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hear a woman screaming. A few months before, waking suddenly, I heard myself call out her name: “Mamma.” But that was absurd. My mother died when I was born. She could not possibly be the woman in the blood-soaked room.
    I woke as usual in the clammy grip of terror, but from long practice lay unmoving, forcing myself to breathe slowly and deeply. I was determined not to disturb Cesare, who surely needed his rest at least as much as I did. Besides, I did not want to have to explain to him yet again about the nightmare. We shared a bed often enough that he needed no reminding of it.
    For the rest of the night, I dozed lightly, waking while Cesare still slept soundly, one arm thrown across my hip. Carefully, I slipped out of the bed and made my way back to my quarters on the other side of the palazzo. The guards were changing posts as I went, giving me some hope that I would not be seen. Not that it mattered. Borgia’s agents were everywhere, their reports flowing to him as a river fed by many streams before being swallowed by the ocean itself. For certain, he would know of the altercation in the town, but I suspected he would also approve of what his son had done, though he would not tell him so. At all costs, the Spaniards had to be kept sweet, until the pendulum swung as it always does. Then who knew what price Borgia would exact for having to endure them?
    In my own rooms, I bathed quickly, not bothering to wait for a servant to bring hot water. Simply dressed with my hair secured in a braid around my head, I hastened down to the kitchens; but did not linger there. Before long, I was on my way again with a roll stuffed with hazelnut cream in one hand and a sturdy market basket in the other.
    My father, in his days as poisoner to the House of Borgia, understood the risk of being so focused on what is nearby as to overlook what is on the periphery. He was a great believer in getting out and about, instructing me in the finer points of how to look, listen, even smell a scene so as to understand it and, even more important, how to know early on when something is wrong. He also understood that the right prop could explain one’s presence without calling attention to it. Hence the basket.
    I went down the wide stone steps of the palazzo and set off to the southeast in the direction that a stammering serving boy told me led to Viterbo’s central square. The day was pleasantly cool with only thin traces of cloud to mar the otherwise pristine sky. Bright autumnal flowers trailed from window pots, their perfumes mingling with the bite of the lye soap used to scrub the paving stones. Having long been a favorite haunt of popes, the town overflowed with churches, many of them centuries old, constructed mainly of stone that had yellowed softly over the years. In that respect—and only that—it bore the faintest possible resemblance to my beloved Rome. Otherwise, everything appeared small, shrunken, and still far too quiet for my taste.
    The old porta romana giving entrance to the town through the high stone walls punctuated by watchtowers would have been opened at dawn; already travelers were making their way toward the palazzo in hope of doing business with the papal household. Members of Viterbo’s garrison were in evidence, patrolling in breastplates and plumed helmets with spiked halberds in hand. But I also saw men of the Pope’s own household guard on patrol in the town. I could not help but wonder how much the show of their presence had to do with protecting the Pope and how much was intended to quell the spreading resentment of the Spaniards.
    In the central market adjacent to the main piazza decorated with carvings of lions and palm trees, the town’s twin symbols—stalls overflowed with heaps of newly harvested grapes and olives. Vats of virgin olive oil and raw wine were stacked near wicker cages of chickens, ducks, and rabbits. I smelled rounds of tart pecorino and the sweet aroma of pearly ricotta. Salted pink