May, 1497

"Bitch!"

The screech burst through the quiet, murmuring voices of the women gathered in small groups along the banks of the river. The wet slap of cloth against rock halted as heads turned, searching for the source of the noise. The sound was so calamitous that it scattered pigeons from the ruined stone blocks and silenced the chirping of the crickets in the marsh grass and the deep, thrumming roars of the frogs. Further on, muffled groans and oaths signaled the fouling of clean linen as the startled flocks released their bounty on the drying field.

Betta opened one eyelid, then another, blinking away the golden film of sleep. Settled back against the stone block of the ruined bridge, she had allowed exhaustion to overtake her, succumbing to a nap. From the angle of the sun in the sky, now edging toward the steep roofs of Trastevere, an hour had passed since she had closed her eyes, seeking a moment of peace. The branches of a pine tree rustled overhead, moving shade dappling cool patches across her cheeks.

It took a moment to find the two struggling figures that had disturbed her slumber. Tomasa, the wife of the carter, had a much younger woman clasped in her arms, dragging her back. When they reached the center current, where the river rose to the level of their waists, Tomasa stopped and began shaking her, hands now clamped on the girl's thin shoulders.

"Think you can splatter my sheets with your mud?" One meaty hand moved from the girl's arms to her hair, eliciting a pained cry.

"I never!" came a feeble protest that choked off into a gurgle as her head was submerged. The water frothed as the girl struggled, then she was allowed to surface, coughing, and spluttering before beginning a scream that sounded like a pig as it was slaughtered.

"And let that be a lesson to you!" With a massive shove, Tomasa forced the other woman under the water again before thrusting her away. Red-faced from exertion, the carter's wife began huffing back to the shore, water sluicing off her apron and sleeves as she muttered under her breath.

Betta watched the unfolding drama with amusement, exhaustion forgotten. Spectacles and religious pageants were a weekly occurrence in Rome, but for her coin, there was nothing to compare to the drama of everyday life that unfolded every Sabbath at the river. Some women only came every month to wash their linen. Others, like her own family, only possessed enough shirts and camicias to last a week between washings.

What had the girl done to incur the other's wrath? Betta scrutinized her face. Pretty, even with a dripping mop of brown hair and a mud-splattered, heart-shaped face. The girl scrunched up her nose in disgust, wiping a dripping sleeve across her mouth. Betta finally recognized her: Maria -Theresa, a girl one year older than her own seventeen years with two babies and a husband dead when the French had invaded. That explained Tomasa's hostility. A pretty young widow would prove a heady temptation for Marco, the carter, a man whose enormous muscles were matched by an equally large appetite for the pleasures of female flesh.

Betta snorted and leaned her head back against the rock after running a practiced eye over the white linen sheets and camicias spread out over the drying field. Strong soap had reddened the skin of her hands before the bubbles were caught by the current and washed away, but she was accustomed to the stinging burn of lye. The linens were the same white as the clouds streaking lazily overhead, the sight pleasing to her. The old women who came to the river would find nothing to criticize in her or the way she cared for her family.

The marshy green scent of the river was heavy in her nostrils: a pleasant thing, calling to mind the years spent with her mother in the same spot. The feel of the place was the same: the willow twig basket she used to carry the linens, the prickle of the soap, the heavy weight of yesterday's barley bread in her stomach, the end of a loaf nibbled as she worked.

Only the people changed. For years beyond count, women had been bringing baskets to the river Tiber, cleaning away dirt while exchanging news and commiseration, stories and heartbreak. Snatches of it drifted over the water.

"Three girls in a line, the poor thing…"

"Ahh, have him tie up his left stone with a stout cord before he lays with her, an' have her shift ta the right hip, holdin' his seed up tight after."

"Aye, aye, that's the way. T'is the left one that brings the girls. I'd a sister suffered the same until they did so, then," there was the noise of hands clapping, "Two stout boys in a row, an' only one of 'em died in the spring fever."

"Only take care that it's not too soon after the bleedin'. You'd not want one like Prospero's get."

Betta winced and tried to ignore the loud conversation as it continued on, discussing Prospero's children. That the cheese seller's young daughter cut her hair short and wore tunic and hose seemed more likely to be caused by the child having six brothers and a mother who died giving birth to her rather than any influence of heat or humors or…position. Betta liked the girl and her face full of freckles; she seemed happy.

