A Matter of Taste

Chapter 11

My revival in the deepest habitable level of that Italian earth-crevice, amid the ruins of that ancient Etruscan burial vault, was a slow process. Stubbornly my dazed senses refused to focus upon the problems at hand. My hands and knees trembled, and my brain and body ached until I was reminded of the mornings following the worst drinking bouts of my breathing days.

And my memories on awakening, memories of those hours just before I had lost consciousness, were bizarre indeed—even for a vampire. What had that incredible, devilish, half-grown girl really said about me to her brother? If her remarks had indeed included the words I seemed to remember, then the children of Rome must be vastly more sophisticated than any I had encountered elsewhere.

Well, I was still relatively new to the vampire profession. In the process of becoming accustomed to my new lifestyle, I had begun to believe that we nosferatu possessed complete immunity to such attacks. But the latest evidence showed that to be a dangerously optimistic view.

Whatever the cause of my helpless lapse into unconsciousness, one thing was certain, that my sleep had not been a normal one. Looking back from the century in which I write, I suspect that I may have spent a full day, or even several, struggling in my borrowed tomb, between the moment when I first began to regain my senses, and the time when I could begin to function with reasonable dependability.

When at last I had regained strength and sense enough to turn my aching head toward the source of daylight—just then extremely irritating even if quite indirect—and squint up from the depths of my refuge, I found myself regarding a patch of blue Italian sky, with one small cloud of bloodless white just visible.

As usual, the first question to occupy my mind upon becoming fully awake was whether there was some immediate cause—some visitor, perhaps, already present in my sanctuary or on the verge of intruding? Discovering nothing of the kind, I immediately interested myself in the usual second question: For how long a period, this time, had I lain comatose?

Ominous signs were not wanting that this latest and most mysterious lapse had been a lengthy one—a small shrub, growing at the very entrance of my sunken grotto, was noticeably bigger than I remembered it. Perhaps, I thought optimistically, there is a spring and the plant is especially well watered there. For a time, at least, I could still hope that only months and not whole years had elapsed.

Sitting up on the earthen ledge where I had slept, averting my gaze from the bothersome pressure of daylight, I took an inventory of my person. I had, of course, acquired no Rip Van Winkle beard—whatever the length of my stay out of the world, I am generally spared that. My limbs were as supple as ever. As a rule most of my biological processes seem to come to a complete halt as long as I am tranced. But on this occasion some drastic changes for the worse in the state of my clothing argued for a long interregnum.

Fortunately, I had a spare garment or two on hand.

Well, whatever the interval had been, there was nothing to be done about it now. Still feeling strangely lightheaded, I declared myself fully awake at last, arose from my hard couch, and bade a silent farewell to my perpetually silent host in his sarcophagus, whose slumbers had already endured much longer than the entire period of my life.

I was ravenously hungry.

Fortunately for my hunger and my impatience, the afternoon was already far advanced, and within an hour after arising I was crouched by the upper orifice of the cave, ready to face the dawning night. Emerging promptly at sunset, I soon disposed of a goat that had been grazing on the barren hillside nearby. It had the look of a semi-domesticated creature, and I took care to leave a coin beside the bloodless carcass to reimburse its owners for my nourishment.

Even as I completed this gesture of payment, I became aware that I was no longer alone.

Turning to look in the direction of my sunken grotto, I saw a slender shadow detach itself from the greater darkness of a looming boulder, and for the first time since I had risen from my grave I recognized the presence of another of my kind. How I accomplished this so swiftly I cannot readily explain.

In the same instant that I comprehended the newcomer's vampire status, I understood that I was in the presence of a woman. And only a moment later I realized that I knew her—nay, our relationship went deeper than that. We had once been of considerable importance to each other.

I took a step toward her, blinking in my surprise. "Constantia?"

"I am pleased that you remember me, Prince Drakulya." The mockery in the little gypsy's voice was light.

"How could I ever forget?—But I see that you are greatly changed." In another sense, of course, the woman before me was hardly changed at all, for she appeared as young and comely as on that night many years earlier when she had violated my grave.

"Indeed I have. As none should know better than you, Prince Drakulya."

I doubted then, and still doubt, whether my embraces had been the sole or even the chief cause of her conversion. But if I had had a successor, or a rival, as Constantia's vampire lover, I was never to find out his name.

