Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance
Read Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance Online
Authors: Sara Poole
Tags: #Fiction, #Biographical, #Historical, #General, #Historical - General, #Fiction - Historical, #Historical fiction, #Renaissance, #Revenge, #Italy, #Nobility, #Rome, #Borgia; Cesare, #Borgia; Lucrezia, #Cardinals, #Renaissance - Italy - Rome, #Cardinals - Italy - Rome, #Rome (Italy), #Women poisoners, #Nobility - Italy - Rome, #Alexander
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
POISON
“Brimming with intrigue, action, and enough double-crosses to stump even the most venal of Renaissance popes . . . A fascinating page-turner as delicious and deadly as the poisons brewed up by its heroine.”
—Lauren Willig, bestselling author of
The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
“
Poison
presents the most unique heroine I have ever seen in a mystery series (a complex, angst-filled Renaissance Dexter). . . . The plot is as much a fast-paced thriller as a compelling mystery.”
—Karen Harper,
New York Times
bestselling
author of
The Last Boleyn
“
Poison
delivers a fast-paced, gripping look at the wages of sin under the Borgias, as seen through the eyes of a troubled female poisoner. The seductive danger of Rome, lethal sanctity of the Vatican, and bitter taste for revenge all combine to produce an intoxicating brew that keeps us turning the pages, even as we glance fearfully at our fingertips for signs of residue.”
—C. W. Gortner, author of
The Last Queen
“An engrossing journey through the darker side of Renaissance Rome,
Poison
creates an elegant tapestry of mysteries and deceit and a resourceful, original heroine in Francesca Giordano.”
—Susan Holloway Scott, author of
The French Mistress
“
Poison
is an irresistible concoction of danger, mystery, and romance—a fast-paced thrill ride through the darkest intrigues of Renaissance Rome. I could not put this book down!”
—Jeanne Kalogridis, author of
The Borgia Bride
“An impressive blend of story and history! . . . A complex and compelling heroine led me through the crooked streets of Rome—and of the human heart—into the bowels of a decaying St. Peter’s Basilica to watch the struggle for ultimate power play out in an unforgettable climax.”
—Brenda Rickman Vantrease, bestselling
author of
The Illuminator
POISON
A Novel of the Renaissance
SARA POOLE
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
NEW YORK
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.
POISON
. Copyright © 2010 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.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Poole, Sara, 1951–
Poison : a novel of the Renaissance / Sara Poole.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-60983-2
1. Women poisoners—Fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. 3. Alexander VI, Pope, 1431–1503—Fiction. 4. Cardinals—Italy—Rome—Fiction. 5. Nobility—Italy—Rome—Fiction. 6. Borgia, Lucrezia, 1480–1519—Fiction. 7. Borgia, Cesare, 1476?–1507—Fiction. 8. Renaissance—Italy—Rome—Fiction. 9. Rome (Italy)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.E43P65 2010
813'.54—dc22
2009047299
First Edition: August 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
POISON
ROME
SUMMER, 1483
The white bull charged down the chute into the piazza. Roaring, the crowd shook the tiers of wooden seats erected around the square. In their midst, the child clung to her father and felt the deep vibration within him as he shouted along with all the rest.
“Borgia! Borgia! Huzzah!”
Beneath a cloudless sky so bright as to be a pain behind the eyes, the red-robed prince of Holy Mother Church stood on a dais draped with the gold and mulberry silks of the House of Borgia. He spread his arms wide as though to embrace the crowd, the piazza, the travertine marble palazzo glowing golden in the sun, and beyond to the farthest reaches of the ancient city awakening to a new dream of glory.
“My brothers and sisters,” Rodrigo Borgia proclaimed, his voice a thunderclap in the sudden stillness. “I thank you for coming here
today. I thank you for your friendship and for your support. And I give to you—”
He paused and the girl felt the inhalation of the crowd, suspended upon the will of the man who, it was said, aspired to rule all of Christendom though he’d be better suited to reign in Hell.
