Rome, August 1497
I sent a message to Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, to be left for Maddalena. As soon as she had returned and rested, she was to come to the Vatican to see me.
I paced my rooms restlessly on the night I expected her to arrive; it had only been a matter of weeks since I had last seen her, yet it felt like a lifetime. I wanted to take her into my arms, whisper to her how well she had done. She had done everything I had hoped she would, and more. She had made a mark on the history of Italy forever. Even if no one else ever knew, she and I would.
And then I wanted to remove all of her clothing and take her to my bed, to bury myself inside her until I found the relief and ecstasy that had been eluding me these long weeks since her departure. I grew hard just thinking about it and had to do my best to calm myself. There was business to attend to first.
Finally, as the sun had begun its descent, she appeared. She looked weary from her days on the road, though judging by her appearance she had washed and changed her clothes before coming to see me.
“Maddalena.” I crossed the room to her and took her in my arms, claiming her mouth with mine. Her small sigh nearly undid me, and it took all my self-control not to pull her to the bed.
Reluctantly I drew away, and led her to a chair, the same one in which she had sat when I had first asked her to take on this task, all those lonely nights ago. “You are back, and safe, praise God,” I said.
She let out a weary laugh. “I am.”
I plucked her hands from her lap, taking them in my own. “You did beautifully, Maddalena. Better than I dreamed, my angel of holy vengeance.”
She made a strange sound, almost a sob. I paused, waiting for her to speak, but when she did not, I continued.
“Savonarola is being interrogated by the Signoria,” I said.
She looked up. “Tortured, you mean.”
“Yes, I suppose so. The Florentines have certain … rather effective methods at their disposal, I am given to understand.” I decided it was best not to describe these methods. She seemed suddenly fragile, as if she were a very different woman from the one who had left Rome. No doubt she was, with everything she had seen, including the siege of San Marco, tales of which were already making the rounds of Italy and would soon move beyond the peninsula.
Guilt gnawed at me. She is different because of you, Cesare, some little voice inside me said spitefully. She is changed because of what you sent her to do.
I shook the voice away. I had done what I had to do, and so had Maddalena. She had gone willingly.
“Already, the Holy Father has sent a Papal Commission to Florence to oversee the interrogation and trial of Fra Savonarola, to make sure all is done in accordance with Church law. Normally a man of the cloth can only be tried and convicted by an ecclesiastical tribunal, but we all appreciate that this is something of an … extraordinary circumstance.”
“And then what?” Maddalena asked, in a near whisper.
“He will be executed. For heresy, most likely. For claiming to be a prophet.”
“It is already decided? Even without a trial?”
“Of course. That is how matters such as this go.” I frowned. “You knew this, Maddalena. You know that we—that the Holy Father—needed him removed. He could not go on preaching against the pope and the Church. You know that.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“You do not … sympathize with him?”
At last she looked up and met my eyes. “Certainly he challenged the pope and Holy Mother Church,” she said at last. “But I cannot help but think of…” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked away. “I cannot help but think of the desperate poor in Florence, who found such solace in his words, and were seen by him as no one else had ever seen them before,” she said in a rush. “They have lost their protector, their benefactor.”
“The Church will help them,” I said easily. “They should not have placed their trust in a false prophet.”
Maddalena was silent.
I rose from my chair, discomfited by her quiet, subdued nature. “Come. To bed, mia bella.” I moved behind her chair and brushed her loose hair aside, kissing her neck before whispering in her ear, “I have missed you. Let me show you how much.”
To my surprise, she drew away and stood up. “Begging your pardon, Your Eminence, but I should like to retire,” she said. “I am most weary from the journey.”
I forced myself to hide my great disappointment. She had been several days on the road, after all. And God only knew what horrors she had witnessed during the siege of San Marco, all for my—the Church’s—benefit. I had waited this long; I could wait another night or two. “Of course,” I said. “Forgive me. Of course, you must rest.”
Without another word, she turned and left.