Certainly my little gypsy appeared to me as beautiful as ever. But both of us understood, from the first moment of our first Italian encounter, that our relationship would necessarily be different from now on. Henceforward, as a vampire herself, she might be my nosferatu friend, in a sense my sister, or even daughter; but the love that passes between man and woman we could share no more.

How had Constantia been able to locate me? Echoing some of the conversation of our first meeting, she gave coy answers to that question and put me off. Probably, I decided, her magical arts were considerably advanced over what they had been at the time of our first encounter.

I had other questions that I thought just as important: Why had she tried to find me? And why was she in Italy?

"There are many interesting things in Italy these days, good prince." It pleased her, for the time being, to be no more specific than that, and it pleased me for the time being not to press the matter. There was much else I wanted to find out, having to do with local and world affairs—by world affairs I of course meant those of Europe and Asia Minor. On such matters Constantia provided information freely. High on my list of things to learn, naturally, was the matter of how and why and by whom I had been drugged, and how closely my shadowy memories on the subject corresponded with the truth.

Constantia might well have recognized the Borgia offspring from my description of the mysterious young Cesare and Lucrezia. But she swore that she knew nothing. Either she could not or would not help me speculate on the identity of my juvenile poisoners, and for the time being I was forced to allow that problem to wait.

The next few hours of that night I spent listening while Constantia brought me up-to-date on what we both considered important current events. I had been in the earth with the Etruscan for about eight years; this was the Jubilee Year of 1500, so proclaimed by the Pope.

Naturally the identity of the current Pope was among the things I was most eager to learn, in an effort to reorient myself to a changed world. Constantia quickly informed me that the Borgia, Alexander VI, still held his position as Vicar of Christ. This was of great importance to the political and military situation in general. Certainly I would not have been surprised to learn that he had already gone to his reward. Popes as a rule are elderly men when elected—Alexander, I knew, had been sixty-one when he assumed St. Peter's chair—and in that century the average length of a reign was less than a decade. Alas for Christendom, Cesare Borgia's father still sat there.

Constantia talked with me a little longer and then departed, having naturally, as she said, her own affairs to attend to. We made tentative arrangements to meet again.

The later part of that evening and much of the next I spent mingling with the breathers in several marketplaces of suburban Rome. In the first of these I obtained new clothing. In all of them I listened much and spoke little, only now and then engaging cautiously in conversation. I soon was able to confirm much of what my former lover had told me, of events that had transpired whilst I was underground. Quietly I raged within myself at my own weakness that had caused me to lose eight years in sleep—at the malignancy of that incredible girl-child who played so recklessly with poisons—at my own stupidity in falling prey to one of her concoctions—and at the thought of Bogdan and Basarab, who were now most likely gone out of my reach again, gone far if not forever.

Of course by this time my juvenile poisoner, whoever she was, would be a child no longer, if she still lived. She would be about twenty, as I calculated, and her brother some five years older—but I still had no idea of who they were, beyond the fact of their belonging to the privileged class. Had I not been devoted already to vengeance on others, I might have tried to seek them out. Alas, it proved unnecessary for me to do so.

Among other information I had gleaned from Constantia was that for several years during my latest nap the fanatical reformer Savonarola had been in virtual control of the city of Florence. Fra Girolamo had been bent on establishing a Florentine government that would serve the interest of God's poor as well as of the wealthy. Like most such plans, his miscarried. Eventually he had been betrayed to his enemies, arrested, publicly strangled, and his body burnt upon the scaffold—so much for reform. In general, the leaders of church and state alike had been pleased to see their last in this world of that pesky monk. The Medici family were now once more in control of Florence, though from things I overheard I deduced that their rule was neither so firm nor so beneficial as it once had been.

On the next night—which I, to be on the safe side, planned to spend in a different earth—Constantia kept her appointment for our meeting, and we were able to have a second conversation.

This time it pleased her to speak of Bogdan and Basarab, or, more accurately, to inform me that since her arrival in Italy she had heard nothing of them.

"But, my prince, if they have indeed become condottieri here, then I should think that the place to seek them would be with Cesare Borgia."

There were a number of men named Cesare around, and at first I saw no reason to establish a connection with my little poisoner's escort. "Ah, yes. The Pope's son. What is he doing now?"

Constantia related the young man's accomplishments to me at some length—indeed, everyone in Italy was now interested in the career of Cesare Borgia, who had recently been appointed captain general of the papal army.

Always one to enjoy a juicy bit of gossip, Constantia informed me that in June of 1497, Cesare's older brother, Juan, until then their father's favorite choice for a military leader, had been murdered under most mysterious circumstances in the streets of Rome.

