A Matter of Taste

Chapter 13

By the end of the year 1501, Cesare Borgia was not only Duke Valentino, but Duke of the Romagna as well—feudal overlord of the central Italian territory, composed largely of papal states that he hoped someday to make the nucleus of an actual kingdom. He could claim impressive achievements in his role as Captain General, Gonfalonier, of his father's armies. The young man's actual experience in battle was still quite small—he threatened so skillfully with his army that he seldom needed to use it—but he possessed the essentials of leadership, the qualities that can hardly be taught, including the most important—the ability to inspire fear or loyalty almost at will.

I can testify from personal experience that in those days the life of a secret agent in the employ of Cesare Borgia offered enough excitement for any breathing man or vampire. My own actual duties, at least at first, were almost exclusively those of a messenger. By night I could traverse the countryside at high speed, by air as well as by land. I could pass in or out of any castle, any town or army camp, no matter how formidable the walls might be, or how well they were guarded. The messages that I conveyed in secrecy, to prospective traitors, loyal supporters, churchmen, or merchants, were seldom written down. Frequently they were in code, so that I had no way of guessing at their import, save by the looks of the men who sent or received them.

That I was not wholly trusted as yet by my new employer did not offend me; such minimal prudence was only common sense on Borgia's part. I, in turn, wondered at first why he had been so willing to hire on the spot a stranger of whom he knew nothing save that he was a vampire. But I had not long to wait before I found out.

On the day after I had formally joined the Duke's staff, I had an opportunity to speak to him alone. "There is one thing that puzzles me, Captain General."

'Speak."

"How did you know, at first glance, what I am?"

"You are not the first of your race I have encountered."

Something, a tone of amusement perhaps, in young Borgia's voice, a barely perceptible twinkle in his eye, made it impossible for me to resist questioning him further. "And did another of my race tell you that I was about to seek service with you?"

"I do not as a rule encourage questions about what my other advisers may have told me."

"My apologies."

"Accepted." He looked at me thoughtfully. We were quite alone. I could see him come to a decision. He said positively: "I know who you are, Drakulya, as well as what. And I know, among other things, that you were in Italy once before, as an agent of King Matthias of Hungary. It was some thirty years ago, and you were not nosferatu then."

Naturally I was curious to discover what else my new employer might know about me, and how he had learned so much. When I made my curiosity plain, Borgia shook his head. Then he ordered briskly: "Come to my tent this evening," and we went on to other business.

When I returned at the appointed time, well after most honest folk had gone to their beds, I found the Duke alone except for one other visitor—Constantia.

My old friend and I embraced, as brother and sister might; and I was soon given to understand that she had been for some time Duke Cesare's lover. It was obvious now that it was she who had told him of my presence in Italy—he knew from other sources that Prince Drakulya of Wallachia had once been here as Matthias' agent.

It was during the last half of that midnight conference that I met Lucrezia for the second time.

On the last day of the year 1501, Lucrezia had married for the third—and as events proved, the last—time. The bridegroom, Don Alfonso d'Este, heir apparent to the dukedom of Ferrara, was not personally present at the elaborate ceremony in the Vatican, his brother standing in for him as proxy. It was about six months later when I met Lucrezia in her brother's tent.

At the time I attached myself to Cesare Borgia, the dynamic, open, hearty young man who commanded the papal armies seemed to me no more violent or treacherous than any of his ambitious contemporaries (I suppose I must include myself). Originally I thought it very unlikely that he was really behind as many underhanded murders as he was given credit for. The lengthy list was highlighted not only by Lucrezia's second husband, but Cesare's and Lucrezia's own elder brother Juan, whose butchered body had been dredged from the Tiber in 1497.

Alas, experienced warrior and ruler though I was, I still had much to learn about the ways of princes, and about the Borgias in particular.

In any event, Lucrezia was much changed from the twelve-year-old that I had seen in 1492, so briefly and under such unlikely and difficult conditions. She had blossomed into a sweet-looking and attractive young woman—not breathtakingly beautiful, but quite charming—still very little more than twenty years of age. I noted thoughtfully that she did not appear to hold a grudge against her brother over the matter of her second husband's violent death—he had been stabbed in the street, and, when that failed to finish him, strangled in his bed by Michelotto.

It was, I suppose, inevitable that I should find Madonna Lucrezia devastatingly attractive—of course in my eyes almost any woman, of any age, in any age, is fascinating. But there was more than that to my fascination. The fact that she was a Pope's daughter, which was something like a princess—how can I explain it to a modern reader?—added to Madonna's charm. So did the fact that she had nearly killed me once. The aura of Borgia danger made her doubly alluring, and the aura of mystery triply so.