Betta smiled, watching the neighborhood children as they frolicked in the shallows, boys and girls mixing freely, naked with gleaming skin turned to gold in the sunshine. Her sister had been one of those children only a short time before, linking hands with the youngest son of the local baker as they hunted small fish and splashed each other with water. Now the two of them were talking of other matters, heads close together as they walked through the tall grasses surrounding the ruined bridge, her sister's red curls like fire in the afternoon light. Their innocence and the young love surrounding them in a palpable cloud made her smile, imagining her mother's joy. The plague had stolen those innocent moments away from her life before she had a chance to enjoy them, as they had stolen…

"Cousin."

Betta started, feeling her heart thumping wildly in her chest. The footsteps approaching the block had been so quiet that she had initially dismissed them, thinking another woman waited nearby, judging the possibility of securing a prime spot worth a few moments of idleness. She took a deep breath and shaded her eyes, trying to regain a sense of calm as she studied the familiar girl who stood twisting her fingers into knots beneath her apron.

It took a moment before she was able to place a name to the face.

"Laura," she said, patting a space on the block in invitation. "How goes it with you?"

Face glowing at the recognition, Laura sat, arranging her skirts so that fabric covered her ankles. Betta took the opportunity to observe her, noting the changes the years had wrought.

All of those descended from Lorenzo the leather worker, her mother's grandfather, bore a resemblance; between the two of them, the likeness was startling. At fourteen, Laura could have been her sister; the dark, nearly black hair hidden beneath Betta's cap was allowed to spill down Laura's back in a black mane that framed her narrow waist. The eyes were also the same, dark and tilted at the corners. It took little effort for Betta to read the brimming emotion there. The nervous way they darted from the river and then back to Betta, avidly looking at the sumptuous folds of the camicia visible beneath the low neckline of her gown revealed the purpose of the meeting before the other girl had opened her mouth.

"Have you heard that Ghita is to marry again?" Laura blurted out.

Betta did not have to feign astonishment. "Her husband died only last month!"

Laura began to chatter in response, sharing what she knew of the scandalous exploits of the tanner's wife before moving on to other tales. Betta listened to the news her cousin brought though she had already heard much of it from Ginevra, nodding her head when Laura paused, all the while thinking over what she knew of the girl sitting next to her. Inevitably, the conversation turned to family. There was much that she could no longer remember of the cousins who dotted the twisting streets of Trastevere like so many threads in a piece of cloth. They shunned her mother after a disastrous second marriage, and Betta had little patience for those who had refused her aid.

Laura spoke on, either unaware of the tension between their two families or choosing to ignore it. Paolo, Laura's father, was nearing the end of his working years. Soon the eldest son, newly married with a babe on the way, would assume his place as head of the family bodega producing finely tooled leather belts for the wealthy of Rome. Three other brothers still lived in the two rooms above the workshop, and they were nearing the end of their apprenticeships.

"So many for you to care for," Betta murmured, shaking her head.

Laura expelled a breath, half a laugh, and half a sigh. "From morning to night, I am surrounded by them. Even Sancia, Orazio's wife, is of little help now that she is great with child. And Lucha will be married as well. But Philipo, do you remember him? The tooler's son? He has said that he will offer for me once his term is complete, but even then, there is little money for my dowry, and his mother is so…proud." Laura bit her lip and looked down. When she raised her eyes again, they swam with liquid pleading.

"Cousin." Reaching out, she took Betta's hand. As she did so, Betta noticed how smooth they were, the skin yet unmarred by callouses. "Can you find me a place to serve at the Palazzo with you?"

Betta looked away, although she allowed the hand to remain in place. Others had asked for the same favor in the years since she had moved to the palazzo of Santa Maria in Portico as a servant to the most powerful family in Rome. Her position was envied by many. The luxurious caress of the linen fabric against her arms was a potent reminder of why so many were willing to risk the dangers of working within the shadow of the Vatican. The rewards of her position were many: silky linen shifts cast off from the mistress's wardrobe after a single use, food from the high table, and wage in coin that could become a dowry.

But the dangers were greater. Only last month a scullery maid found stealing had been hung in the square, the household servants taken in force to watch as she kicked and whimpered her last. Girls were dismissed from service when rounded bellies revealed indiscretions and guards caught spying disappeared, never to be seen again except as stinking corpses who washed up on the banks of the Tiber.

