A Borgia Daughter Dies

By Maryann Philip

Check out the great reviews at http://www.amazon.com/A-Borgia-Daughter-Dies-ebook/product-reviews/B007WONQV2/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1.

Setting: Italy during the high Renaissance, an age of new ideas, sexual license, corruption, sublime art, and genius. The history is real and chronologically accurate. Famous individuals meet when and where they did in real life. None has been moved farther than across Rome to participate in the story.

Nicola Machiavelli, fictional illegitimate daughter of the famous statesman Niccolò Machiavelli,is a bright and occasionally comic child being raised at her Machiavellian father's expense in an exclusive Roman convent. Lucrezia Borgia, who is staying in the convent, becomes her friend.

Nicola's happiness is colored by the death of Sister Annaluisa, her first friend at the convent, whose strangled corpse has been found in the Tiber River. She vows to find Sister Annaluisa's killer. At Lucrezia Borgia's wedding to her second husband, Nicola tries unsuccessfully to question Sister Gerolama, who knows something about the death.

Sister Gerolama was born Gerolama Borgia, the second of Pope Alexander VI's nine acknowledged children, who has been hiding from her father in this convent since she was thirteen. On Easter Sunday, 1500, Sister Gerolama is poisoned in St. Peter's Square, while receiving the pope's blessing in a crowd that includes thousands of pilgrims as well as nuns, students, servants and guests from the convent.

Nicola attempts to find the murderer(s) but is thwarted at every turn. Her bewitching mother Caterina, ex-mistress of the famous Machiavelli, converges on the convent with Leonardo da Vinci and Cesare Borgia, at the point in history when da Vinci worked for the Borgias in real life. Cesare assigns Leonardo to find his sister's killer after poison apparently intended for Cesare kills Caterina's husband. Suspected in her husband's murder--even by Nicola, her own daughter--Caterina works with Nicola and Leonardo to find the killer(s). Nicola's photographic memory, Caterina's aggressive determination and Leonardo's genius combine to solve the crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maryann Philip
• Release date: Apr 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985088408

Maryann Philip

A Borgia Daughter Dies has 72 favorable reviews on Amazon, averaging 4 out of 5 points. See http://www.amazon.com/A-Borgia-Daughter-Dies-ebook/product-reviews/B007WONQV2. Mary Ann Philip (a nom de plume) graduated with honors in "Renaissance Studies" (a self-created interdepartmental major) from Stanford University in 1970's, having spent part of her junior year at Stanford's Florence campus, researching her honors thesis using original Italian texts in the Biblioteca Nazionale. She then went to University of Chicago Law School and spent the next twenty-five years raising children and practicing law, with occasional time out to sing in small ensembles devoted to Renaissance music. She now lives in California, and has recently retired from law practice to brush up on her Italian and devote herself to her family and favorite period in history: the Italian Renaissance.

Book preview

THE HISTORY BEHIND THE MYSTERY

Truth is stranger and more interesting than any fiction that could be written about the flamboyant, creative and violent crucible of modern history known as the Italian Renaissance. The history you will read here is accurate, factually and chronologically, with rare exceptions noted in the Afterword. Historical persons, identified in the Cast of Characters at the end of the book, meet only when they did in real life. None has been moved further than across Rome, where necessary for the story.

Chapter 1—Giorgio Finds Another Body

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Rome, Italy

November 1497

The fisherman spotted the corpse bobbing in the Tiber, in the dark eddy where bodies began surfacing after Rodrigo Borgia bribed his way to becoming Pope Alexander VI. Above it loomed the pope’s massive brick prison, the Castel Sant’Angelo, a dark silhouette against the gray dawn. Disembodied laughter floated down from the battlements as night torches winked out like fireflies. The day sentries were coming on duty. Soon, they would be able to see him.

Like all good oarsmen, Giorgio rowed with his back to his goal. Imagining where the corpse would be, he rowed quietly toward the pope’s prison, feeling as though unseen eyes—some living, some dead--were searching for him. It was still too dark to see, but could they hear his oars? The guards’ voices, unnaturally loud in the damp stillness, gave no sign that they did.

