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He would give a small portion of his spoils to his priests, to thank them for their intercessions, a greater portion to the pope, Alexander VI, thus currying favor with the blessed father, and the largest portion to his cousin, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, to expedite the marriage agreements with the Borgias. Giovanni’s first wife had died a couple of years ago, and he wanted Lucrezia to be his second.
It would be an excellent alliance. She was the daughter of the pope, albeit from the wrong side of the bed, and well educated. He’d been told she was interested in many things, and her greatest love: falcons and the hunt.
Giovanni had seen many things, but he’d never forgotten the man he’d met in Hungary, a man who carried the falcon on his fist. His name was Zoltan Szabo, and he’d allied himself with Giovanni, provided him soldiers. He was a pale-skinned man with long black hair. He’d spoken Italian, but with a thick accent, and ate his meat raw and bloody, like his bird. The two men had hunted together, nothing unusual there, but the relationship Zoltan had with the bird had given Giovanni pause. It was an eerie sort of communication, had made Giovanni wonder exactly what the two shared. He’d never spoken of it to Zoltan. He supposed he’d been afraid to. At the memory, Giovanni crossed himself. He hoped Lucrezia’s love of falconry wouldn’t lead her to the unnatural. Or to eating raw meat.
He prayed she would give him many children and hoped the circumstance of her own birth would allow her more easily to accept his sons, born of his mistress, not his wife. The twins would be old enough to ride now. He looked forward to seeing them.
The ride was hard, the days long, and at night, the soldiers would sit around the fire and tell stories. Giovanni was especially fascinated about a tale of a powerful Hungarian prince who drank blood. It was sacrilege to listen to such things, but he couldn’t help himself. He listened long into the night, and when he slept, his dreams were nightmares of men in armor with fangs the size of wolves, who could not be slain, no matter how many times he struck them with his sword. They carried falcons on their fists and spoke with heavy accents.
The next day, unsettled and eager to be gone, Giovanni hurried his groom to saddle his horse. The groom, a lad named Franco, nervous, trying to please his master, left the cinch too loose, and as Giovanni mounted, the saddle pulled to the side, dropping both Giovanni and the saddlebags to the ground. Giovanni was cursing his groom when he saw a book of papers wrapped in a white cloth slide out of the saddlebag.
“Careful, Franco. I’m planning to give it to my new bride when we wed.”
Franco whispered, “I looked at it, sire. It is a fine book. Will she be able to read it?”
“Of course she will. She speaks many languages.”
Franco scuffed his shoes in the dirt, then he leaned close. “Sire, I must tell you, I’ve heard the pages. They speak, at night, from your saddlebags, to me. They tell me to do things.”
Giovanni clouted Franco’s head. “You’ve been drinking the ale again, haven’t you? Do not say such ridiculous things.”
“Sire, forgive me, but truly, the words they speak are not ridiculous.”
What was this all about? Giovanni said, “Don’t say such things to the rest of the men. They might not understand, may decide to drop you off a cliff.”
And Franco bowed his head, nodded.
But that night, when the fire was low, Franco heard the words again, whispers in his head, growing louder and more insistent. He went the saddlebag, put his ear against the worn leather, and the pages spoke.
He couldn’t understand the words, exactly, but the whispers told him many things, including listing the names of the men who were planning to murder his master and steal the treasure for themselves.
Franco took up a sword and went to where three of the men still sat beside the fire. The nearest man was almost too easy to kill, the sword slid through his neck like butter. The second and the
third were also easy. The fourth, though, alerted by the crack of a branch under Franco’s foot, jumped to his feet. His death was loud and roused the rest of the camp. The fifth ran from Franco, screaming. The rest of the soldiers wrestled the sword away from Franco. Giovanni, asleep farthest away from the fire, was awakened by the fighting.
Franco was on his knees by the fire, hands bound behind him.
Giovanni looked at the four dead soldiers, then back at Franco. “What have you done?”
Franco raised his eyes to Giovanni’s face. He whispered, “I did as the pages instructed. I killed four of the men who planned to kill you. I was protecting you. The fifth escaped me.” And Franco nodded toward the soldier.
“But my men wouldn’t kill me.” He looked to the fifth, and the man fell to his knees, crying, “They were forcing me, sire. They wanted me to poison your food, but I refused, I would never—”
His words were cut off along with his head, which rolled into the fire.
The soldiers looked on, wondering what magic had come to the groom.
Giovanni raised Franco to his feet and embraced him.
“Thank you for my life. Now, explain to me how you knew about this plot.”
“It was the pages, sire.”
Gradara Castle
Near Venice, Italy
Three Months Later
