13

ALEXANDER WAS STILL in mourning for Juan, and so it was that Duarte came to Cesare Borgia to suggest that once he had crowned the king of Naples he must visit the city of Florence, which had been turned upside down during the French invasion. For now, in order to cement the relationship between the city’s largest lawmaking body—the Signoria—and the Pope, to attempt to reinstate the Medici, and to assess the danger from the prophet Savonarola, someone trusted must be sent to evaluate the truth of the rumors that were reaching Rome.

“It is being said,” Duarte told Cesare, “that the Dominican friar, Savonarola, has become even more inflammatory and influential in these last months, and that he is turning the people of Florence against the Pope—unless there are stringent reforms.” Alexander had already sent an interdict to Florence forbidding the friar from preaching if he planned to continue undermining the people’s faith in the papacy. He had ordered that Savonarola not preach again until he could make his way to Rome to speak with the Pope himself; he had even imposed sanctions on the merchants of Florence to prevent them from listening to the friar’s speeches. Yet nothing stopped the zealous prophet.

Piero Medici’s arrogance had alienated the citizens of Florence as well as the members of his court. And now from the pulpits and in the squares, Girolamo Savonarola’s inflammatory speeches against the Medici had the throngs of people in a fervor for reform. The growing power of the wealthy commoners, who resented the Medici and felt their money entitled them to a voice in the affairs of Florence, added to the clamor and threatened to undermine the power of the Pope.

Cesare smiled. “Can you guarantee, my friend, that I myself will not be slaughtered if I visit Florence? They may wish to make an example of me. I have heard it said that according to the prophet and the citizens of Florence, I am almost as evil as the Holy Father.”

“You have friends there, as well as enemies,” Duarte said. “And even some allies. The brilliant orator Machiavelli is one. During this time of weakness in the papacy, a sharp eye is needed to separate the true from the false dangers to the Borgia family.”

“I appreciate your concern, Duarte,” Cesare said. “And if I am able, you have my word, I will visit Florence when I have finished in Naples.”

“The hat of a cardinal will protect you,” Duarte said. “Even from one as zealous as the prophet. And it might serve us to hear directly of what he is accusing the Pope, so that we may properly refute it.”

Now, fearing that with the loss of the ruling Medici family, and the election of a new Signoria, the Pope would be in greater danger, Cesare consented to go to Florence to see how he could alter the situation to Rome’s advantage.

“As soon as possible,” Cesare said, “I will do as you ask.”

In Florence, Niccolò Machiavelli had just returned from Rome, where he had gone as an emissary for the Signoria to investigate the murder of Juan Borgia.

Machiavelli stood in the enormous room of the Palazzo della Signoria, surrounded by extraordinary tapestries and priceless paintings. Giottos, Botticellis and many other treasures donated by the late Lorenzo the Magnificent decorated the room.

Sitting in a large red velvet chair among the eight members of the Signoria, and fidgeting nervously, the aging president listened intently as Machiavelli prepared to report what he had discovered.

All of the members dreaded the prospect of what they would discover, about both Florence and themselves. For though they were often impressed by this young man’s ability to present an argument, they were also concerned by the degree of concentration they must maintain in order to fully understand his presentation. They could not rest their eyes for a moment.

Machiavelli was slightly built; he looked even younger than his twenty-five years. Now, with his body dramatically wrapped in a long black cloak, he paced up and down in front of them as he spoke. “All of Rome believes that it was Cesare Borgia who murdered his own brother. But I do not. The Pope himself may believe it, but still I disagree. Certainly Cesare Borgia had a motive, and we all know the relationship between the brothers was at the very least strained. It is said they nearly fought a duel on the night of the murder. But still I say no.”

The president waved his withered hand impatiently. “I don’t care a Tuscan fig what Rome thinks, young man. In Florence we make up our own minds. You were sent to assess the situation, not to bring back gossip that could be heard on any Roman street.”

Machiavelli remained unflustered by the president’s attack. With a sly smile, he continued. “I do not believe Cesare Borgia killed his brother, Excellency. There are many others who had strong motives. The Orsini, for one, who are still bitter over the death of Virginio and the attack on their fortresses. Giovanni Sforza, due to the divorce proceedings over the Pope’s daughter, Lucrezia.”

“Hurry, young man,” the president said. “Or I shall die of advanced age before you finish your presentation.”