Fear made Giorgio sweat, despite the morning chill. They had already beaten him once, for failing to report the death of the pope’s oldest son, Juan Borgia--though Giorgio told them repeatedly that there were too many dead in the Tiber to notice one in particular. To avoid more beatings, he now caught corpses as well as fish. He also searched the richly-clad ones, since Juan Borgia’s mangled remains bore jewels and a rich purse, along with all the stab wounds. So the pope’s soldiers had told him, anyway. But meddling with the dead had paid him only in nightmares, so far.

Giorgio’s fear gave way to surprise, when he turned to gauge how close he was to the corpse. He was nearly atop it—and it wore the white habit of the Dominican order, faintly luminescent in the first light of day. Madre di Dio, this one was a nun! He stowed his oars to examine the bloated body, which smelled even worse than the sewage stink of the Tiber. The slit-eyed face, swelling from the nun’s white wimple, was whiter than bread dough, and fruited with red pockmarks--fish bites, probably. Some pèssimi fish ate anything. He closed his eyes, trying not to gag.

Forcing himself to look at her again, he noticed the garrote, so tight around her veil and wimple that it threatened to behead her. What was an assassin’s weapon doing around a nun’s neck? Dead prisoners from the Castel Sant’Angelo landed in the Tiber, along with the garbage—but surely the pope would not bother with nuns. Did the vendettas that killed so many in the great families now include their women? Giorgio knew that the rich rid themselves of troublesome daughters by forcing them into convents. But killing a nun? That, he couldn’t understand.

She had to be a runaway, he decided. Such a one might well carry money--how else would she start a new life? He groped in the chilly water for her purse, which was slimy and heavy with coins. Cutting it free, he quickly hid it in his fishnets, hoping the pope’s soldiers were not watching. Then he towed the body to the pope’s jetty, wondering who would kill a nun without robbing her as well.

Chapter 2—Caterina and Leonardo da Vinci

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Milan, Italy

November, 1497

Caterina Biaggi watched nervously from inside the shop as Leonardo da Vinci inspected the cannons her husband Ugo had manufactured to defend Milan against the imminent French invasion. She remembered da Vinci from the Duke’s court because of his bella figura: tall and muscular, he wore his tunics only to the knee, his hosen tight, and his shoulder-length gray hair and beard groomed carefully into a wavy mane. Now dressed in browns and yellows, he reminded her of the lion in the Duke’s animal park-- dignified and deliberate, yet powerful.

Da Vinci was inspecting the last of her husband’s six brass cannons, lined up like soldiers on the cobbled street outside the Biaggi workshop. Caterina, who kept the books, knew how much was at stake this day, and hoped for immediate payment. Otherwise, if the war went badly, they might not be paid at all. She watched anxiously as da Vinci peered into a cannon barrel, holding the candle so close to his bushy gray brows that she feared they would catch fire. When finished, da Vinci handed the candle to his apprentice, a delicately handsome young man with bleached blonde, shoulder-length curls, clad in a bright yellow tunic.

Well done, Maestro Biaggi, da Vinci said to Caterina's husband Ugo as he entered the shop. The casting is perfect. I would like to observe your technique sometime.

There is no more metal to cast, for now, Ugo responded. "I know this brass was intended for your grandissima statue, Sire. A thousand apologies."

No apologies. The Duke has promised I can melt the cannons down again, after he defeats the French. My colossal horse can wait. I may hire you to help me with it!

Trumpets sounded, drawing Caterina out the door to look down the street. Color and movement appeared in the distance: jugglers, and men in motley, carrying bright silk banners on long staffs. Behind them, lords and ladies in bright colors, a moving fresco framed by the brown brick buildings on either side of the cobbled street.

Is the Duke coming? she asked.

Da Vinci looked at her quizzically. Si. To thank the armorers lining this street. And, to distract his loyal subjects from thoughts of the French.

He strode across the shop and grabbed a crossbow. Do not worry, Madonna, he called back to her, as he examined it. He is unlikely to remember you, dressed as you are.

Caterina lowered her eyes. She was indeed worried about seeing the Duke—called Il Moro, the Moor, by the people of Milan because of his dark skin. Caterina had been carefully celibate at the Duke’s court, having paid dearly for youthful sins. They had ignored their mutual attraction when she worked for his brilliant Duchess, Beatrice d’Este, who awed them both. But Duchess Beatrice had died in childbirth, after Caterina left to marry Ugo. And the grieving Duke began plucking mistresses from the populace like wildflowers from the roadside--or so it was said.