And those dangers were no different from those faced by any of the legions who took service in one of the noble households. Lies and theft were always punished severely. But to be in service to the Borgia family brought with it a host of other dangers. Secrets sprouted like weeds in the frescoed halls of the Vatican, each more dangerous than the last. Knowledge of them left her balanced on the edge of a blade, its hilt laid against her skin so that the coldness could be felt. And there was no secret deadlier than the one she held, the one which she knew to be a truth.

Betta shook her head and withdrew her hand from the other's grasp, softening the refusal with a smile. She would not willingly expose one of her blood to the Vatican. "The housekeeper for the Contarini is a friend. I can arrange a place for you there."

Though Laura's face fell in disappointment, she was soon smiling as Betta told her of the house, one of the finest in the Ponte district, and the comfortable living of servants who cared for an aging master with children scattered throughout the papal states.

Soon, they were laughing again. Maria-Teresa, gown still dripping from the dunking in the water, and had come up behind the carter's wife and tipped the basket of clean linen into the water before running off, a triumphant grin on her face. Tomasa, recognizing defeat, laid hands on hips and began cursing, the words gaining intensity as a day's work sank in the murky green depths.

"Do such things happen in the Vatican?" Laura asked, and her smile was that of a girl, carefree and innocent as Betta herself had been in the years before she entered service.

Betta shrugged, unable to speak the truth. Worse happened at the Vatican.

Much, much worse.

Chapter 2

February, 1487

"Hurry."

The morning sun had yet to make an appearance over the rooftops. The night held Trastevere firmly in its grasp as two figures rushed through the narrow curving streets to the bridge that separated their signori from Ponte.

Constanza kept an iron grip on her daughter's wrist as they raced along. In the other hand, she carried an oil lamp, flame lighting the path ahead. The small puddle of illumination caused strange shadows to form on the ancient walls, flickering for a moment as they passed. The houses, two and three and four stories tall, loomed overhead, the tops almost touching in some places: faint noises emerging from them, the barking of dogs, disturbed at their passing, the shuffling groans of those newly awakened, the breathy sounds of those in pursuit of a moment's pleasure.

"We must not be late, Betta. Remember that. If you are to serve at one of the great houses, you must never be late. For every girl hired to scrub pots, there are three girls ready to take her place, all smarter and quicker and harder working."

"Yes, Mama," Betta replied, keeping her head down, careful so as not to trip on the rutted pathway and soil the dress her mother had scrubbed in the Tiber yesterday. She was lagging. Although her mother was heavily pregnant, with a belly that swelled like a wine barrel beneath the skirt of her dark brown gown, she had long legs and used them to press on, her stride rapid as she skirted the stinking piles of water and filth that clogged the streets.

In the distance, a cock began to crow, and Constanza made a sound of distress low in her throat. A lightening had started in the sky, darkened velvet shot through with faint traces of gray. Even without the reminder, Betta had known the dawn would soon break. There was a quality to the early morning air, the freshness of a new day overlaying the stink of a city which had seen the dawns of a thousand years and more.

From the sheds and in the alleys, the sounds of animals waking from their slumber began, scratching and pants and yawns. The unmistakable squeal of a piglet sounded, drawing Betta's attention. Her stomach gurgled as she paused, remembering the taste of salted pork like a pleasant dream from weeks before. Food, she thought. Fresh food, unspoiled by rot or mold. Pies and tarts or a ….

A hand shot out, grasping Betta's wrist and yanking. Constanza's breath huffed out in short, ragged gasps. "Be silent, Betta, unless you are spoken to. And never let yourself be seen unless you are performing some task. Our cousin had agreed to take you into the house until Lent. You know how important this is. The coin you earn will buy bread for your brothers and sister. If you stay there, after your father…"

"He is not my father," Betta muttered. Though her mother had only misspoken, she refused to allow the word to pass. Her father had been a kind man with soft brown hair and a smile that still whispered through her dreams at night. Ruberto, her mother's second husband, was no more her father than the pig she had heard squealing earlier.

"Yes, of course," Constanza agreed, and for a moment she appeared flustered. "After Ruberto begins to earn better commissions, the coin that you earn can be saved for your dowry."

"Yes, Mama," Betta agreed, though she privately doubted the ability of her stepfather to earn better commissions. Or to earn any coin at all, and not to depend on the labor of her two oldest brothers to keep the family in bread. And even their efforts had not been sufficient of late. Summer rains had rotted grain in the fields, and every day, the sellers in the market charged more for flour. Betta could not remember the last time she had laid down to her pallet without hunger pains gripping her belly. There was never enough food to feed the older two boys and her sister, let alone the new baby that would shortly be arriving.