Machiavelli didn’t flinch. He spoke passionately, though he had been interrupted. “There is the duke of Urbino, Guido Feltra, who was imprisoned in the dungeons of the Orsini due to the captain general’s incompetence—and left there for months, for due to his greed, Juan Borgia would not pay the ransom. And let us not overlook the Spanish commander de Córdoba, who was robbed of both the money and the glory of the conquest of the Orsini. But perhaps more than any other, there is the Count Mirandella. His fourteen-year-old daughter was seduced and used by Juan, who immediately afterward boasted of it to the crowds in the public square. You can understand a father’s shame. And it is his palace that is just opposite the site on the Tiber where Juan Borgia was thrown into the river.”

The president began to doze, and Machiavelli raised his voice to seize his attention. “But there are still more enemies . . . Cardinal Ascanio Sforza could have done it, for his majordomo was slain just the week before. And let us not overlook—the man whose wife he had seduced . . . ” He stopped in a well-choreographed pause, then continued in a voice one had to strain to hear: “His younger brother, Jofre . . . ”

“Enough, enough,” the president said, annoyed. Then, with a clarity remarkable for his age, he argued, “We are concerned only about the threat to Florence from Rome. Juan Borgia, the captain general of the papal army, has been murdered. There is the question of who has murdered him. Some say his brother, Cesare, may be guilty. It is reasonable to assume that if Cesare Borgia is guilty, Florence is in danger. For if this is the truth, he is a patriot filled with ambition, and it follows that he will one day attempt to claim Florence as his own. To put it simply, young man, what we find necessary to know is the answer to the question, ‘Did Cesare Borgia murder his brother?’ ”

Machiavelli shook his head. Then, in a voice both impassioned and sincere, he argued, “I do not believe he is guilty, Your Excellency. And I will state my reasons. The evidence shows that Juan Borgia was stabbed nine times. . . . in the back. That is not the style of Cesare Borgia. He is a warrior, and a strong one, who requires only one thrust to an enemy. And for a man such as Cesare Borgia to claim victory, the battle must be face-to-face. Midnight murders in dark alleys and bodies tossed in the Tiber are actions not consistent with his nature. It is this above all else that persuades me of his innocence.”

For months after Juan’s death, Alexander repeatedly fell into deep bouts of depression. When grief took hold of him, he would retreat to his chambers and refuse to see anyone, or even conduct papal business. Then, once again inspired, he would emerge from his quarters filled with energy, determined to proceed with his mission of reforming the church.

Finally, Alexander called for his chief clerk, Plandini, and dictated his request that the commission of cardinals be convened to bring him their advisements.

Alexander called Duarte and confessed that reform could not stop at the church alone. That he was ready to reform his own life, and that of Rome as well. He needed no authorization, for in this matter he would need only divine guidance.

Certainly Rome needed reform. In all areas of commerce, fraud and theft were common. Robbery, lechery, homosexuality, and pedophilia were rampant on the streets, in every shop and alley. Even cardinals and bishops paraded through the streets with their favorite young catamites dressed in lavish oriental costumes.

Sixty-eight hundred prostitutes roamed through the streets of the city, causing a new medical as well as a moral threat to the people. Syphilis was becoming prevalent; having begun in Naples, it was spread by the French troops, moved northward to Bologna, and was then carried by the army across the Alps. The wealthier Romans, infected with the “French pox,” paid olive oil dealers vast sums of money to allow them to soak for hours in the barrels of oil in order to relieve the pain of their sores. Later, that same oil was sold in fashionable shops as “pure extra-virgin” olive oil. Such travesty!

But Alexander knew he must change the practices of the church itself, and for that he needed the work of the committee. The Holy Roman Catholic Church was a large and wealthy enterprise with an enormous number of accounts. The chancellery alone sent out more than ten thousand letters a year. The cardinal in charge of the financial branch, the Apostolic Camera, was responsible for paying thousands of bills, as well as collecting payments in ducats, florins, and other currencies. The large staff of the curia, which was growing more each year, was salaried, and there were valuable offices to be sold and traded, both legitimate and otherwise.

Yet much had to be considered. Over the years, both the Pope and the cardinals vied for control. Reform would mean the power of the Pope would be weakened while the power of the college of cardinals would be strengthened. This had been the cause of tension between them for over a century.

And so it stood to reason that one of the areas of disagreement would be the number of cardinals ordained. By flooding the college with family members, a Pope could increase his own power. He could, in fact, through them, control the future papal elections, guarantee and protect a family’s interest, and increase its wealth.

