light and shadow, pausing in neither. A cat,
perversely white in violation of hallowed superstition, followed
in my wake. The door to the apartment stood open. Beyond, I
could see helmeted soldiers in shining breastplates pacing anx-
iously.

12
 The Borgia Mistress
Their leader saw me coming and stiffened, as he damn well
should have, given the circumstances.
“Donna,” he said and sketched a quick bow. “A thousand
apologies, but I thought it best . . . That is, I wasn’t certain if
you would . . .”
“Where is he?”
The captain hesitated, but he could not lie. Not to me.
One of the benefits of my having a reputation as dark as the
Styx.
“At a taverna in the Trastevere. He’s not . . . in good shape.”
I sighed and arched my neck, still struggling to wake fully.
A thought occurred to me. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
“It is, donna, unfortunately. We don’t have much time.”
“Wait here.”
I went back into the apartment. Portia, the only name by
which I knew the portiere, was laying out clothes for me. As
her eye for such things was much better than my own, I did not
protest. Instead, I said, “Remind me to change the lock on
the door. Either that, or just give me your key.”
She grinned and shook her head. “What good would either
do, donna? The locksmith would be in the pay of the landlord
and I’d have a new key before the day was out. Besides, who
would look after things for you if you have to go away?”
I pulled a shift over my head, muffling my voice. “Why
would I go away?”
Portia shrugged. “I’m only saying . . . it could happen.”
“What have you heard?” For surely the portiere had heard
something. She always did.
“It’s not very nice in the city right now. Too much rain, the

13
 Sara Poole
Tiber flooding, rumors of plague. Certain people might think
this was a good time to visit the countryside.”
“Oh, God.” Manure, pigs, bucolic romps, too much open
space. I hated the countryside.
“Just get him to the chapel,” the portiere advised. “That will
spare us all a lot of trouble.”

My name is Francesca Giordano, daughter of the late Giovanni

Giordano, who served ten years as poisoner to the House of
Borgia and was murdered for his pains. To acquire the means
to avenge him, I poisoned the man chosen to take his place.
Fortunately, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, as he was then, saw past
my offense to perceive my usefulness. At his behest, I set out
to kill the man I believed at the time to have ordered my fa-
ther’s murder. Only God knows if Pope Innocent VIII died
by my hand. What is certain is that his demise opened the way
for Borgia to become pope.
Recoil from me if you will, but know this: No one feared
the darkness of my nature more than I. Had I been able to re-
cast myself into an ordinary woman—a wife and mother,
perhaps—I would have done so in an instant, though it require
me to walk through the fires of Hell. Or so I liked to believe.
Saint Augustine, while still a young man wallowing in de-
bauchery, prayed to God to make him chaste—but not yet.
My own aspirations may have owed at least some of their
appeal to the unlikelihood of their achievement any time
soon. I was as I was, may God forgive me.

14
 The Borgia Mistress
I was then twenty-one, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and, al-
though slender, possessed of a womanly figure. I say this with-
out pride, for in the parade of my sins, vanity brought up the
rear. Working in a man’s profession as I did, my appearance
discomfited more than a few. That suited me well enough, for
while they were preoccupied with thoughts of either burn-
ing or bedding me—not excluding both—I did not hesitate
to act.
The taverna was on one of the little corsie that ran off the
Campo dei Fiore. When the marketplace was bustling, as it
usually was, the place would be easy to miss. But in the hours
before dawn, the light and sound spilling from its narrow door
made it impossible to overlook.
A burly guard stood outside to deter the pickpockets who
preyed on drunken young noblemen too busy slumming to
notice that they were being robbed. He took one look at the
approaching condottieri and vanished down a nearby alley.
“If you wish us to go in first, donna . . . ,” the captain said.
I ignored him, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
The smell hit me at once—raw wine, sweat, roasted meat,
smoke. I inhaled deeply. Ah, Roma. The looming threat of the
countryside flitted through my mind, but I repressed it.
A lout cross-eyed with drink saw me first and reached out
to grasp my waist. I eluded him easily and pressed on. The
greater part of the din was coming from a large table toward
the back behind half-closed curtains where a bevy of mostly
naked young women clustered, vying for the attentions of the
male guests.