A pain in her side made Betta double over, trying to catch her breath. Already three paces ahead, her mother threw a frantic glance back.

"Come!"

As they climbed up the hill, the houses grew finer. Square structures with pale plaster, they reminded Betta of the pieces of stone that littered the banks of the river where her mother took the wash. Taking a moment to get her bearings, Constanza turned down an alley and stopped at an arched door that interrupted the walls of a house that rose three stories high. A gate led onto a small terrace lined with tables. There were hooks embedded in the walls that surrounded it. Smoke poured from a cupola at the roof, smelling of pastry and sugared fruit. Betta's stomach rumbled again.

Constanza rapped on the door. Beneath the patched linen of her shift, small breasts rose and fell, and she placed a hand against the small of her back. In the light spilling out from the window of the kitchen, the skin of her mother's face was chalky white.

Betta felt a moment's uneasiness. Ginevra was small, only three, and there was so much to do in the quarters above the cobbler's shop. In a few weeks, another baby would come, and no one would be there to help her mother.

"Mama, are you certain…"

"Shush!" Came the tense reply as footsteps sounded from inside.

The door opened. A young man close to her brother Marco's age was blocking the entrance with his body; flour staining a pristine white apron. Disgust pinched his nostrils.

"Don't want no beggars here," he snapped and made to shut the door.

Constanza's hand flew out, stopping the door from closing. "We are not beggars," she insisted, pride loud in her voice. "My cousin keeps this house and has agreed to take my daughter into service."

Confusion showed on the boy's face. He had thick black eyebrows that grew into a single line, making his face stern, like a churchman. He crossed his arms and looked over his shoulder to the kitchen, then back out to the street where they stood. A flash of annoyance enhanced his brooding appearance.

"I've heard nothing about it."

"Perhaps my cousin does not think to discuss such matters with kitchen boys. Summon her at once." Unmistakable command resonated in her voice, that of a mother accustomed to having her wishes obeyed.

"I'm an apprentice," the boy protested, though his words sounded thin as a heavy blush moved over his face. He uncrossed his arms, allowing them to dangle at his side as his foot began to trace a line on the tiles. Turning his shoulder, he looked into the kitchen again.

"May I go, sir?"

A grumbling rasp came from a white head bent over a table in the corner. "Be quick about it. Dough won't knead itself."

The apprentice disappeared in a rush. Next to her, Constanza's back relaxed. Concealed by the fullness of their skirts, she reached out and clasped her mother's hand. The work-roughened skin was damp and trembled before she returned the squeeze.

Though the apprentice returned after only a moment and returned to work at his master's side, it was some minutes before faint gasps, and a shuffling step announced the arrival of another into the kitchen. Curious, Betta peeked around her mother's waist. A distant cousin, her mother had said, met on the streets only a few days past when she had delivered a repaired shoe to the best baker in Rome, Sancio del Porto, who had pots of basil and verbena growing outside his bodega and sometimes gave children loaves when they came begging at the end of the day. A happy chance, her mother had said, telling Betta about the splendid offer. Their cousin had been ill and needed help with her duties. She had agreed to take Betta on for a short time.

Betta thought the housekeeper did not look ill, only fat. Very fat. Her bulk was such that it jiggled as she walked, waves of it moving and sliding as she walked to the door. After a moment of fascinated scrutiny quelled by a sharp elbow to the ribs, Betta kept her eyes on the floor.

"Constanza," the housekeeper greeted her mother, voice cool. Beneath a white coif, a single lock of graying brown hair escaped and was tucked back with an impatient gesture.

"Maria," her mother replied, bowing her head with a respectful gesture. "This is my daughter, who I told you about." A hand on her shoulder propelled Betta forward, and she curtsied. Though she felt the weight of a heavy stare, Betta kept her eyes on the stone step leading into the kitchen. They were not invited inside. The morning air was cold, and she shivered.

"Eight years old, you said."

"Yes." It was the first time Betta could remember her mother telling a falsehood. She had just had her seventh natal day.

A nasal noise signaled displeasure. "Scrawny. Is she strong?"

"Yes, and quick. A good girl. Biddable."

