I knew something else that would numb the pain altogether. I stared at the little vial of hemlock tincture until it twinned itself, dancing in the haze around my vision. I could feel Santa Marta clicking her tongue at me in disapproval, if a severed hand in a pouch really had a tongue to click.

It’s him or me. I could smell old blood and splinters; the smell of the executioner’s block. I’d smell it when they forced my head down on it, right before they chopped off my nose. The last thing I’d ever smell, all thanks to a dwarf’s malice.

Panic rose sour and nauseating in my throat, and I palmed the little vial into my sweaty hand.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Fear is the daughter of death.

—OLD ITALIAN PROVERB

Rome

The girl is terrified. Michelotto can see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, and if he puts his lips to her skin he knows he will be able to taste it. Fear in all five senses; it’s always been his gift. He puts a gloved hand on her throat, stroking it. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises, and he speaks truth. He would hurt her if he was ordered to, but he wasn’t ordered to.

“Kill this one quickly,” Cesare Borgia had told him. “She’s just a whore from the Borgo, after all—she doesn’t deserve this.”

Michelotto shrugs as he takes the girl’s wrists one at a time, roping them down wide and spread-eagled on the battered table. He doesn’t bother thinking about the ones he kills, whether they deserve it or not. He is Cesare Borgia’s dog, and like a good dog, he does what he is told. No more, no less.

“The dwarf’s been asking questions.”

“I know.” Cesare Borgia had been amused.

“He won’t stop.”

“No.” And when Michelotto had suggested throwing the little man off the scent, the Pope’s son had seen the sense of it.

“You may kill this one, then,” Cesare had said. “I shall be occupied elsewhere, with many witnesses. Not that there isn’t enough to do,” he added. “It seems La Bella has gotten herself captured by the French. If I’m not there to stop him, the Holy Father will end up declaring war on France.”

The girl whimpers. Michelotto surveys the room: the details. Yes, it looks right. The little man won’t know. Michelotto had offered to kill the little man—it would be simpler—but Cesare Borgia likes him.

“I’m sorry,” Michelotto tells the girl. “This is unfair, I know.” He puts his hand over her eyes so she won’t see. A moment or two later he is gone, adjusting his borrowed mask and flicking drops of blood from his gloves as he disappears into the Holy City.

Historical Note

HISTORICAL NOTE