"Murdered by whom?"

No one knew, but during the years following many had come to blame Cesare.

By 1498, at the age of twenty-three, Cesare had with Alexander's blessing resigned his appointment as Cardinal, and had been dispatched upon an important diplomatic expedition, carrying an immense treasure—which included silver urinals, among other improbabilities—to the court of the French king at Chinon.

Alexander's most ambitious and dangerous child had remained in France until 1499, when he had ridden south of the Alps with Louis XII, monarch of France, on his flamed and ultimately ill-fated expedition to Naples.

I frowned at Constantia. "Are you telling me that the French invaded Italy in force?"

"You might say that, I suppose. Well, yes, they certainly did, but in the end it came to nothing, and the only battle they really fought was when they were trying to get home again."

I had already missed the peak of the Jubilee Year in Rome. The month of February had been carnival, when pilgrims thronged in from all across Europe, seeking special indulgences. In that month Cesare had arrived in the city in considerable state, bringing with him prisoners from his most recent military expeditions. The purpose of these campaigns had been the subjugation of some of the petty lords of the Papal Territories, who had been minded to remove themselves from under the temporal authority of Christ's Vicar. Evidently Cesare, despite his youth, was already a most effective leader, in war and politics as well. According to Constantia he, with his doting father's blessing, was beginning to give himself almost royal airs.

Aut Caesar, aut nihil. Caesar or nothing. That was his motto, and he devoted himself to trying to live up to it.

I pressed my friend's hand thankfully. "If what you are telling me is accurate, then you are right, this Borgia is the one I must seek out. Mercenaries and war are going to follow him like soldiers after a prostitute."

Constantia soon took her leave. As for me, I had much to do before dawn.

Once more, as the evening deepened, I roamed the marketplaces of suburban Rome. No one I spoke to there, of course, had ever heard of two condottieri with outlandish names, Bogdan and Basarab. Many people were talking of Cristoforo Colombo, whose name had also been mentioned by Constantia. A daring but controversial navigator, it seemed, who had recently completed his second or perhaps his third round-trip voyage westward to the Indies.

A corollary of these explorations, though it was not perceived as such at the time, had followed. Immediately after the return of Colombo's crews from the New World, a new venereal infection, called the French disease by Italians, and the Neapolitan pox by the French, had begun to radiate rapidly from certain seaports, and was now well on its way to establishing a broad foothold in Europe. The modern name for this disease is syphilis.

Seeking news, suggestions, any hint at all that might lead me to the wretched pair Basarab and Bogdan, I continued to move among the markets and the taverns of the great city, keeping my ears open. As part of my general vampirish transformation, my hearing had become preternaturally acute, but of the men I sought I still heard nothing. Of the Pope, still hale and hearty at the age of sixty nine, and of two of his children, I learned a great deal.

Lucrezia had recently been married for the second time—her father had annulled the first union. In the summer of 1500 her second husband was murdered. This time no one really doubted that Cesare was responsible, and that Alexander had given at least tacit approval to the act. Somehow I just managed to miss out on being on hand for that.

Everyone was talking of Cesare, in particular.

It is hard to remember now at exactly what point it dawned on me that the Cesare Borgia of whom I heard so much and his younger sister Lucrezia could conceivably be the pair of adolescents who had once sent me to my grave—at least to one of my borrowed graves—and followed me there, in a spirit of scientific curiosity. When the rumors linking the Pope's offspring with poison began to reach my ears, I could hardly have failed to make the connection.

Italy in that age was not yet, as France and Spain and England had already become, a united power. Rather it was the most chronic of Europe's chronic battlefields. Well, I thought, if I can find out nothing directly regarding the men I want, I can at least discover where fighting and campaigning are currently in progress, or where they are most likely in the immediate future. Those would be the best places to seek out enterprising condottieri; if not to meet them, at least to hear word of them.

But currently, as I came to understand more thoroughly with every hour I spent in learning more about events, there was no better place to seek for mercenaries than in the train of Duke Valentino, as Cesare had come to be known since the King of France had bestowed certain lands and titles on him.

In the summer of 1500, whatever spiritual influence the Pope's proclaimed Jubilee might have had in heaven, His Holiness barely escaped death from a falling ceiling and roof in one of his Roman apartments.