"Can the girl speak for herself? What's your name, child?"

Betta raised her eyes; her stepfather often said that she had rebellious thoughts that he could see in her eyes. She made sure to keep them well-hidden as she answered, just in case he was right. "Betta, Donna. And I speak when spoken to."

The housekeeper harrumphed out a small laugh. "A lesson some of the sluts here could do with. Very well then, I'll take her, but only 'til Lent, when my strength has returned. Sundays for rest and a copper a week that I will save until the end."

Constanza was nodding.

The housekeeper reached forward and drew Betta into the kitchen. The warmth of the room was an assault, heating her down to the marrow of her bones in a single wave. "I'll send her out on Sunday, then," she said, shutting the door.

Betta wanted to protest that she had not bidden her mother goodbye, that it would be six days before she saw her again, but she felt the large woman's eyes on her still. Instead, she lifted her chin, keeping her back straight beneath her patched woolen gown. This day would be the most important, her mother had said, and she was to work until her fingers bled and utter not a word of protest.

Over the housekeeper's shoulder, the cook's apprentice was watching, the scowl of displeasure still on his face. He would not like her, she thought, because Mama had humiliated him. She met his stare without expression and followed in the wake of the housekeeper, who was already moving down the hall. The apprentice may have thought she and her mother were beggars, but she knew differently. Her father had been Giovanni, a cobbler from Florence who came to Rome and married the only daughter of another family long skilled in the craft; he had made the most beautiful shoes in the city. His work had graced the feet of cardinals and their mistresses, merchants and wealthy men. Before he had died, their shop in Trastevere had been a hive of activity, with apprentices coming from other cities to learn from him. It was the accident that had taken her father which had brought them to this, the accident, and her mother's poor choice of a second husband.

The housekeeper was speaking. "You'll come back to the kitchen for hot water after I've shown you about. There's a hall that needs scrubbing, and the master's none too particular about scraping his shoes when he comes in. When that's done, you'll work in the scullery. Some pots and pans need attending, and there's no trick to it, only hard work." Her tone dripped amusement. "Should keep you busy for the day."

The villa was a bewildering array of corridors, and the pale light creeping through the windows only provided enough illumination to see where the walls ended and the floors began. They paused at a small room near the kitchen, which had an opening covered by a flap of heavy canvas. Brushing aside the cloth, the housekeeper retrieved a set of keys from a table in the corner and tied them to a string that dangled at her waist. "My chamber. You'll sleep on a pallet in the corner so I can keep my eyes on you. Cousin or no, you'll hang if I catch you stealing. Half the silver in this house would have walked out beneath the skirts of the kitchen sluts if I did not keep my wits about me."

"Yes, Donna."

"Your mother was a sweet girl, and she and I were friends before I entered into service though we'd not spoken in years. That's the only reason I agreed to take you on. That's one of the pitfalls of service, as the one who trained me called it. Family, friends, all of them become less important that the famiglia. Learn that lesson now, girl, and you'll be better for it."

Famiglia. Betta had heard that word before. The nobles who lived in the grand houses had their families, those of the blood. Then there were the famiglia, the servants who formed another type of family, from the lowliest of pot boys to the stewards and housekeepers.

It would not be her family, Betta thought, setting her chin. She would not stay. She would fetch and carry for the housekeeper during the six weeks until Lent, earning enough coin that her brothers and sister would go to bed with full bellies, and then she would return home. In six weeks, there would be a baby to care for, a new brother or sister, and she would leave the life of service behind.

Though the housekeeper had said that the cleaning of the hall and the pots in the scullery would take the day, it had been a task accomplished before cena, the noon meal, and the housekeeper bestowed a nod of praise on her before telling her to eat. The food served in the kitchens for the servants was coarse, a hearty soup and bread washed down with watered wine, but there was an ample amount, and Betta ate until her stomach formed a tight little ball beneath her dress.

She knew herself to be the subject of a dozen curious stares and kept her eyes fixed on the trencher before her, content to listen. Ears first, her mother said, and then eyes before you speak. She listened, and before the meal was out, she had learned that the master of the house, Signore Bracchis, was a widowed gentleman with grown children who spent most of his time at the home of a flaxen-haired courtesan kept like a princess in private lodgings. He visited the villa only to change his linens and monitor the flow of gold from his dealings with the Florence cloth merchants whose wares he imported.

