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would dine in perfect safety. If I had any real confidence in my own skills, the death from as-yet-unknown causes of one kitchen boy would not deter me from testing them.
    The pork was succulent, crisp-skinned and moist. The apricot sauce was a perfect accompaniment. I took only a small piece so as not to disturb the arrangement on the platter overly much and swallowed it quickly. So, too, did I taste everything else intended for His Holiness, including his wine. Truly the man ate well. A hush had fallen over the kitchen. Every eye was on me. No one moved, and few seemed even to breathe.
    When I was done, I cleaned my fingers on a cloth while I did a quick assessment: no burning in the mouth or throat; no tingling in the extremities; no cramping in the stomach or lower down; no blurred vision. Granted, certain poisons could be slow-acting, but they required multiple doses administered over time. Whatever had killed the kitchen boy, it was not in Borgia’s dinner.
    “Superb, as always,” I said. “My compliments, maestro. You have outdone yourself.”
    The poor man almost sagged in relief but caught himself in time and inclined his head to me instead. We both knew that had poison been found in Borgia’s food, things would have gone very badly for the maestro and everyone else who worked in the kitchens. But had it not been found—had it slipped through somehow and actually reached Borgia—that would have been even worse, for therein lay the difference between the hope of a swift death and the certainty of prolonged agony that makes death a blessing.
    Not exactly the most cheerful atmosphere in which to work, but every job has its drawbacks, and Borgia paid very well.
    The pages hurried off, and activity in the kitchen returned to normal. I stepped outside, followed by Vittoro, who was tight-lipped and glaring out of concern for me but said nothing because, as we both knew full well, I had done nothing not in keeping with the responsibilities of my position.
    “I’ll see that the boy is buried,” he said. Under the circumstances, it was the wisest course. To do otherwise would invite speculation. Still, I regretted not having the opportunity to determine what had killed him.
    Suddenly weary, I nodded. With the immediate crisis passed, all I wanted was to wash off the dirt of the road and go to bed. I managed only the first. Having patted the last drop of apricot sauce from his lips, the Pope wasted no time summoning his poisoner.
     

 
    3
     
    In that October of Anno Domino 1493, Christ’s Vicar was sixty-two years old, still a bull of a man with a barrel chest, strong limbs, heavy-lidded eyes, and a full, sensual mouth. Of late, the demands of the office he had sought with such unrelenting ambition had taken a toll, but he remained, as Renaldo had described him, a force of nature possessed of so indefatigable a will as to send his opponents scrambling for shelter as though from the burning sun.
    “My queen is in danger,” he said as I entered his private chamber. He did not bother to look up from the chessboard, certain as he was that only the person he had summoned would be allowed to enter past the cordon of condottieri keeping watch. Lush tapestries hung on the walls, golden candelabras provided light, the air bore the scent of newly laid rushes, and a cheerful fire burned nearby. Borgia’s papers were spread out over the inlaid chestnut desk he traveled with, but his secretaries were nowhere in evidence.
    “I have no skill at this game,” I said as I approached. In fact, my father had taught me to play chess passably well, but I had persevered only to please him. Since his death, I found the exercise pointless.
    “Take a look all the same,” Borgia said as he straightened.
    I obeyed reluctantly. He was right, of course; his queen was under attack. But the remedy seemed obvious.
    “Take the bishop,” I said.
    “You mean the cardinal, don’t you? Della Rovere is a thorn I would pluck from my