Of course, limiting the number of cardinals any one Pope could appoint would give each existing cardinal more individual power, as well as greater revenue—for the benefices of the college of cardinals itself were shared equally.

And so it was that five weeks after its work had begun, the committee that Alexander had commissioned to investigate reform gathered in the Great Hall of the Vatican to report their findings and offer their recommendations to the Pope.

Cardinal Grimani, a short, blond Venetian, rose to speak for the group. He spoke carefully with a well-modulated voice. “We have explored the suggestions of reform from previous papal committees, and considered those we feel are necessary at this time. We will begin with the reforms for the cardinals. It has been decided that we must reduce our earthly pleasures. We must limit the number of dinners at which meat is served. The Bible must be read at each meal . . . ”

Alexander waited, for there was nothing startling here.

Cardinal Grimani continued by proposing to curb all simony and gifts of church property, as well as limiting the income of cardinals—though not the personal income from private or family sources, only from certain church benefices. Since most of the cardinals were wealthy, this would cause no hardship.

Ah, but then Grimani’s recommendations became more aggressive, as Alexander knew they would. “There must be limits to the powers given the Pope,” Grimani began softly. “The cardinals will have approval over the appointment of bishops. The Pope is forbidden to sell or barter any administrative offices without the consent of the college of cardinals. Upon the death of any cardinal now in service, no new cardinal will be appointed.”

Alexander frowned as he listened.

Grimani, his voice lowered now so that the Pope was forced to lean forward and strain to hear, said, “No prince of the church should have more than eighty servants, no more than thirty horses, no jugglers, jesters, or musicians. None should employ young boys as valets. And whatever their rank, all clergy must give up entertaining concubines, or all benefices would be lost.”

The Pope now fingered his rosary beads as he sat listening impassively. These were worthless suggestions, most adding nothing to the good of the soul or the good of the church. Still, he remained silent.

When he finished at last, Grimani asked courteously, “Does the Holy Father have any questions?”

Alexander’s fervor for reform had diminished over the last month; now, having heard the commission’s proposal, it had disappeared completely.

The Pope rose from his throne and faced the committee. “I have nothing to say at the moment, Grimani. But of course I wish to thank you all for your diligence. I will now study the reports carefully, and my chief clerk, Plandini, will notify the commission when I am prepared to discuss the matters presented.”

Alexander made the sign of the cross, blessed the committee, and quickly turned and left the hall.

One of the other Venetian cardinals, Sangiorgio, approached Grimani, who was still standing at the lectern. “Well, Grimani,” he whispered, “I doubt that we should rush to make arrangements for a return trip to Rome. I suspect the reform suggested by the Pope is ready to be given last rites.”

Back in his quarters, Alexander called for Duarte Brandao. He was sipping a goblet of strong wine when Duarte entered, and he insisted Duarte sit so that they could discuss the afternoon’s events.

Duarte accepted the wine offered to him, and sat attentively.

“It is unbelievable,” Alexander said, “that human nature consistently goes against itself for lofty principles.”

Duarte asked, “And so you found nothing worth considering in the committee’s report?”

Alexander stood and began to pace, an amused expression on his face. “Outrageous, Duarte. Their suggestions go against all earthly pleasures. To be moderate is one thing, but to be an ascetic? What joy will God feel if we feel none?”

“Of their recommendations, Your Holiness, which did you find the most objectionable?”

Alexander stood and faced Duarte. “My friend, they suggested no ‘concubines.’ As Pope I cannot marry, and therefore my dear Julia would have no place in my bed or at my side. I could never allow that. And even more treacherous, no properties for my children? No entertainment for the citizens? It is nonsense, Duarte, pure nonsense, and I find it worrisome that our cardinals have become so indifferent to the needs of our people.”

Duarte smiled. “Am I to assume, then, that you will not accept the suggestions of the committee?”

Alexander sat again, more relaxed. “I must have been mad with grief, my friend. For a reform of the church in this way would distance a Pope from his children, his love, and his people. And therefore, fewer souls will be saved. We will wait one more month, but then all talk of reform must cease.”

Duarte rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So you were surprised by the report?”

Alexander shook his head. “Horrified, my dear friend, horrified.”

In the Roman countryside, rumors grew like weeds. And it was said that Providence had exacted the price of Juan’s life because the wicked Borgia brothers, as well as the Pope, had each bedded Lucrezia.