"Disgraceful," one of the older housemaids murmured, shaking her head. "Our mistress not dead a year, and he's already sent all her gowns over to his whore to be made over."

"More like she will sell them to the Jews," another maid opined, a younger girl, almost pretty enough to be a courtesan herself. She twined a strand of curling hair around her finger, eyes dreamy. "Think he'll marry her?"

Laughter erupted from the table, and the girl blushed.

The housekeeper gave her a hard stare. "Take that notion out of your head. For all the master is chasing after a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, he is the blood of one of the noble houses. He'd not pollute it by marrying such as her."

"But…"

The housekeeper's voice gained a stern edge, matching the set of her jaw. "We will speak of this no longer. He is our master and deserves our loyalty. Another word, and I'll see all of you set to scrubbing this place from top to bottom with nothing save water in your buckets." She surveyed the three housemaids with one brow lifted, as though searching for any signs of rebellion. There was none.

"Yes, Donna," they responded, and beneath the table, Betta heard a faint movement, an ankle sharply kicked.

After the meal ended, there was more work. The scullery was a small, airless chamber lacking the windows of the kitchen. Lead pipes in the wall emptied the water into a metal basin so large that Betta could have comfortably bathed inside. Pots and skillets, spits and trivets lay covering the large table, the implements cluttered with the fragmentary remains of the dish each had cooked. The apprentice who had greeted her so unenthusiastically that morning explained her duties, a look of cheerful vindictiveness stealing over his features as he described the daunting task.

Master Bartolomeo, the cook, watched their interaction over his shoulder as he sat at a grinding wheel, shooting sparks from a knife as he honed the edge. Betta could not stop from looking back at him frequently, afraid that the man's fluffy white hair would catch fire. The chef was, by far, the oldest man that she had ever seen still practicing a craft. The folds of his face were speckled with age spots, and his hands, when they were not pressing down upon the knife, trembled with palsy. Wispy white hair formed an uneven halo around his face, the ragged thatch looking like he hacked at the strands with a knife when they grew too long.

"Now, now, leave the girl be, Angelo." The chef's rheumy eyes crinkled into a smile that Betta could not help but return. "She is skinny, like a dried bean. Do we not have some of the wild boar stewed with wine and raisins held back? That will put a smile on her pretty face." Reaching out, he pinched her cheek gently.

Angelo looked down. "That was served three weeks past, Master."

The chef's eyebrows, feathery as the wings of a bird, arched in surprise. "So long ago? Ah, no matter. Find something else. We shall have this little one as fat as a fine young partridge before the season is out." Never ceasing his kindly smile, he handed her an apron. Betta was enveloped by the scent of him, unlike that of any person she had ever encountered, sweet and spicy. There was no dirt on his person; of all the men she had met, he was the cleanest, lacking even a discoloration beneath his fingernails. The food smells breathing from his skin were intoxicating, and she had to resist the urge to follow him back to the kitchen, just so that she could attempt to identify them, the rose water and cloves, the pungent reek of garlic and the buttery heaviness of oil.

She scrubbed at the pots, hands growing white and wrinkling from their soaking in cold water and listened to Master Bartolomeo talking. He flew through the kitchen as though wings were attached to his shoulders, preparing pranzo for the master.

A crate of birds arrived and was taken out to the terrace attached to the kitchens. Master Bartolomeo slaughtered each of the birds, the pristine white of their feathers dripping into rivers of red as they were suspended from hooks embedded in the wall. When the font ceased, the carcasses were cut open, and the blood wiped out with a cloth. The organs were removed and replaced in the cavity accompanied by salt, pepper, and fennel flowers. The smell of the birds, hung once again in the shade so that they did not touch, swam through her mind, delicious with the tang of iron and salt and herbs.

Though the housekeeper claimed to be ill, Betta could see no sign of it as the day wore on; the woman moved like a barrel that had been shoved down a steep hill, never ceasing its revolutions. After Master Bartolomeo had finished his meal preparations, she returned to Donna Maria's side. Under her direction, the linens were examined, and the majolica plates adorned with images of lions were shined. Dust from the street crept into each room, and Betta made use of a straw broom.

By the end of the day, there were blisters on her hands and feet, and her mind was numb with exhaustion. She was too tired to join the rest of the servants for pranzo. The thin straw pallet in the corner was welcoming, and she sank into it with a blissful sigh. Her eyes were shutting when the canvas flap covering the door moved, and the housekeeper appeared, a piece of bread covered in cheese and olive oil resting on the wooden plate in her hand.

