The Family - Mario Puzo [83]
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.”
14
ON THE DAY Cesare Borgia crowned the king of Naples, he received an urgent message from his sister. It was brought by her secret messenger and handed to him when he was walking alone on the castle grounds. He was to meet her at Silverlake within a few days, it said, for she must speak to him before either of them could return to Rome.
Cesare spent that evening at the lavish coronation celebration. All the aristocracy of Naples was there to meet him, including many beautiful women, fascinated by his good looks and easy charm, who surrounded him in spite of his cardinal’s robes.
He visited with his brother Jofre and sister-in-law Sancia, and noticed that Jofre seemed to be walking with a different, surer step since Juan’s death. He