Giovanni Sforza had agreed to the divorce, but not graciously, and so he began to fight the rumors of the reasons for his annulment with his accusations of incest within the Borgia family. Not only had she slept with her brother, Cesare, he insisted, but also with her father, the Pope. The rumors were so scandalous that they enlivened the streets of Rome, and finally Florence as well. Savonarola began to preach with new fervor about the “evil that will befall the followers of the false Pope.”

Seemingly unfazed by all that was being said, Pope Alexander was considering a number of suitors for his daughter. Of all, Alfonso of Aragon, son of the king of Naples, seemed the most desirable.

Alfonso was a handsome young man, tall and blond, with a pleasant, easygoing manner. Like his sister, Sancia, he was illegitimate, but his father had agreed to make him duke of Bisceglie, to give him added income and status. Even more important, Alfonso’s family’s relationship to Ferdinand would unite the Pope and the Spanish king, giving Alexander a tactical advantage in his disputes with the barons and warlords south of Rome.

As Alexander made his plans for Lucrezia, young Perotto carried daily messages to her concerning the divorce proceeding and the ongoing marital negotiations between the Convent of San Sisto and the Vatican.

During this time, Lucrezia and the gentle Perotto became good friends. Each day they shared stories and music, and walked together through the convent gardens. He encouraged her to explore her freedom, for it was the first time in her life that she had not been under the domination of her father, and therefore could be herself.

Lucrezia, still so young, and the charming Perotto held hands and told secrets, and often after they had lunched together on the grass Perotto spent the afternoons weaving gaily colored flowers into Lucrezia’s long blond hair. She began to laugh, to come alive again, to feel young.

On the day Perotto delivered the announcement that Lucrezia was to return to the Vatican to take part in the ceremonial annulment of her marriage in front of the Roman Rota—the highest ecclesiastical court—she was beside herself with dread. As she held the parchment in her trembling hands, she began to weep. Perotto, who had by this time fallen deeply in love with Lucrezia—though he had not yet spoken of it to her—held her close to comfort her.

“What is it, my sweet?” he asked, breaking with his usual formality. “What could cause you such pain?”

She hung tight to him, her head buried in his shoulder. She had told no one except Cesare of her condition, but to be called upon to declare herself a virgin now seemed an impossible feat. If her father or anyone else discovered her true state, the new alliance with Prince Alfonso of the House of Aragon in Naples would be endangered; even worse, she and her brother could be put to death by their enemies, for they had put the papacy itself in danger.

And so it was that Lucrezia, having no one else to confide in, confessed to the young Perotto her predicament. And he, an honorable knight, suggested that rather than admit her relationship with her brother, she should claim that he, Perotto, was the father of her unborn child. There would still be some consequences for her action, but certainly not of the seriousness that a charge of incest would incur.

Lucrezia was both touched and frightened by his suggestion. “But Father will have you tortured, for to endanger the alliance he has planned will weaken his position in the Romagna. Of course the rumors are bad enough without proof, but now . . . ” and she patted her belly, and sighed.

“I am willing to give my life for you and for the church,” Perotto said simply. “I have no doubt that with the goodness of my intentions the Heavenly Father will reward me, no matter what the Holy Father decrees.”

“I must tell my brother the cardinal,” Lucrezia mused aloud.

Perotto with his even temper and good nature said, “Tell him what you feel you must, and I will suffer the consequence all true love must bear. For a gift of such wonder as I have known these past months is worth whatever it may cost.”

He bowed, and took leave of her. But not before she handed him a letter to deliver to her brother. “Make certain it is he who receives this message and only he, for you know the danger should it fall into anyone else’s hand.”

Perotto arrived in Rome, and immediately met with the Pope to inform him that Lucrezia was six months pregnant, and that he was the father of her baby. He begged the Pope’s forgiveness for the betrayal of his trust, and vowed to make amends in whatever way the Pope decreed.

Alexander listened intently to what Perotto had to say. He seemed puzzled for a moment, then became quiet; but to Perotto’s surprise he didn’t appear angry. He simply gave the young Spaniard orders. He instructed Perotto to speak to no one about the situation; there could be no exceptions. He explained that Lucrezia would remain in the convent, where she would bear the child assisted by those brides of Christ who had sworn allegiance to the church and therefore could be counted on to protect its secrets.