And at about the same time, Cesare, preparing to campaign again in the Romagna, where certain papal vassals were still showing too much independence, was signing contracts with a number of leading condottieri. Basarab, I considered, might well be among them.

But no one to whom I spoke there knew his name. He might, of course, have changed it. But if he had not done so early in his mercenary career, why do it now?

Prowling Rome by night and sometimes by day, concentrating particularly upon the area near the papal palace, I still failed to locate either of my old enemies. Military men were coming and going continually, however, and I still could not think of any better place to search. I decided to remain near Cesare Borgia, and search some more.

Given my permanent aversion to sunlight, and certain other peculiarities of my new mode of life, I considered myself as ill-suited for the life of a mercenary, or of any kind of regular soldier, as I was for that of a ruler. There were of course other ways to make oneself valuable to a great prince or general, and attach oneself to his staff. Of these, the intelligence service seemed the best suited to my training and talents. Indeed, I considered myself uniquely qualified for such a career.

I had other reasons for seeking a position. My modest stock of gold was running low, and I foresaw that I was likely to need more in the future. Food I obtained in my own way, but sometimes it would be necessary for me to purchase clothing, help, or information. Theft was of course not to be considered, nor had I any intention of allowing myself to be reduced to beggary. Honorable service seemed the only logical alternative. Therefore I met, or determined to meet, Cesare.

For both of us, it proved to be a memorable encounter. It took place in a military encampment on the edge of Rome.

I recognized him at once. If I had not previously suspected he was the youth who had once followed me to my burrow, I knew it now.

Duke Valentino was now twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He was darkly bearded, a tall man for his time, very powerfully built, and much matured from the seventeen-year-old who had accompanied his lethal little sister to what they must have thought was my final resting place.

He was sitting before a folding table, inside a tent, when I saw him for the first time. He turned his dark and piercing eyes on me, and I thought at first my image struck a spark of recognition in them somewhere. But all he said was: "Ladislao of Hungary? I am pleased to meet you, but alas, I have never heard of you before."

"Sir, I was formerly married to a sister of King Matthias. I have fought the Turks and other enemies of the Holy Father—I will serve you capably as a bodyguard, or in many discreet ways." I might have said that in my own land I had commanded armies, but I might not have been believed, and in any case that was not the job for which I was applying.

The man who was standing beside the Duke stirred when I mentioned my capabilities as bodyguard. This infamous henchman was informally known to most people at the time as Michelotto—his real name was Miguel da Corella, meaning that he came from Corella, in the then half-independent kingdom of Navarre.

"Who sent you?" he demanded of me harshly.

I looked him in the eye and decided to speak him fairly, though I made my tone only a little softer than his own. "No one sent me, sir. I make this application on my own decision."

Corella shook his head. "I don't like the look of you."

Cesare was watching us in amused silence; obviously, as I thought, testing my mettle.

I said to Michelotto: "Nor do I care a great deal for your appearance, if it comes to that." He was indeed a swarthy, ugly wretch. "But I will try to put up with you, provided you are good at your job."

The Duke was laughing now, almost silently but with evidence of real enjoyment. I did not know it at the time—nor would I have cared particularly if I had known—but it would have been hard to find another man in Italy, excepting the Pope's son himself, who would speak to Michelotto in such a way.

Things might well have come to violence between us on the spot, giving me a chance to demonstrate the skills of which I had just boasted, and at the same time creating an opening on Duke Valentino's staff. But, somewhat to my disappointment, Cesare, laughing, spoke to us both in soothing words.

"Michelotto, good friend—do me a favor and leave me alone with this hot-tempered visitor. I shall be quite safe, I promise you."

"My lord duke—!"

"Leave us." And on hearing the tone of that command, and seeing with what alacrity it was obeyed, I knew that this Pope's son might indeed one day accomplish all the marvels that others were predicting for him.

In another moment he and I were alone—though Corella had favored me with his foulest look before departing, and I felt certain, even if I could not hear his breathing, that he was watching the tent protectively from outside.

Borgia glanced at me, fearlessly, and then away. He stretched out a powerful hand—it was said that he could straighten horseshoes in his grip—and smoothed down the sketch of fortifications that was spread out on the table. "I think I know you after all," he said. "Though not by the name you gave just now. And I shall be happy to take you into my service."

His eyes came back to mine, and he must have read my surprise at this quick acceptance.

"Why am I so quick to hire you?" he added. "Because I need good men, men who can get things done." He lowered his voice a notch. "And most particularly I have need of a vampire."