The Family - Mario Puzo [45]
“I will guard him and myself,” Cesare said. “I trust that you will restrain my brother Juan in Spain. He must do nothing to alienate King Ferdinand and thus endanger our safety with the French king.”
“Your brother acts under my orders only,” Alexander said. “And my orders will always be to protect you. After all, you, my son, hold in your hand the future of the Borgia.”
“I will do my best for you always,” Cesare said. “And for the church.”
Knowing that by afternoon he would be taken hostage and forced to leave Rome, Cesare left the Vatican before dawn and rode far into the countryside. He had only one purpose in mind.
After riding for quite some time, over hills and through a forest alive with the rustling of animals and the hooting of owls, he reached the outskirts of the small village just as the sun was rising to push away the shadows of night. His horse was sweaty from the speed and strain of the journey.
When he came upon the small stone cottage, he called out. “Noni, Noni,” he shouted, but no one answered. As far as he could see, the fields were empty. He rode around the back.
There an old woman, nearly doubled forward by age, rested heavily on a hawthorn stick. She shuffled as she walked through the garden, a wicker basket on one arm filled with freshly picked herbs and flowers. For a moment she stopped and stood with her head bent so low she almost toppled over; then slyly she raised her head and looked around in all directions. But through her clouded eyes she didn’t see him. She placed her basket on the wet ground, picked one more small bundle of herbs, and placed them carefully on the very top of the flowers. She cast her gaze upward and crossed herself. Then, as though confused, she shuffled off, her sandals dragging through the mud.
“Noni,” Cesare called to the old woman again as he rode up closer to her. “Noni!”
The woman stopped when she saw him and quickly raised her hawthorn stick to strike. But then through squinting eyes she recognized him. Only then did she smile. “Come down, my boy,” she said, her voice strained with age and emotion. “Come here and let me touch you.”
Cesare dismounted and put his arms around the old woman, holding her gently for fear her brittle bones would break.
“What can I do for you, my son?” she asked.
“I need your help,” he told her. “An herb that will put a large man to sleep for many hours, but do him no harm. It must be tasteless, and colorless as well.”
The old woman cackled and reached up to touch Cesare’s cheek affectionately. “A good boy. You’re a good boy,” she repeated. “No poison? Not like your father . . . ” she muttered. Then she cackled again, and her face wrinkled like a thin sheet of brown parchment.
Cesare had known Noni all his life. It was rumored throughout Rome that she had been his father’s wet nurse in Spain, and that Alexander felt such affection for her that he had brought her to Rome and provided her with this small cottage in the countryside and a garden in which to grow her herbs.
For as long as anyone could remember she had lived alone, yet no one had disturbed her—not even the night bandits or gangs of unruly street vandals who sometimes wandered out into the countryside to sack and pillage the weak and helpless villagers. It was a wonder that she had survived so long. And yet, if other rumors were to be believed, Noni had far greater protection than even the Holy Father. For it was also said that in the dark of night, a strange howling could often be heard coming from her house—and not only when the moon was full. And this much Cesare knew to be true: never did she have to hunt or shop to eat. For dead birds and small animals seemed