“I give to you from the plains of my home, beautiful Valencia, the greatest of all bulls ever seen in our beloved Rome! I give you his strength, his courage, his glory! I give you his blood! Let it nourish our magnificent city! Roma Eterna!”
“Roma! Roma! Roma!”
The bull pawed the summer dust and tossed its great head, snorting as the black pools of its eyes caught the frenzied scene. A well of silence opened, so deep that the girl could hear the creak of harnesses on the horses closing in from all sides, thrust through their fear by the spurs of the men who led the companies of Il Cardinale’s private army.
Trumpets sounded from high along the walls of the palazzo. A bevy of
campinos
in parti-colored costumes and garish red wigs ran into the piazza, waving at the bull with their fringed capes and capering as close to him as they dared.
“Andiamo, Toro! Andiamo!”
Driven before them, the bull turned toward the line of mounted men. One among them, gifted with the honor, rose high in his saddle and saluted Borgia. The killing tip of his
rejón
lance glinted in the sun as he surged forward.
The crowd screamed its delight. The bull, sensing danger, lowered its head and charged at horse and rider. At the last instant, the
rejonear
pulled hard on the reins, veered sideways, and, rising again in the stirrups, thrust downward.
The bull bellowed, blood spurting from between its heaving
shoulders, spilling over its white hide to splatter in the dust. It raced away, circling the piazza, looking—the girl thought—for a way out, but found instead the parti-colored men, who charged at it, arms waving akimbo.
“Andiamo, Toro! Andiamo!”
Again they drove the bull toward the
rejonear,
who, with measured thrust, drew more blood for the thirsting crowd. Again and again and again until the animal staggered and fell first on one knee, then another. At the last, its great hindquarters gave way and it collapsed in the dust churned to mud by the river of its life.
The girl stood frozen in the summer heat, unable to look away. She saw the white bull stained red, the red man on the dais roaring bull-like in his triumph, and all around her, spinning in the gaudy light, the contorted faces of the crowd, mouths agape with lust.
The
rejonear
lifted his lance to the sun before sending it downward in the final
colpo di morte
. A long spasm rippled through the animal. In its wake, the parti-colored men ran out, knives flashing.
The girl did not see them cut away at the carcass, taking ears, tail, testicles. She did not watch the dripping prizes held high to the cheers of the crowd. She saw only the river of blood, a crimson tide pulling her down, spinning round and round, heedless of the screams that drew the gaze of the red bull to her.
The Spaniard died in agony. That much was evident from the contortions of his once handsome face and limbs and the black foam caking his lips. A horrible death to be sure, one only possible from that most feared of weapons:
“Poison.”
Having pronounced his verdict, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, prince of Holy Mother Church, looked up, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with suspicion, and surveyed the assembled members of his household.
“He was poisoned.”
A tremor ran through guards, retainers, and servants all, as though a great wind blew across the gilded reception room shaded by the columned loggia beyond and cooled in this blazing Roman summer of Anno Domini 1492 by breezes from the gardens filled with the scents of exotic jasmine and tamarind.
“In my house, this man I called to serve me was poisoned in my house!”
Pigeons in the cotes beneath the palazzo eaves fluttered as the great booming voice washed over them. Roused to anger, Il Cardinale was a marvel to behold, a true force of nature.
“I will find who did this. Whoever dared will pay! Captain, you will—”
About to issue his orders to the commander of his condotierri, Borgia paused. I had stepped forward in that moment, squeezing between a house priest and a secretary, to put myself at the front of the crowd that watched him with terrified fascination. The movement distracted him. He stared at me, scowling.
I inclined my head slightly in the direction of the body.
“Out!”
They fled, all of them, from the old veterans to the youngest servant, tumbling over one another to be gone from his presence, away from his terrifying rage that turned the blood to ice, freed to whisper among themselves about what had happened, what it meant, and, above all, who had dared to do it.