In fact it will probably not surprise the reader to learn that Madonna Lucrezia and I were mutually drawn to each other during this our second meeting, and that we started to have an affair very shortly afterward. She was greatly intrigued by the thought of a vampire lover, in part perhaps of her brother's affair with the vampire Constantia; and like her brother she was clever enough, and capable of enough self-control, to avoid being converted. (Let me assure the reader that such restraint is quite possible, though perhaps hardly common.)

But to return to our meeting in the tent. Brother and sister acted in concert to put me at my ease, and soon we three were conversing quite informally. Duke Valentino took the opportunity to express his regret for any inconvenience I might have suffered on the occasion of our first, quite accidental, encounter years ago. "As must surely be obvious to you, Don Ladislao," (mindful of my rank in my own land, he was promoting me over the "Signor" by which I had generally been addressed in Italy) "your regrettable involvement on that occasion was purely fortuitous. We had no means of knowing that you, or any of the nosferatu, were nearby."

And Cesare, with Lucrezia chiming in quite charmingly, went on to offer an explanation of what the real goal of their researches had been—an improved kind of aphrodisiac. To their regret, they had not succeeded.

As for the lovely, dissolute maid whose acquaintance I had made so intimately just before my most recent extended sleep, when I asked what had become of her, the Borgias told me that she still lived, long since fully recovered from the poison, as a servant in the Pope's palace. That particular drug, it seemed, had little or no lasting effect upon breathing folk.

You might think it quite natural for me to hold a grudge against Madonna Lucrezia. Well, in the circumstances that would have been hard to do, and I had little enough inclination to try. Fighting with a woman, of whatever age or condition of life, is generally a matter of monumental futility. And what warrior will devote his time and energy to planning vengeance on a child of twelve, my lady's age when she committed the offense—quite accidentally?

As I have indicated, it did not take me long to banish entirely any lingering resentment. At the same time, I reminded myself to be extremely cautious from now on, to be ever on the alert for signs of unwonted gaiety or intoxication in anyone whose veins I tapped whenever I was in the vicinity of Lucrezia or her most active brother—or, for that matter, if I should ever be a guest at the table of the Pope their sire.

I took considerable reassurance from the fact that—as I thought—I would never forget the taste of that fair maid's oh-so-subtly poisoned blood. I have said that matters of taste are, as a rule, unimportant to us vampires. The sugar of the Borgias, if I may so call Madonna Lucrezia's discovery, is something of an exception.

I can personally testify to the fact that, on tasting for the first time blood carrying the unshielded, undisguised flavor of the Borgia vampire-drug, one of my kind will notice a taste entirely unexpected, piquant, mysterious in origin—and very pleasant.

Yes, very pleasant, despite the horrible way in which the stuff was actually concocted—more on that later.

It was shortly after this midnight meeting in a military encampment that Cesare, doubtless already aware that his beloved sister and I had become lovers, confided to me that he was considering the option of someday becoming a vampire himself.

I was casting about to find some appropriate words of congratulation on this progressive attitude, when he raised a languid hand, forestalling me. "But not just yet. Nor for many years to come. You, Drakulya, who were a prince, will understand. How can a man be nosferatu and at the same time a prince, ruler of a daylight people? You must be at least as well aware as I am of the immense difficulties."

I could not argue with that.

It was shortly after my first meeting with the mature Lucrezia—I believe it was the second or third time that I saw her after that—that I finally had definite word of Basarab.

In fact it was Madonna Lucrezia who gave me that word herself. Or her brother did. The truth was, they acted so in concert on this as on other occasions, that it was difficult to tell.

Definite traces of repressed amusement were apparent in the young Borgias' manner as they passed along to me the information that the aging traitor had been located. With their next breaths they warned me I might be surprised when I had found my victim.

"Surprised in what way, my lord?"

Cesare only smiled.

"My lady?"

"Nay, my lord Drakulya, if we were to tell you that, it would be a surprise no longer." And sister and brother laughed together.

"And where am I to find him? When?"

"As to when, it may be today, this afternoon, if you wish. Dear brother, have you any duties for our friend today?"

"None that cannot wait. Perhaps after sunset there will be something."

As to where I would be likely to find Basarab, my lady named a certain street corner in Rome.

That was all. I hesitated, sensing that there was something pertinent that I had not been told. No doubt it constituted the surprise.

Wary of my lord's and lady's humor, I ventured: "Basarab has been informed, then, that someone is to meet him there? And whom is he expecting?"

"He is expecting nothing—as far as I know. Who can say what expectations men will have? But he will be there all the same." And my informants, exchanging warm looks between themselves as they so often did, enjoying some secret joke, refused to elaborate.