15
 Sara Poole
A burst of deep laughter . . . a girlish shriek . . . a snatch
of ribald song . . .
I pushed past a nubile young thing wearing only diapha-
nous harem pants, elbowed another even more scantily clad,
and came at last within sight of the reason why I had been
rousted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning.
Lolling back in his chair, a goblet in one hand and a rounded
breast in the other, the son of His Holiness Pope Alexander VI
appeared to be in high good humor. A blonde—to whom the
breast belonged—straddled his lap, while a completely nude
brunette posed on the table in front of him, her legs spread
invitingly.
Cesare raised a brow, though whether in interest or amuse-
ment I could not say. His dark hair with a slight reddish cast
was loose and brushed his shoulders. In features, he resem-
bled his mother—the redoubtable Vannozza dei Cattanei—
far more than he did his father, having her long, high-bridged
nose and large, almond-shaped eyes. He had been in the sun
even more than usual and was deeply tanned. In public he
generally wore the expected raiment of a high-born young
man, but that night he was dressed for comfort in a loose
shirt and breeches.
He bent forward, whispered something in the ear of the
blonde that made her shriek with feigned shock, and called
for more wine.
“Vino! Molto vino for everyone!”
“Cesare.”
He blinked once, twice. A moment passed, another. He let

16
 The Borgia Mistress
go of the girl’s breast, set the goblet on the table, and sighed
deeply.
“Ai, mio, he sent you.”
“Of course he did,” I said. “Whom did you think he would
send?”
A murmur went around. The whisper of my name. The
brunette paled, pressed her legs together, and fled. So, too, did
most of the crowd. Scrambling off her perch, the blonde fell.
For a moment, her smooth rump was high in the air before she
picked herself up and followed the rest.
Only the Spaniards remained. Arrogant, high-nosed young
men, scions of ancient families, swift to take offense at any slight
to their honor, real or imagined. They were lately come to the
court of the Pope, who still considered Valencia to be home, and
had been drawn inevitably to the company of his son.
“Who is this?” one of them demanded, resolutely ignorant.
Cesare Borgia rose unsteadily, adjusted his breeches, and
made a token effort to straighten himself. He smiled grudg-
ingly.
“My conscience, alas.”
Outside in the street, surrounded by the condottieri, he held
his face up to the cool night air. A fine mist carried the tang of
the sea miles off at Ostia. He breathed it in deeply, as did I. For
a moment, the lure of far-off places and different lives filled us.
“Say you couldn’t find me.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference if I did. Your father would
just send someone else. Be glad he sent your own guards and
not his.”

17
 Sara Poole
He sighed. “Have you no pity? My life is ending.”
I fought a smile and lost. He was so young still, this boy-
man with whom my own life was so unexpectedly entwined.
“You are scarcely eighteen years old and you are about to
acquire more power and wealth than most can ever dream of.
Do not expect anyone to weep for you.”
“All well and good, but this isn’t how I wanted to get either.
You know that.”
“Who among us gets what we want?”
“My father has.”
I conceded the point with a slight nod. “True enough. Now
let us see if he can keep it.”
Torches burned in brackets set into the walls of the palazzo
near the Campo, illuminating the marble statues in the en-
trance and the loggia beyond. Despite the hour, the servants
were all awake and scurrying about. I went with Cesare up the
curving stairs to his private quarters and waited as he threw off
his clothes and sank into a steaming-hot bath. As he sweated
out the effects of his indulgence, I mixed a restorative from
powders I carried in a small bag that hung at my waist. I never
went anywhere without that bag or without the knife nestled
in a leather sheath next to my heart.
He swallowed the potion I handed him without delay,
testament to his trust in me. Watching him, I wondered
how many people I knew would do the same. A dozen, at
most, if I really stretched? And half of those would at least
hesitate.
“That’s vile,” he said.
The tub was carved from a single piece of marble and

18
 The Borgia Mistress
decorated with ample-breasted mermaids. I sat on a stool next
to it. “You’ll be glad of it all the same.”
He was leaning back, his head against the rim, his eyes
closed, but he opened one to look at me. “You could get in.”
“I could. . . .” I appeared to consider it. “But you know
what would happen. Tired as we both are, we’d fall asleep
afterward and then we’d drown. Che scandalo.”
He laughed, accepting my refusal with better grace than I
had expected. I took that as evidence of how truly low his
spirits were.
When the water had cooled, he rose and stood naked, legs
braced and arms held away from his sides. Droplets sluiced
down his skin kissed by the sun. He was leaving the lankiness
of youth behind, coming into his own as a man and a warrior.
His shoulders had broadened first, followed by his torso, but
lately the bands of muscle across his abdomen and thighs had
become even more evident. So far at least, his body was with-
out imperfection, a condition he lamented as he longed to
prove himself on the field of honor. Scars, he insisted, were the
true mark of a man; all else was pretense. His father, Christ’s
Vicar on Earth, thought otherwise, and his will ruled, at least
for now.
“This really doesn’t bother you?” Cesare asked as his long-
suffering valet finished patting him dry.
I shrugged. “Why should it?”

19