Read Online Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole - Free Book Online

“My name is Francesca Giordano. I am—”
    “I know who you are,” the woman said. She wiped her red, worn hands on the apron covering her simple gown, both clean despite the chaos surrounding her, and gestured toward the rear of the shop. “We can talk in there.”
    With a quick glance at Vittoro, she added, “Unless you are afraid to linger.”
    The captain flushed but I did not hesitate. I followed the woman toward the back, mindful that Vittoro did the same. Briefly, I considered asking him to wait outside, but to do so would be to offend both his pride and his sense of duty. Together, we accompanied Sofia Montefiore into a small workroom.
    When the door was closed behind us, shutting out the mass of suffering humanity in the front of the shop, I asked, “You recognized me. How?”
    Sofia Montefiore leaned against a cluttered table. She appeared to be inexpressively weary yet her voice remained strong. “I knew your father. One day when you went with him to the Campo dei Fiori, he pointed you out to me while you were looking at spices. He was a good man. His death is a terrible tragedy.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and immediately pressed on. “How were you acquainted with him?”
    I truly could not imagine what would ever have brought Giovanni Giordano into contact with the Jewess, much less that they could have become friendly enough for him to point out his daughter to her. Not that my father had ever expressed any sentiment against the Jews. It was just that he scarcely mentioned them at all.
    “My late husband was an apothecary,” Sofia said. I had the impression that she was choosing her words with great care. “He and your father knew each other as young men. They resumed their acquaintance when Giovanni came to Rome to serve Cardinal Borgia.”
    “That must have been shortly before your husband died.” My father had been ten years in the service of Il Cardinale, which meant that he and Sofia Montefiore’s husband could not have had long to renew their acquaintance before the latter’s death.
    “That is true,” Sofia said. “When my husband died, Giovanni came to offer his condolences. As I took over Aaron’s work, we remained in touch.”
    “You became an apothecary?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. I had heard of women in some of the guilds—dyers, brewers, and the like—who succeeded to their husbands’ positions upon becoming widows. But they did so only with great difficulty and then only until any sons they had became old enough to take their places. The Jews, of course, were not allowed in the guilds. Presumably, they had their own rules.
    “I did,” Sofia said with a faint smile. “Surely, you do not disapprove of a woman in a man’s profession?”
    The way she said it made me suspect that Sofia Montefiore knew of my own recent ascension to the ranks of women doing men’s work. Given that rumor is the chief product of Rome eclipsing all else, that was not surprising.
    “Of course not. What you do is your own affair. But I do want to know what contact you had with my father in recent months as well as anything that he may have told you or left here with you.”
    A look of bewilderment came over the older woman. She shook her head slowly. “I have no idea what you mean. It was winter when I saw your father last.”
    I stiffened. Sofia Montefiore was telling me that Borgia had sent me on
una ricerca vana,
a wild-goose chase. Given that Il Cardinale had the most extensive and highly skilled network of spies in Rome, the Papal States, and beyond, it was highly unlikely that he would do any such thing.
    “It would be a mistake,” I said carefully, “to underestimate the Cardinal’s interest in this matter.”
    Calmly, Sofia said, “I assure you I would never do that. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my patients.”
    With no better choice, Vittoro and I left through the back door of the shop. It gave onto a dank and narrow alley, which took us finally to one