“You’re years behind the other apprentices, and you’ll find it hard to catch up,” I warned. “They all started at nine or ten, as is proper.” And how I was going to square this with Marco, I really didn’t know. Much less Madonna Adriana, who would certainly want to see an apprentice fee . . . but my red-haired pot-boy had that great rarity, a cook’s nose. A better one even than mine, I would guess, and I wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

“Signorina,” he stammered, still gazing in shock at the apron.

“Don’t stand there gawking, boy! Put that apron on. Those spices you sniffed out for me; I’ll wager you don’t know their uses or their proportions.”

His face glowed like a torch. “No, signorina.”

“Then get over here and let me teach you. Four and a half parts cinnamon to one part each of ginger and nutmeg, two parts cloves, and just a pinch of grains of paradise . . .”

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

Either Caesar, or nothing.

—PERSONAL MOTTO OF CESARE BORGIA

Leonello

I heard the sharp call from the courtyard clear up in the loggia. “Juan!” But I didn’t turn my head at the shout. I stood in my shirtsleeves, one hand poised at my side, eyes closed, breathing evenly. I could feel the tiles through my boots, baking reflected heat up at the top of the palazzo. The sun fell warm on my arm from the open arches of the loggia on my left, but the shade on the other arm was no cooler.

“Juan!” The voice came again, closer, followed by a rattle of Catalan. I ignored it, taking a breath instead and then letting it out halfway. I opened my eyes, flicked a Toledo blade from my cuff, and sent it winging down to its target: a side of beef ribs hanging from the open arch at the other end of the loggia.

I was smiling even before I’d trotted the length of the loggia to check my throw. The blade had sunk true, I could feel it—right between the third and fourth ribs, up to the hilt. On a man, it would have pierced something vital.

I heard the doors yank open behind me, followed by a furious swish of robes. “Little man,” a clipped voice greeted me. “Have you seen my fool of a brother?”

“I fear I have not, Your Excellency.” I turned to make a bow to Cesare Borgia, Archbishop of Valencia. “The Duke of Gandia travels in such a crowd, it is impossible to miss him.” A pack of swaggering young men like himself, gaudily dressed, forever shoving and laughing like a pack of high-spirited, high-bred colts overdue for gelding. “He was sniffing about yesterday,” I added. “There’s a maid of Madonna Adriana’s he fancies.”