She was seized with a sudden fear: if Il Moro saw her now, he might want her again. Her marriage to Ugo would not stop him. And if she succumbed, Ugo would kill her—or if he didn’t, the Duke would soon discard her. Assuming the war with the French did not kill him first.

Just as quickly, she quelled her panic. She was too old to be all aquiver like a young maiden. The future of their shop was at stake. Da Vinci was right--it was unlikely the Duke would notice her, now.

She walked from the doorway to watch him inspect the crossbows and pikes Ugo had made. I am flattered that you remember me, Maestro da Vinci.

"I am a painter, Madonna. I see, and I remember. I sketched you once, thinking you would be a perfect Salome, if I ever painted her story."

Caterina laughed. Salome? Who danced for King Herod? Whose head would I demand, in exchange for my exotic dance?

Only you can answer that question, da Vinci responded, amusement glinting in his deep-set eyes. Thank you, Maestro, he said to Ugo, who placed quivers of arrows beside the table and began stacking weapons da Vinci had already inspected

Why would the Duke not remember my wife? Is there something wrong with the way she is dressed? Ugo’s tone was sharp, reminding Caterina that he did not like her laughing or even talking with other men.

Not at all, Maestro. She is dressed modestly, as befits a married woman. But I know the Duke. Rest assured, his eye is first for clothing—the more rich and revealing, the better. A beautiful face—like your wife’s—is not what first catches his eye.

Caterina acknowledged the compliment with a quick smile that Ugo could not see. Da Vinci kept his eyes on her husband.

Are these the rest of the weapons the Duke has ordered, Maestro Biaggi? he asked.

All. He ordered all. Where is Carlo, Caterina?

I’ll look for him, she promised, retreating across the cobbled floor past the massive brick foundry, still smoking from the morning’s labors, to mount the steep wooden stairs to their apartment. Her stepson was not there, she knew, but she could search for him through the second story window. It was no use looking out the door of the shop, at the moment. Crowds were now forming in the street outside, waiting to gawk at the parade of wonders accompanying the Duke.

As she scanned the crowd from above, Caterina savored da Vinci’s compliment and her brief laugh. Laughter was a rare balm, these days. She tucked a wheat-colored wimple around her face and under her veil, hiding the curve of her breasts beneath her simple brown cammora. Even she scarcely recognized herself in this wimple, which made her face look as white as a fish belly. It also smelled like the shop: of charcoal smoke, hot metal, and sweat. All smells she hated. But she looked and smelt like an artisan’s wife, now. Surely Il Moro would not notice her.

And then she spotted her stepson, disappearing into an alley across the narrow street. Carlo held a wineskin in one hand and a girl from the local tavern in the other. Though Ugo wanted Carlo’s help, Caterina was glad he was gone. Her stepson did not know or care about the family business. He could easily make a mess of everything.

She would not tell Ugo about the girl, she decided. Carlo worried him too much already. She hurried back down the stairs.

Excellent work, Maestro, da Vinci was saying. He grabbed the quill Ugo handed him, laid the sales contract down on the scarred wooden table now covered with crossbows, then signed it with a flourish. The Duke will see to your payment.

Payment before delivery, Caterina said. Those are always our terms. Will the Duke pay us now?

Perhaps if you apply to him personally, da Vinci said uncertainly.

I am applying to you personally, Caterina smiled, her eyes beseeching him. Surely he knew the risks she would take if she applied to Il Moro.

I do not carry the Duke’s purse, Madonna. Alas. But I will do what I can.

Leonardo? said a female voice from the doorway. Caterina recognized the lady—it was the Isabella d’Aragona, widow of the last Duke. Clutching her hand was her young son, whose dukedom had been usurped by Il Moro, his uncle. Da Vinci hastened outside to greet the two of them. As he spoke with Isabella, the child twisted around to watch flaming truncheons, redolent of pine smoke, spinning in the air above the cheering crowd. The Duke’s jugglers had arrived outside.

A memory pricked Caterina. The boy’s big brown eyes, now filled with wonder, reminded her of her daughter Nicola. But Nicola was now older than this child, she reminded herself. Eleven years old. What did she look like now? Ugo had never let her travel to Rome to visit Nicola, thinking the child was merely her niece. She didn’t dare tell him the truth.

