I did not set eyes on either him or his father for the space of two days after his arrival; they remained ensconced in a private chamber in the Vatican, discussing war strategy and politics. No one was trusted—even servants who had been with the Pope for years were dismissed from the room, lest they overhear a word of the discussion.
Lucrezia said nothing, but I know that Cesare’s failure to make so much as a perfunctory visit to her chamber or to acknowledge the birth of her child pained her as much as it relieved her. Despite their cruel misuse of her, she still seemed to love her brother and father, and yearned to please them. I suppose I understood; after all, as much as I had despised my own father, I had always secretly desired his love.
Since little Rodrigo’s birth, Alexander had seen the child daily, and invited us to family suppers where the child was the main topic of discussion. Now, we were shunned.
It was not until late on the third day of Cesare’s visit that he appeared.
Lucrezia was a doting mother. Rather than consign the child to the nursery in the care of the wet nurse, as most noble mothers did, she insisted on keeping the child’s crib in her bedchamber, where the nurse also slept. Perhaps she feared harm might come to the child if it remained out of her sight overlong—but at least part of the reason was pure affection. The child was, for her, like Alfonso: a creature that wanted nothing more than to love her, unlike the other men in her life.
I spent my days—and sometimes my nights—in Lucrezia’s chamber, holding little Rodrigo and helping tend to him, even though such was the business of servants.
On the afternoon Cesare appeared, we women were, as happens when infants come, exhausted and resting. Lucrezia sat sleeping in her bed, propped up on pillows; I sat nearby in a cushioned chair, my chin dipped toward my chest, dozing. The wet nurse lay on the floor, snoring, and Rodrigo was silent in his cradle.
A very soft sound, that of cautious footfall, woke me—but even half-asleep, I recognized the owner of the step: Cesare. I did not lift my head or change the rhythm of my breathing, but instead peered through the veil of my eyelashes to study the man.
He still wore black—no longer a priest’s frock, but a tailored velvet suit that showed off his muscular form. During his time in battle, he had grown leaner and tanned; his beard was fuller, his black hair longer, falling straight onto his shoulders.
Thinking himself unseen, he stole catlike into the chamber and did not dissemble, but let his expression be frank, natural. I was astonished at its hardness, at the coldness in his eyes.
Stealthily, he moved over to the cradle, where the baby slept. Now, I thought, his face will soften; even a soldier, even a murderer, cannot look on that child and be unmoved.
He tilted his head to one side and studied the infant.
I had thought, when I first met Lucrezia, that I could never have seen a gaze more filled with jealousy and hatred; I was wrong.
In Cesare’s gaze was naught but pure murder. He leaned down, hands resting on his knees, over the little cradle, one lip twisted cruelly.
Fear seized me. I had no doubt that in the next instant, he would strangle the child, or press his hand tightly over its tiny nose and mouth. I bolted upright, hand upon my hidden stiletto, ready to draw it, and cried out:
‘Cesare!’
His nerves were so steely, his manner so smooth, that he did not stir, did not flinch; instead, his expression transformed itself instantly into one of affection and kindliness. He smiled down at the infant, as if he had always been doing so, then calmly, slowly turned his head towards me, and straightened.
‘Sancha! How good to see you! I was just admiring our new nephew. Amazing, how much he looks like Lucrezia when she was a baby.’
‘Cesare?’ Lucrezia stirred sleepily. At the sight of her brother, she came alive. ‘Cesare!’ she called out, with happy excitement. There was no reservation in her tone or expression, no sign of her hurt over Cesare’s snub.
Cesare went over to his sister, motioning for her to remain in the bed. ‘Rest, rest,’ he said. ‘You have earned it.’ They embraced, both smiling, then Cesare retreated from her a bit and, turned to me to kiss my hand.
The touch of his lips against my skin both thrilled me and made my skin crawl. He was to all appearances the affectionate brother: there was no trace of the monster who had leaned over the baby’s crib.
‘You have a beautiful son, Lucrezia,’ Cesare told her, which made her beam with pride. ‘I was just telling Sancha, it is like looking at you when you were a baby, not so many years ago.’
‘You were so protective of me, even then,’ Lucrezia said happily. ‘Tell me, will you be staying with us a while?’
‘Sadly, no,’ Cesare replied. ‘I had only time enough to conduct some vital business with Father. I have to return to the field at once. Pesaro waits.’
She coloured slightly at the mention of her former husband’s city, then said, ‘Oh, but you must stay! You must spend some time with the baby!’
Cesare sighed, an impressive show of reluctance. ‘It breaks my heart,’ he said. ‘But I have come to say both hello and farewell; I am on my way this instant back to my men. Of course,’ he added solicitously, ‘I could not leave without seeing you and little Rodrigo.’ He gave me a cursory glance and added, as an afterthought, ‘And Sancha, too.’
‘Very well,’ Lucrezia said sadly. ‘Then give me a kiss, and the baby one too, before you go.’ She paused. ‘I will pray for your safety and your success.’
‘I am glad for your prayers,’ Cesare said. ‘I will need them. God be with you, little sister.’ He embraced her again, and kissed her solemnly on each cheek; she did the same to him, and so they took their leave.
Cesare turned to me, uncertain; I held back my hand and instead gave him a nod. ‘I shall pray, too,’ I said, though I did not say precisely what those supplications would contain.
‘Thank you,’ Cesare said, and then he moved toward the cradle.
I rushed to arrive there first, and held little Rodrigo tightly in my arms as his uncle bent down and gave the infant a kiss.
In the end, my prayers, and not Lucrezia’s, were answered.
