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that I already possessed a bed, as he would have liked to provide me with one—recall that he was shy of eighteen years at the time and still very taken with his manhood—made do with extravagant rugs in the Moorish design, so glorious that I hesitated to spread them over the floors as they were intended. Only the very rich customarily enjoyed such luxury, but I must admit that every morning and night when my bare feet sank into them I spared a grateful thought for my sometime lover.
    For myself, I found the murals of bucolic gods and goddesses already decorating the walls to be pleasant enough, but that did not prevent me from acquiring several small works by the renowned Pinturicchio—recently hired by Borgia to decorate his new apartments in the Vatican, and by my beloved Botticelli, whose work had fascinated me since I first encountered it adorning the Sistine Chapel. I indulged my passion for books when and where I could, determined as I was to add to the library my father had left me. I even added sparingly to my wardrobe in recognition of my status and because Lucrezia nagged me mercilessly until I did so.
    On the balcony, I planted various flowers useful to my trade. With the coming of spring, the iron railings overflowed with blooming foxglove, oleander, aconite, and more. On occasion, I amused myself wondering if my neighbors ever noticed what I cultivated. Those same neighbors kept their distance from me, although not, I think, solely because of my profession. The building tended to attract residents who, for one reason or another, valued their privacy. I asked no questions of them and they posed none to me.
    While I waited for water to heat in a copper basin set over a brazier, I stripped off my clothes. The hem of my overdress was encrusted with mud, and small leaves and twigs bore evidence of the frantic scramble Sofia and I had waged while escaping the villa. Reluctant as I was to encourage gossip, I folded the garments away carefully at the bottom of the wardrobe, intending to see to them myself when I had time.
    Having washed and drunk a restorative tea of willow, chamomile, and nettle, I dressed in a fresh shift and a simple overdress of light blue linen, both cut just fashionably enough to assuage Lucrezia. Despite her best efforts to outfit me more modishly, I clung to sensible clothes that would not impede my work. Not for me the absurdly long sleeves, tight bodices, pointed shoes, and ever more elaborate headdresses that seemed designed to ensure that a woman could not take a step or lift a hand without difficulty.
    As I readied myself, I considered what to do next. I would be expected at the Vatican but it was early yet and unless Borgia asked for me directly, my absence was unlikely to be noticed for at least a few hours. If questioned later, I could always say that I was inspecting the provisions, gifts, offerings, and outright bribes intended for His Holiness that flowed like a river at floodtide into the Vatican every day. In point of fact, a great deal of my time was spent doing exactly that.
    You may wonder why, in the aftermath of the attack on Lux, I did not seek out Borgia at once and entreat his protection. Do not think the omission signified a failure of trust, for I had absolute confidence in my employer; I knew he would always and unfailingly act in his own interest. When that happened to coincide with mine, bene. When it did not, I preferred to rely on myself alone.
    Accordingly, I set off across the river to the Campo dei Fiori, the city’s most important market and the place where it is said everyone in Rome eventually comes, if only for the frequent executions. As always, the narrow, cobblestoned streets of the Campo were crowded with shoppers taking advantage of the Church’s dispensation, effective on all but a handful of holy days, allowing the sale of goods deemed to be “essential.” But in a change from the previous year, there were fewer thieves and correspondingly less