The Borgia Betrayal by Sara Poole

Author:Sara Poole
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

21

There was disagreement later about exactly who was responsible. Some claimed it was the apprentices, always suspected of running riot at the least or no provocation. Others declared that the culprits were imps from Hell who cavorted naked on cloven feet. A few insisted that it was the smugglers, but as no one could explain why they would behave in such a way, that was not taken seriously.

What is known is that Trastevere did not sleep that night. How could it when mischief-makers ran riot through its streets, singing loudly, bursting into homes and shops, upending tables, sending chickens and pigeons alike into a frenzy, freeing pigs into the roads, and all the while inexplicably chanting, “Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

The plain truth is that there were more than a few priests in Trastevere that night—as any other. One or two may have been chastely in their own beds. Perhaps not; those numbers seem high. The rest were content to drink and carouse right along with a bevy of bishops, several archbishops, and at least one cardinal.

Some tried to flee when the trouble began only to be caught by what was rapidly turning into a torchlight parade drawing even decent people into a whirling bacchanalia where, amid pounding drums improvised out of kettles and staves and clashing cymbals thrown together from metal plates, liberated wine flowed freely and a general mood of good cheer prevailed.

Others of the cloth dove under beds from where they were rousted when the happy, singing mob threw open doors, dragging all into their midst with most—presumably not the members of the clergy—joining in the cry that resounded through every alley and lane: “Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

It was even said that the cry was taken up in other neighborhoods, carried from rooftop to rooftop wherever people sought relief from the oppressive warmth. To this day on the anniversary of the Imp’s Parade, as it came to be known, you can still hear the mocking admonition from the throats of all those brave enough to utter it.

“Come out, priest, come out! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

The goings-on in Trastevere meant nothing to me save that they should accomplish their purpose. I reasoned that the threat of discovery coupled with the mocking nature of the mob would compel Morozzi to seek safer ground. In hope of that, I took up my position in the church near the wooden door that Alfonso had revealed.

In my hands, I held the knife I had used to kill the assassin Morozzi had sent, likely a member of the Brotherhood, not that his identity mattered to me. I had gotten lucky with him thanks to the element of surprise and Cesare’s coaching. But I could not count on luck again.

Accordingly, I had made a slight alteration to the blade. It was now coated with a contact poison that, unlike that encountered by the feckless Donna Lydia, I knew to be deadly.

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