Too exhausted to sit up, Betta watched with leaden eyes as the cook set the plate by her head and then reached down to take the shoes from her feet. The housekeeper hissed sympathetically at the blood staining her patched hose.

"I've something for those. Eat, else you won't have the strength for the morrow." She rummaged through a basket of simples in the corner, emerging with a small blue jar. Betta flopped a hand over and lifted the bread, tearing it into two sections without looking over at the delicate ministrations. The flavor was an explosion of pleasure on her tongue. The oil was from the first pressing rather than the bitter dregs her mother was forced to buy. Her stomach, pleasantly full since the noon meal, gurgled in appreciation. Rising on one elbow, she finished chewing the first and then took a bite of the second half. Her mouth was dry, and she choked on the bread.

"There's water in the jug," the housekeeper said, already moving back to the hallway. As the flap pulled back, Donna Maria spoke over her shoulder.

"You did well today."

Chapter 3

Cesare Borgia's keen ears detected a faint noise as he ascended the last steps that led to the second story loggia, a small, pitiful cry, the sound as muffled and distant as the bells ringing over the city which thrilled in an unending peal, calling the devoted to prayer.

The sun was hot where it streamed onto the tile floor. Cesare could feel it beneath the leather soles of his shoes. The heat did not trouble him. His family were Valencians, after all, born to a hotter sun which had seen the fortunes of their family rise and fall from the time that his ancestor had led the charge to recapture the town of Xativa from the Moors. Lucrezia was of the same mettle. Most girls of seven would have fled to their chamber or the gardens to ease their grief. Not Lucrezia. She was also a creature of the sun, finding comfort in the warmth.

He had been searching for her for an hour, scouring each of the rooms in the Palazzo Pizzo di Merlo. Had Juan's smirk not alerted him to the trouble, he might have passed the day away with his tutors without knowing that Lucrezia was in pain. But Juan could never resist gloating, and his smiles always meant that someone was crying.

The kitten had been a whim, a gray puff of smoke with eyes nearly the same green and gold that he and Lucrezia shared. He had returned from his lessons in the city one morning to find it shivering outside the gate, swaying in the breeze as it clung to live with needle claws. I know what to do with you, little one, he thought, scratching it behind the ears before shoving it into the folds between his shirt and doublet. The rumble had surprised him. Lucrezia's delight in his gift had not, and the animal had steadily fattened on constant offerings of fish and cream and sausage.

He had found the body of the kitten on the stairs, it's head a crumpled mass of gray and blood and bones. Juan's doing, left where Lucrezia would be the first to see it. And Lucrezia…

His eyes found her, hidden in the corner, body concealed beneath the table where Mama took her wine in the evenings when Papa did not visit her. Cesare quickened his pace, crossing the loggia in a dozen strides before crouching on the tile in front of the table.

"Lucrezia," he coaxed. "Come out." He could not see her face; she had curled herself into a tight little ball, revealing only pale curls spilling out from beneath a hood and fragile shoulders which shook from the force of her sobs. She was a child whose angular bones pressed hard against the skin, sharp of elbow and cheekbone and neck. The only softness was her wealth of hair and her heart.

Sighing, he wedged his torso beneath the table and scooted forward until he could wrap arms around her waist. He pulled, dragging them back from the confined space.

For a moment she resisted, striking out with hands and feet, then her body eased as the tears began again. She smelled of salt, and the front of her bodice was wet. Rage surged at the knowledge of how long her tears must have continued with only himself to inquire about her absence. No matter, he was there now. Cesare remained sitting, moving to brace his back against the wall. Lucrezia remained on his lap. He said nothing, knowing that the words would emerge eventually when her tears allowed her to speak.

Minutes passed. Cesare began rubbing up and down her back, lightly scratching, and her muscles relaxed in response. He hummed a song his Valencian nurse had taught him, whispering of golden fields and mountain retreats where springs bubbled up from the earth. The tears stopped, though her shoulders still trembled. He had always been able to soothe her, even when no one else could. Mama had been sick after Lucrezia had been born, the baby left with nurses content to allow her to scream the night away. It had been his touch that could lull her back to sleep, a child of four years stealing through the house to rock his sister's cradle.

"He killed it," Lucrezia finally whispered, her fingers clenched on his doublet. Her eyes looked up at him, sparkles of gold veined with red.

