He hesitated, but answered me. “Tell Madonna Adriana to keep my sister close inside today. There’s a crowd of fools gathering in the Borgo—a girl staked out in a tavern like Christ on the cross, they say, and now everyone thinks the Jews are making devil sacrifices.”

The day was hot, but I felt a small chill trace the length of my crooked back. “Staked?” I said, and was surprised at my voice’s evenness.

“A tavern maid raped on a table, with her throat slit. Hands staked out wide, a knife through each palm.” Cesare held his arms wide, a dark Christ in ecclesiastical robes. “It wouldn’t matter, normally. Whores and tavern maids die every day. But now we have the Spanish Jews to blame, so suddenly it must be a pagan sacrifice.”

“Not to mention that little fruit seller who died in the market not long ago,” I added. “One hears she died the same way. Staked and throat-slit.”

Cesare eyed me, dark eyes curious. “What’s it to you, Messer Leonello?”

“Nothing at all.” I began lacing up the front of my doublet. “Though I doubt it was the Jews. They’re too grateful to be safe out of Spain to be stirring up trouble here.”

“Of course it wasn’t the Jews,” Cesare snorted. “But you’ll tell my sister and that golden-haired giggler of my father’s to stay close to home. I won’t have them running afoul of any uneasy crowds.” He ran a hand over the dent in his auburn hair that was the faintest possible nod to a clerical tonsure. “If Juan can’t be roused from his brothels, I’ll take the papal troops, see the girl disposed of, and send any grumblers home with cracked skulls.”

“That’s what you intended to do all along, Your Excellency,” I told him. “You’d rather disperse an incipient mob yourself and get the credit with His Holiness. You’re only here looking for the Duke of Gandia so you can tell the Pope you did your best to find him.”

Cesare Borgia gave a wintry half smile. “Clever little lion man,” he said. “What other clever thoughts do you have in that oversized head of yours?”