“I am sorry for my delay,” I said, breathless, as I arrived in Cesare’s rooms at the Vatican. “I had not expected you to summon me and was finishing some tasks.”
I had been in a secluded corner of the garden, working on a few embroidery designs for my own enjoyment while there was still light. I had not known I was wanted until I’d slipped back into the palazzo and found his messenger waiting.
He waved a hand. “No matter. You are here now.”
I cupped his face in my hands. Smiling, I stood on tiptoe and gave him a long kiss. It seemed I would never tire of the taste of him, of his mouth on mine, of the warmth that spread through me, knowing what was to come …
And now there was the intimacy that had grown between us since he had confessed his part in his brother’s death. I was more than a body to him. And he was more than that to me. Too much more, perhaps.
My face fell as he took a step back. “Not yet, carissima mia,” he said. “There is something I must ask of you first.”
I froze, taken aback by his use of the endearment—dearest one. So surprised was I that I was slow to react to the rest of his sentence. “What is it you must ask?” I said, a bit cautiously.
“There is a task I need you to undertake for me,” he said. “A very important task.” He sat me in a chair near the cold hearth. He sank into a nearby chair in turn and leaned toward me, his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes focused on mine in the dim light of the candles. “I would sooner not ask it of you, but there is no one else who can accomplish this in the way you can, and immediately. And no one whom I trust more.”
Our eyes met, acknowledging all the things between us of which we would never speak again. “Whatever it is, tell me, I pray you.”
He sighed, as if unsure how to begin. “I do not know how much you know of political matters, or of what is going on elsewhere in Italy.”
I laughed again at this. “As I am in the bed of a cardinal and employed in the house of the pope’s mistress, I know more about it than most.”
Such frank speech did not offend him; he merely smiled. “Forgive me; of course, you of all people would be well informed.” His expression grew serious again. “What do you know of Girolamo Savonarola, the Dominican friar of Florence?”
I knew some things of him, one of which was that he had preached on many occasions against Pope Alexander and the corruption of the Church. I needed to be careful in my answer. “He is considered by many to be a holy man, a prophet,” I answered. “He has indeed seemed to foretell several things that have come to pass. He has a great following in Florence, and much power and influence there.”
Cesare nodded. “Good. You know the salient points, then. He is Ferrarese by birth, a brilliant theologian, and currently holds the position of Prior of San Marco, a monastery once closely associated with the Medici family, who were its benefactors for many years.”
“I had heard that as well,” I said. “But I confess, I do not understand what this has to do with the task you have for me.”
A reluctant smile appeared on his sensual lips. “It has everything to do with that task, Maddalena mia. For I must ask you to go to Florence, to pose as a member of Savonarola’s loyal following, and pass on any and all information you learn to me.”
It was so silent for a moment that I fancied I could hear the crackling of flames on the candlewicks.
He watched me carefully, obviously wishing to see my reaction. “You … Your Eminence … Cesare … you cannot be in earnest,” I said once I found my voice.
“I am in deadly earnest.”
“Why … why me?” I asked. “I am no spy. I have no skills in such matters.” I looked hard at him. “Spying is what you are asking of me, is it not?”
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
“Surely there are others in your family’s employ who are much better suited to this task than I.”
“Not in this case,” he said. “A man with a foreign accent appearing in Florence just now would be cause for much suspicion. All of Italy wishes to know what Savonarola may do next; every state, every ruler. Such a man would likely not be allowed to get too close to any of the friar’s followers, or to the friar himself. A woman, on the other hand…”
I shuddered at these words. “Surely you do not mean for me to…”
He rose quickly from his chair. “Good Christ, Maddalena. Of course not. Is that what you think of me? That I am the sort of man who would send his woman to bed another for information?”
His woman. I shook my head slightly to rid myself of the spell of those words. “It was the way you said it,” I said hastily. “Of course I do not think such of you.”
He knelt before my chair, clasping my hands in his. “I would kill any man who dared touch you,” he said, his eyes deadly serious. “I mean that.”
And I well knew that he was capable of murder. Yet I thrilled at his protective words.
“I believe you do,” I said. “What is it you would have me do?”
He rose to his feet and began pacing, all business. “I indeed phrased myself poorly, and I beg your pardon.” He gave a wolfish grin. “Seduction would do us no good in any case; the friar is said to have a horror of women in the carnal sense. What I meant to say is there are many women amongst Savonarola’s loyal following, women of all classes. They go to hear his sermons, and some have sought his private counsel, so I hear. You need only pose as a well-to-do widow from the countryside. If and when he starts preaching again, you will attend his sermons and report back what he is saying. Try to learn what you can of his plans; even if it is only gossip, I wish to hear it. Should you have opportunity for personal conversation with the friar, take it. Take it and suss out what you can of his motives, of what kind of man he truly is.
“Most importantly, I wish to know the mood in Florence. Whether most of the people are truly in Savonarola’s thrall, or secretly hoping for a return of the Medici family. The latter can be arranged easily enough if such is the case. But as of now, we do not have enough information to know how to proceed.”
My head was spinning as I struggled to take it all in, the expectations and implications. The scale of the matters he was placing into my hands. “Proceed with … what, exactly? Forgive me, but I still do not understand…”
“We must move against Savonarola eventually,” he said. “But we do not know precisely when or how would be best. You will help us determine that.”
I was silent.
“He cannot be allowed to continue to oppose the Church,” Cesare went on. “He cannot continue to challenge the pope’s authority and inspire Florentines to do the same. If he were some backwoods preacher in a little village in the Kingdom of Naples, he would not matter. But he all but controls one of the greatest and wealthiest cities in Italy. He must be curtailed. Or, more likely, silenced.”
He paused, and when I still did not speak, went on. “I have thought long and hard on it,” he said, “and it can only be you. There is no one else who fits our needs like you, no one else whom I trust enough to accomplish this. You are the only one, Maddalena.”
He finished speaking and looked at me expectantly. I was conflicted, truly so. I had heard much gossip from all quarters about Fra Savonarola. Many of them thought him a true holy man, even a saint. He had assisted in driving out the corrupt Medici and reestablishing republican rule in Florence. And I had yet to hear of anything he had said of the pope that was not technically true.
The thought of opposing such a man was frightening. The thought of bringing about his downfall—of bringing about a coup, if Cesare’s comments about restoring the Medici were to be taken seriously—was frightening. The thought of influencing the politics of Italy was frightening.
But it was a powerful feeling.
Cesare Borgia, gifted political operator as he was, was entrusting a large, crucial task to me. Maddalena Moretti, a maid from the countryside of the Romagna. He trusted me. He valued me. I was indispensable to him.
“Very well. I will do it.”