Taking my leave from them as swiftly as I could, I armed myself—belting on only a common sword and dagger, nothing out of the ordinary—and found my way to the street corner that my lady had named. It was a warm day, though by good fortune cloudy, near the middle of the afternoon. The neighborhood, being a poor one, stank, enough more than the average of the city that I took note of the fact.

I stood on the street corner for some time, leaning as inconspicuously as I could against a building, that my enemy might not see me first and take alarm. It was a poor neighborhood indeed, though a cut above the worst of the slums, and not too poor to attract some beggars.

Ordinary buildings, some apartment tenements that looked as old as Rome itself, and for the most part ordinary folk. Some time passed before my attention was caught by one of the beggars, an especially loathsome cripple, who pushed himself about on a little cart. Boys of the neighborhood, ragged and barefoot, had taken to taunting him, pulling at his hair and at his rags, trying to snatch away the little purse he was trying to conceal. One of the urchins, approaching with great stealth, got close enough to urinate upon him before being discovered.

Choking out curses and lamentations, the beggar pushed himself laboriously across the muddy street upon his little cart—he lacked a leg, and his remaining lower limb appeared not capable of holding up his weight Fortunately for him his tormentors were distracted at this point by some proposal put forward by one of their number. They gave up the game and ran off in pursuit of some new devilry.

Something about the hideous figure of the beggar caught my attention, and eventually I left my inconspicuous position and approached him. It was only when I stood close in front of this loathsome creature on his little cart that I was certain he was Basarab, and realized that he was not only crippled but almost completely blind.

Even at close range some time was necessary to convince myself entirely of my enemy's identity. The blindness and the disfigurement of his face were most likely due, I now suppose, to syphilis; at the time I hardly wondered about the cause. Basarab's missing leg, which could well have been the immediate cause of his retirement from military service, most likely had been lost to some spear thrust or cannonball.

"Alms, sir? Alms?" The voice was that of a beaten man, changed to the point where I should hardly have recognized it. The hand that held up a cup in my direction was shrunken and palsied. I found it hard to believe that I indeed beheld, in this cripple, this ruined husk of a man, who trembled with fear and rage at the jibes of the street urchins, the fierce soldier I remembered.

Because I wanted to hear him talk again, I pressed a coin into his hand, the smallest coin I had, thinking that I might snatch it away again before I left. He grunted something unintelligible, and hastened to thrust the coin away amid his stinking rags.

Not enough. I wanted to hear more. I spoke to him in Italian, asking sharply if he was not grateful. This time he responded with quavering thanks; oh, yes, I recognized his voice.

And I was sure, from the way he cocked his head, and squinted as if to make his blind eyes work, that he thought that he ought to know my voice, but could not place it

"Do you know the name of Bogdan, my good man?" I demanded of him at last.

"Hey?" He quivered. I think the name meant nothing to him at the moment.

"Bogdan." I bent closer, and spoke softly, so that the beggar alone could hear my words. "He came to Italy from a far land. He came here to get away from one who would have killed him, otherwise."

And the blind old man shrank back in silence. Perhaps he recognized me then.

I considered taking back my coin, but it had vanished into some repository within his unspeakable rags, on which I had no wish to soil my fingers. I stood back a step, briefly fingering the hilt of my sword; I remember now that the wood and metal felt awkward in my grip and almost unfamiliar.

And then I turned on my heel and took myself away, stopping at the first respectable tavern that I came to, to wash the stench of that street corner from my throat, expel its traces from my unbreathing nostrils.

That evening, when I reported back to Cesare Borgia to discover what duties he might have for me next, he was eager to know whether I had finally attained my revenge.

"I tried, my lord duke. But others, as perhaps you already knew, had been there before me."

He considered my words, and understood them, and nodded, with a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Drakulya." When we were alone, he—like his sister—often called me by my true name. "You are, as I suspected, a true connoisseur of requital. As I like to think I am. You have no plans to kill him, then?"

"My lord, I could not bring myself to do such a great favor for the man I saw today."

And Cesare, laughing, applauded my fine sensibilities in the art of vengeance.

Sometime later, when Madonna Lucrezia, in one of her gentle moods, heard my same confession of an act of superficial mercy, it earned from her a wistful commendation. Sometimes I could not for the life of me be sure when the lady was serious and when she mocked.

Such triumph as I felt, in reflecting upon my old enemy's downfall, was brief. And whatever satisfaction his fate afforded me was overshadowed by a certain emptiness, a sense of loss almost like that which must follow an amputation, in realizing that I had no need to think of Basarab anymore. But then I had already known for a long time that one must expect one unsatisfactory outcome or another when one pursues revenge.