But what to do about the infant? Certainly Alfonso and his family must never know the truth. Nor should anyone else but Alexander, Lucrezia, and of course, Cesare. Even Jofre and Sancia could be in danger if this was discovered. And it was understood that even under torture Perotto would not betray this truth.

As Perotto was readying himself to take leave of the Pope, Alexander asked, “You have told no one about this, I assume?”

“Not a soul,” Perotto admitted. “For my love of your daughter has imposed its own silence upon my lips.”

Alexander embraced the young man then, and sent him on his way. “Take care,” he called after Perotto. “I appreciate your candor and your courage.”

After his visit to the Pope, Perotto stopped to see the cardinal to deliver the message from Lucrezia. Cesare paled as he read the parchment, then looked at Perotto with surprise. “What is the purpose of this admission?” he asked the young Spaniard.

Perotto, his guitar slung over his shoulder, smiled and said, “Love is its own reward.”

Cesare’s heart was racing. “Have you told anyone?”

Perotto nodded. “Only His Holiness . . . ”

Cesare maintained his composure with difficulty. “And his reaction?”

“He was quite gracious,” Perotto said.

Now Cesare was alarmed. He knew his father was most quiet when he was most angry. “Then go quickly to a place in the ghetto of Trastevere and remain hidden,” he told Perotto. “And if you have any regard for your life, make no further mention of this to anyone. I will consider what to do, and the moment I return from Naples I will call for you.”

Perotto bowed as he left the room, but Cesare called after him, “You are a noble soul, Perotto. Go with my blessings!”

In Rome Lucrezia rose before the twelve judges, seven months pregnant. And even disguised by her loose clothing, the change in her appearance was apparent. But she had made certain to tie her golden hair neatly back in a ribbon, and to scrub her rosy complexion clean. From her months spent in the convent, eating modestly, praying often, and sleeping many hours each night, she looked quite young and innocent.

On seeing her, three of the judges whispered and leaned in to confer. But the vice-chancellor, plump and puffy Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, now waved his hand to silence them. When he asked Lucrezia to speak, her speech, written by her brother Cesare, delivered in Latin, haltingly and with extreme modesty, was so effective that each of the cardinals found himself enchanted by the sweet young daughter of the Pope.

Still seated before them, as they conferred with each other, Lucrezia raised her linen handkerchief to her eyes and began to shed brokenhearted tears. “You will pardon me, Your Excellencies, if I may beg one more indulgence of you.” She lowered her head, and when she raised it again, to look at the cardinals, her eyes were still shiny with tears. “Please consider what my life will be, without babies to hold and care for. And will you sentence me to live without knowing the passion of a husband’s lovemaking? Would you impose upon me a curse that is not my own? I beg of you, in all your goodness and mercy, please spare my life by annulling this unfortunate marriage—that by its very nature must remain loveless.”

Not one objection was raised when Ascanio, turning to Lucrezia, pronounced her, loudly and firmly, “Femina intacta!” A virgin. By that evening, she was on her way back to the convent to await the birth of her baby.

When Perotto arrived at San Sisto to bring Lucrezia the news that her divorce was final, and that the negotiations for her marriage to Alfonso, duke of Bisceglie, had been concluded, she felt tears well up in her eyes.

“After the birth, my baby will be taken from me,” Lucrezia told Perotto sadly as they sat in the convent garden. “And I will not be permitted to see you again, for in a very short time I will again be married. So this is both a happy day and a sad day for me. On the one hand I am no longer married to a man I dislike, but on the other I will lose both my child and my dearest friend.”

Perotto put his arm around her to comfort and reassure her. “Until the day I reach the heavens, I will hold you in my heart.”

“And you in mine, my good friend,” she said.

As Cesare prepared to leave for Naples, he and Alexander met in the Pope’s quarters to discuss the situation of Lucrezia and her baby.

Cesare spoke first. “I believe, Father, I have solved the problem. Immediately after the birth, the infant can be brought to live in my apartments, since yours or Lucrezia’s are out of the question. I will issue a statement that the child is mine, and that the mother is a married courtesan whom I prefer not to name. They’ll believe that, for it suits the rumors of my character.”

Alexander looked at his son with admiration and smiled broadly.

Cesare asked, “Why are you smiling, Father? Is that so funny not to be believable?”