Caterina, you are mad to demand immediate payment. Ugo’s voice was cold. The Duke can take what he wants. If we anger him, he may never pay us.

Of course the Duke can take what he wants, Caterina agreed, in as meek a voice as she could muster. But why should it anger him that we demand immediate payment? Those have always been our terms. Besides, if he does not pay us now, we may never be paid.

Caterina rarely defied her husband, but now was willing to risk it. Ugo could die in this war, and would likely leave his fortune to her stepson, who hated her. Il Moro had never reliably paid his bills, and might be defeated. She needed this money for herself, and for Nicola.

As yet, she had devised no means of seeing her daughter. However, she was determined to find one. In the meantime, she planned constantly for Nicola’s well-being. Dio grazie, the child was safe in Rome. Was her own gold safe from the French? Many a time she had considered fetching it and burying it in the shop yard, always concluding that her savings were safer in her banker’s vault. The French king needed the goodwill of Italian bankers, who frequently loaned him money. He would protect them from his soldiers, whatever other atrocities he allowed when he invaded Milan.

Caterina watched as Isabella d’Aragona, wearing an inscrutable smile, parted from Maestro da Vinci and returned with her son to the parade of lords and ladies now streaming down the street. Rumors were circulating about da Vinci and Isabella, Caterina remembered. Well, why not? Da Vinci was older, but he was still handsome. Isabella had money, leisure, and a great deal to worry about, as mother of the rightful Duke. She deserved some pleasure in her life.

Was that Isabella d’Aragona, talking to Maestro da Vinci? Ugo asked. Still dressed in mourning, after all these years?

Si. It doesn’t suit her. She should not wear dark colors.

It’s a slap in the face to the Duke. He would rather forget his brother. Ugo left unspoken what all knew: Il Moro had poisoned the former Duke, to assume his throne.

She is endangering her little son, Caterina agreed. Il Moro would rather forget about him, too.

Il Moro will never forget about him. And neither will the French king. That little boy’s claim to Milan is better than his. Look--there he is, Caterina!

The Duke, clad in a glittering diadem and a purple tunic gaudy with jewels, now stood in front of the Biaggi cannons. He patted each one like a mastiff while he conferred with da Vinci. Behind him, a group of soldiers laughed at one of his court jesters, a dwarf in motley who made obscene gestures with his hips, pretending he had a cannon in his codpiece. The crowd was singing a familiar love song, drowning out the lutes that played the melody.

At least look like you are expecting payment, Ugo, Caterina said before she retreated hastily to the back of the shop. There she seated herself on a wooden bench, bowing her head to hide her face.

She had forgotten how homely Il Moro was. A head shorter than da Vinci, he was clean-shaven and massively built, with chin-length black hair and a nose like a sail. His aura of danger and personal charm were what made him attractive, she decided. She smiled despite herself.

Her smile faded as she heard him enter the shop. He strode past Ugo and stopped directly in front of her, close enough to touch her. Smelling of lavender, as always. Her cheeks burned as she felt him looking her over, as if she were merchandise. She kept her eyes lowered, hoping her dull, modest clothing would disguise her, and worrying how Ugo would react to Il Moro’s rapacious stare.

Leonardo tells me you demand immediate payment? His raspy voice was familiar, but unusually abrupt.

Those have always been our terms, Excellency. She made her voice servile. Faced with silence, she looked up.

There was a slight smile on his swarthy face. Here, he said, placing a small bag in her hand, then squeezing it. If this is insufficient, apply to Leonardo. Then he left.

Standing and facing the wall, she peered inside the bag. It was filled with jewels and pearls—more than enough to pay for their inventory, considering that the Duke had supplied most of the materials. Whispering a quick prayer of thanks, she immediately palmed a handful, thrusting them in a pocket. These she would hide from Ugo so he would not suspect what she feared--that Il Moro expected to enjoy her body in return for his generosity.

After thanking Il Moro effusively, Ugo hastened to her side, his hand outstretched. Look, Ugo! We must hide these quickly, she said as she handed him the bag.

He glanced inside, then grabbed her and kissed her. Our fortune is made! he whispered. He took the jewels and disappeared upstairs.

