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sash of a captain of the papal guard. Vittoro Romano was in his fifties, still straight-backed and strong-shouldered despite a rough-and-tumble life, whose saturnine nature lulled the unwary into believing that he took little notice of anything around him. I knew better, having observed him through all my years growing up in Borgia’s household. Since I had assumed my father’s duties and sworn to take vengeance on his killer, Vittoro and I had become friends. I counted on him to tell me anything I might need to know, and he did the same with me. Only rarely did we disappoint each other, and never without good reason.
    “Francesca,” he said, speaking quietly so that we could not be overheard. His manner was such that we might have been discussing the weather, mercifully drier than of late, the rain holding off until just then, when the first dank drops began to fall.
    “There has been an incident.” Vittoro took my arm as he spoke, guiding me around the back of the inn. When we were alone, he said, “A kitchen boy was found dead an hour ago.”
    Any sudden mortality within the Pope’s household was always brought to my attention on the chance, however remote, that it might signal a danger to His Holiness. Thus far, every death I had investigated had proved to be from natural causes, but I did not presume that that would always be so.
    Vittoro had arranged for the body to be placed in a wagon drawn up along the far edge of a field, where it was not likely to attract notice. As we approached, two men-at-arms emerged from behind nearby trees. Seeing their captain, they stood aside for us to pass.
    “I have cautioned those who are aware of the boy’s death not to speak of it to anyone,” Vittoro said.
    That would buy us a little time, but not much. Climbing into the back of the wagon, I paused for a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The rain had begun to fall more heavily. It splattered on the canvas covering strung over the wagon bed. The boy was laid out on a plank of wood supported at either end by a crate of supplies. He was naked.
    “Who removed his clothes?” I asked.
    “I did,” Vittoro said. “I wore gloves.” After a moment, he added, “There is plague in Rome, or so it is said.”
    He spoke calmly, but I understood his dread. If it was plague, we could all be dead within days, if not hours. Quickly, I lifted the boy’s arm and looked under it. The telltale buboes from which the scourge took its name were absent both there and in the groin. That did not absolutely rule out the possibility of plague, but it did make it unlikely.
    Nor was there any sign that a contact poison had killed the boy. Had there been, I would have found signs of a pinprick rash and overall bluing of the skin where the poison had touched him.
    “Did he vomit or soil himself?” I asked.
    “I found no evidence of either.”
    That ruled out many poisons, though not by any means all. Steeling myself, I began at the top of his head and moved my gaze slowly down over every inch of his body. When I had finished with the front, Vittoro and I turned him carefully so that I could examine the back. There were no obvious signs of wounds, punctures, or other injuries. The boy’s skin where it had been exposed to the sun was tanned, the rest of him being pale enough for me to make out the blue etching of his veins just below the surface. His hair was brown, as were his eyes beneath the film of death when I lifted the lids to examine them. I judged him to be about thirteen, which made him a little tall for his age and gracefully built.
    We turned him again. Fortunately, the rigor that follows death had not yet set in so it was not necessary to break the jaw. I found no foam in the mouth or around the lips. Inhaling, I observed that the boy had eaten garlic not long before his death; hardly unusual, as it is greatly favored not only for its flavor but as a protection against illness. Slipping a hand beneath the bodice of