His hand resumed the rhythmic stroking of her back. "I know."

"In front of me! As soon as I came up the stairs, he let her go and then smashed a jug down on her." Lucrezia's lip trembled as the tears began again. "I heard her b. snap."

Cesare tried to control his breathing and unclench the hands; they had formed fists. He could feel the steady pulse of blood, goading him to action. Now was not the time to show his anger. That would come later when there was no Master Niccolo to stop him. In the night, only those too afraid to intervene could hear Juan scream. But Juan knew to be wary during the night, taking to the roofs when pursued, a place that Cesare could not follow. How like Juan to discover what frightened him, the high places where he could not move for fear of falling. It would not save him this time; he would have blood for this, for blood was the only thing that Juan understood, lessons taught in pain.

"Why is he so cruel? I stay out his path, as you told me, and I do not speak to him unless he wills it. But even then, he does mean things." She pushed up the sleeves of her gown, revealing a collection of purple and black bruises, startling against white skin.

Because you are beautiful, Cesare thought, an angel, and because our father and I love you. "You know that there was an accident, the year after you were born."

"Yes," Lucrezia nodded, curls dancing. "You were fighting with swords. He fell and hit his head."

Cesare smiled to hear the horror of those days reduced to only a few sentences. In his mind's eye, blood seeped again across the stones, followed by hours and hours of waiting to see if Juan would open his eyes and return from the deep sleep where his mind was trapped. Days of trying to ignore the accusation in his father's face, the grief in his mother's eyes. And then, overwhelming happiness to have his brother awaken and return to health, though it soon became apparent that a different child that had opened his eyes, one full of hate and rage.

When she nodded, he continued. "Since then, he has been different. Angry. Before, he was never cruel." Memory served up an image of how it had been for them before the accident, playing with wooden swords on the terrace, Cesare allowing Juan to win sometimes because Juan was a year younger, hiding from their tutors and stealing sweets from the kitchens. He grieved for the brother he had lost, even as he grew to hate what had remained.

"I don't remember," she said, snuggling closer. She did not understand death any more than she understood the brother who hated her for being born. And he would not tell her. Her sweetness was precious to him, like the carved ivory bird that Papa had given to Mama, a thing of delicate beauty smashed to a thousand pieces in one of Juan's rages. He would not allow the same to happen to Lucrezia.

Still sitting on his lap, they watched as the birds of the city dipped and swooped over the rooftops, the cacophony of noise blending with the sounds of the street below. Rome gentled during the noon hour when the blazing sun drove all but the hardiest from rooftops and street corners. Below, servants chattered as they went about their work, emptying buckets and sweeping, clearing away the remains of what had been a feast the night before to celebrate his entry into the Sapienza of Perugia. In a fortnight, the journey from Rome would begin, leaving Lucrezia without a protector. The thought sent cold shivers racing down his arms, lifting the hairs. He must see Lucrezia safe. Before he left, he would speak to the servants, the guards, and cellarers, the pages, and stewards. They were accustomed to Juan's moods. They would keep Lucrezia from harm until Juan left to begin his studies with the Gonfalonier.

They would keep her safe, or someone would suffer for it.

Voices rose from the terrace, a steward calling his name.

Cesare cupped the base of her skull in his hand, holding it close to his chest for a moment. "Come, Lucrezia or they will send someone looking for us."

Lucrezia nodded and rose, brushing out her skirts with a fussy motion of her hand. Their mother insisted on garbing Lucrezia in the most opulent gowns, Florentine velvet and silks imported from distant lands, nothing was too precious for Rodrigo Borgia's daughter; she was never allowed to play as the children in the streets played, dirty and rough.

"Shall I find you another kitten?" he asked, thinking of the months and years he would be away, the loneliness that would eat at her. There were no children deemed appropriate for the cardinal's daughter; Joffre, their youngest sibling, was but two years old and a slow-witted child besides. Not for the first time, it struck him what a lonely girl she was, and soon to be lonelier.

Lucrezia shook her head. Weariness had replaced her grief- it slumped her shoulders and dimmed the sparkle in her eyes.

"No. Juan would just kill it."

Cesare placed a hand beneath her chin, tilting her head up. Tomorrow he would tell her that he was leaving, off to study and become a prince of the church like their father. But not today.

"Someday I will find you another to love, Lucrezia. I swear it."