The Pope’s eyes shone with amusement. “It is quite funny,” he said, “and believable. I am smiling because I, too, have a reputation that fits the situation. And today I signed a bull—not yet made public—referring to the child as the “Infans Romanus” and declaring that I am the father. Also by an unnamed woman.”

Alexander and Cesare embraced, both still laughing.

And Alexander agreed that to declare Cesare the father of the child was a better solution. He then promised that on the day of the baby’s birth, he would issue another bull, declaring Cesare the father of “Infans Romanus.” And the original bull declaring Alexander as the father would be hidden away in a Vatican drawer.

On the very day that Lucrezia gave birth to her baby, a healthy baby boy, Alexander had the infant taken immediately from San Sisto to Cesare’s home while Lucrezia was left at the convent to recover. It was agreed that later Lucrezia would claim him as her nephew, and raise him as her own. But there remained a dangerous loose end for Alexander—one more detail that required careful handling.

Though he felt some regret, he knew what he must do. He sent for Don Michelotto. An hour before midnight, the short, powerfully built man with a chest like a barrel stood at the door of his study.

The Pope embraced Michelotto as a brother and told him of the crisis that had befallen them.

“It is the young man who states he is the father of this child,” the Pope said. “A fine young Spaniard, a noble young man . . . and yet . . . ”

Don Michelotto looked at Alexander and placed his fingers to his own lips. “Not another word need be spoken,” he said. “I am at the service of the Holy Father. And if this good soul is as fine as he appears, then there is no question that the Heavenly Father will greet him with great joy.”

“I have considered exiling him,” Alexander said. “For he has been a loyal servant. But there is no way to know what temptation in life will force his tongue loose, and cause the fall of our family.”

Don Michelotto’s expression was one of sympathy. “It is your duty to keep him from temptation, and it is mine to help in any way I am able.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Alexander said. And then, hesitating, he added, “Be as kind as possible, for he truly is a good lad, and to have been seduced by the wiles of a woman is understandable.”

Don Michelotto bowed to kiss the ring of the Pope and then took his leave, assuring him that the task was as good as done.

Michelotto slipped into the night and rode with haste across the fields and out into the countryside, over rough paths and hills, until he reached the dunes at Ostia. From there he could see the small farm, with its tiny patches of odd vegetation, its rows and rows of rootlike vegetables, and a number of beds filled with strange herbs and tall bushes laden with purple and black berries and exotic-looking flowers.

Michelotto rode around to the back behind the small cottage. There he found the old woman doubled over, resting heavily on a hawthorn stick. Seeing Michelotto, she raised it, and squinted her eyes. “Noni,” he called, soothingly, “I’ve come for some medicine.”

“Go away,” the old woman said. “I don’t know you.”

“Noni,” he said, coming closer. “The clouds are thick, tonight. I am sent by the Holy Father . . . ”

She smiled then, a wrinkled mask. “Ah, so it is you, Miguel. You’ve grown older . . . ”

“It’s true, Noni,” he said, chuckling. “It’s true. And I’ve come to ask for your help to save another soul.”

Standing next to her now, towering over her, he reached for her wicker basket to carry it, but she pulled it back. “Is this an evil man you wish to send to hell, or a good man who stands in the way of the church?”

Don Michelotto’s eyes were soft when he said, “He is a man who in any case will see the face of God.”

The old woman nodded, and beckoned to him to follow her into the cottage. There she studied several of the herbs hanging on her wall, and finally carefully chose one wrapped with the sheerest silk. “This will place him in a gentle dreamless sleep,” she said. “He will not struggle.” Before she handed it to Michelotto, she sprinkled it with holy water. “It is a blessing,” she said.

As the old woman watched him ride away, she bowed her head and made the sign of the cross upon her chest.

In the ghetto of Trastevere, the owner of a dingy tavern had difficulty waking a drunken patron at closing time. The young man’s blond head was resting face down on his arms and he had been in that position since his companion left an hour before. The proprietor tried to shake the man awake, more vigorously this time, and his head fell from his arms. The tavern owner, seeing this, pulled back in horror. The young man’s face was bloated and blue, with purple lips and bulging eyes, blood red, but most shocking was his tongue, so swollen it protruded from his mouth, making his handsome face that of a gargoyle.

Within minutes the police arrived. The tavern owner remembered little of the young man’s companion, just that he was short and barrel-chested. He could be any of a thousand Roman citizens.

But not the young man. Several citizens of the city identified him. His name was Pedro Calderon, and he was called “Perotto.”