Caterina walked to the front of the shop, happily calculating their riches. The hangers-on at the court were laughing and conversing at the rear of the parade, preening in brightly-colored silks and velvets they could ill afford. Once, she was one of them. Wearing most of her savings on her body, and secretly proud that she was no longer a homeless, pregnant girl, disowned by her father when she found herself with child by Niccolò Machiavelli.

She had come a long way since then. Now, she was respectable, with a small fortune in her pocket, and more with her bankers. But of late, she took little pleasure in life. And she no longer had pride, or pretty clothes. Or her daughter.

Caterina was determined to give Nicola choices she herself had lacked. Her daughter would never have to hide her past, or go hungry, or marry for money. She would not have to wear mousy colors to hide herself, or stand on the side of the street, watching ladies without education or beauty strutting like the peacocks in Il Moro’s gardens.

Suddenly, Caterina’s heart contracted painfully in her chest. She stepped backward into the shop and leaned against the wall. Could it be him? The short, slender courtier joking with a priest had the body and gait of Niccolò Machiavelli. But as he got closer, she could see his face and hear his laugh-- both unfamiliar. No, it was not him.

Eight years now, and she still colored like a maiden every time she saw a man who looked like Niccolò. Would she never forget him?

What is wrong, Caterina? asked Ugo, now joining her.

Caterina smiled up at him. I am just tired.

We have been on our feet for a long time. Come and have something to eat, he directed.

Following him to their apartment, Caterina thanked God that she had married a good man, and wished she could love him as she should.

Chapter 3—A Machiavellian Beginning

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Convent of San Sisto,

Rome, December 1497

Nicola Machiavelli watched intently from the front of the church as the white-habited Dominican sisters filed back into their private quarters from the nun’s choir above the rear door. For weeks, she had been hoping for a glimpse of Sister Annaluisa, her friend and teacher, who was missing. Lucrezia Borgia was watching the nuns, too. Did she know Sister Annaluisa well enough to be looking for her?

Lost completely in thoughts of the absent nun, Nicola ignored a persistent whisper from the next pew. Then La Greca’s stick stung the back of her hand.

The lay nun’s lovely face was angry. "Nicola, when will you learn to pay attention? The maestro is here to see you. Make him your curtesy."

With a last glance at the nun’s choir—still no Sister Annaluisa—Nicola turned to curtsey to the large male presence in the aisle next to her pew, ignoring her smarting hand.

Are you the daughter of Niccolò Machiavelli of Florence? he asked in a booming voice.

Startled, she looked up at him. Si. Who are you? Do you come from my father? Is he coming to visit me?

Nicola! I am sorry, Maestro. She is like a dog on a bone. Always questions. We are trying to teach her which ones are mannerly, and which ones are not, but. . . La Greca shrugged her shoulders.

Ignoring La Greca, Nicola memorized the face of the big, beardless man who looked like the fresco of Pontius Pilate at the back of the church, but in a bright blue tunic, black hosen, and floppy brown hat that looked like a fig. The odor of sweat and horses clinging to his clothes overpowered the spicy scent of incense, lingering from mass.

I do not come from your father, he said. I come from your aunt."

I have an aunt? Her voice was loud, even to her own ears. She shot a reproachful look at La Greca, who gestured back, commanding silence.

Yes, you have an aunt. Very far away, in Milan. Now take her letter, and go answer it, La Greca snapped.

The man handed Nicola a letter sealed with red wax. Nicola Machiavelli, Convent of San Sisto, Rome was written across the front in a sprawling hand.

"She asked me to give this to you. If you want to reply, I need it soon. ‘Tis a three week journey back to Milan and I need to leave as soon possible. Is there somewhere I can water my mules, Suora?"

Of course, Maestro. Go, child! Quickly!

Rubbing her hurt hand, Nicola trotted through the side door of the church, ignoring the other black-clad students who clustered there under the frescoes of martyred saints, looking down on her like a flock of crows. As she crunched the leaves on the flagstone path to Girl’s House, she opened the brown wax seal of the first letter she had received in her eleven years of life, with trembling hands. Who could this aunt be? Sister to her dead mother? Or sister to her powerful Florentine father, who left her at San Sisto when she was three, and never came back?

After separating the seal from the paper, she read:

Carissima Nicola,

I write quickly having just learned that Maestro Luca is leaving for Rome. This letter is long delayed—please forgive me. Many a time I considered a messenger, but they are untrustworthy. And, I feared it would cost too much of