Cesare rode northward and returned safely to his camp; but before he could arrive at Pesaro’s city gates, his French army was called away by King Louis. Duke Ludovico had rallied enough forces to make a formidable attempt to retake Milan (a fact which no doubt must have given Cesare’s beautiful prisoner, Caterina Sforza, good cause for gloating).
Bereft of soldiers, silently cursing the French, Cesare was forced to abandon his efforts to take Pesaro.
At supper, His Holiness flushed red with rage as he recounted the tale, and railed about the fickleness of the French King.
It took all my self control to suppress a satisfied smile at the news.
Late Winter 1499
XXX
Word came from the battlefield that Cesare had reluctantly negotiated a truce with Giovanni Sforza in Pesaro, and was returning home, escorted by the papal army and accompanied by his lovely prisoner, Caterina Sforza, who would be relegated to the strong stone walls of the Castel Sant’Angelo. I dreaded his arrival.
Donna Esmeralda constantly bore fresh, troubling gossip. Around Rome, a new phrase had become the fashion: ‘the Borgia terror’. This was used to describe the mental state of those unlucky enough to serve the Borgias and be privy to their secrets, for the price of such was becoming more and more obvious.
It was widely accepted as fact—though scrupulously ignored by the family—that Cesare had murdered his brother Juan out of an overwhelming desire to seize all of Italy for himself. It was fate, not coincidence, that he had been named for the imperial rulers of ancient Rome.
So it surprised no one when the Spanish Constable of the Guards—a man once trusted and honoured by Cesare, but who had lost his master’s favour—was found floating in the Tiber. His hands had been tightly bound behind his back, and his body shoved inside a burlap sack.
I n
ever spoke of such things to Lucrezia or Jofre, nor did His Holiness mention them during his audience or at our now occasional suppers, even to denounce the heinous charges against his favourite son. It was as though the incident with the poor constable had never occurred, as though the man had never existed.
There were other deaths Esmeralda spoke of: two occurred under curious circumstances in Cesare’s camp.
The first was the mysterious passing of Bishop Ferdinando d’Almaida. D’Almaida, rumoured to be as wicked and ambitious as any Borgia, relentlessly shadowed Cesare from the instant he married Charlotte d’Albert all the way to the battlefield in Romagna. Many suspected him of being a spy for King Louis.
One day, Cesare declared to his men that d’Almaida had suffered a mortal blow ‘during the course of battle’—but no one was permitted to view the corpse, and a hasty burial followed. Servants who bathed the body reported that the bishop had never received a single wound; the cause of death, instead, was ‘Borgia fever’—a condition caused by a steel-blue powder.
Canterella: a second new term came into fashion, and was whispered throughout Rome.
Sometime after, another victim fell, Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, known as ‘the Lesser’. This cardinal was a young cousin of the Borgias, of a different branch of the family from Cardinal Giovanni Borgia of Monreale, ‘the Greater’, who had presided at my nuptials.
Whatever this unfortunate young Giovanni knew that endangered him, I cannot say. I do know this much: the man was greatly in debt, and close to his more powerful kin. He had set out from Rome to meet with Cesare privately in the Romagna—ostensibly to congratulate him on his recent conquests at Imola and Forli.
But before Giovanni could reach Cesare’s camp, he was consumed by a sudden ague—‘Borgia fever’, no doubt; the symptoms of the canterella were coming to be known as a high fever and a bloody flux. The cardinal died shortly thereafter.
His body was sent back to Rome, where it was swiftly interred at the cathedral at Santa Maria del Popolo. The grave was unmarked.
One night at supper, Jofre remarked that the cardinal’s passing had been a shame.
His Holiness slammed his fork down on the table with such force that we all started; I looked up from my meal to see him red-faced, scowling.
‘Do not mention that name to me ever again,’ Alexander scolded his son, with a ferocity that left us all silent for some time after.
‘Did I mention what Baby Rodrigo did today, at luncheon?’ Lucrezia asked gaily, breaking the awkward pall.
This soothed His Holiness; he turned towards his daughter and smiled expectantly.
‘He is so strong—always kicking his arms and legs—and I know he is far too young, but today, he pulled so hard upon my arm, I thought he would sit up on his own.’
Alexander’s mood immediately became indulgent. ‘You were a strong baby,’ he said, with paternal pride. ‘You and Cesare. Both of you sat up and started walking early; why, I had you upon a saddle with me by the time you were barely two years old.’
Lucrezia returned his smile, relieved that Alexander’s ill humour had passed.
At supper’s end, Lucrezia went over to her father and said softly, ‘You must forgive Jofre. I know he did not mean to trouble you with sad thoughts.’
The Pope’s expression once again grew forbidding; he narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Talk of death over food,’ he said shortly, ‘is bad for the digestion.’
Not long after little Rodrigo’s baptism, Alfonso and I received a formal request from Captain Juan de Cervillon for an audience. I was more than happy to grant it, for he had been so kind to us, and of such great service.
We received him in Alfonso’s antechamber on a bright, sunny winter morning, and I could not help but think of the meeting we had had that past summer, in Naples. I hoped the news he brought was as good, for as long as Alfonso and I had de Cervillon for a friend, I knew he would always work ceaselessly on our behalf to maintain the best possible relations between Naples and the Pope.
He appeared before us, once again dressed smartly, his sabre sheathed at his hip, his dark hair streaked with silver, and bowed to us as we sat before him.
I smiled and proffered my hand for him to kiss. ‘Captain, you are cheerful this morning. I hope you bring happy news.’
‘Both happy and sad,’ he said, but with a gaiety he could not entirely mask, despite his formal military manners.
‘Speak, dear friend,’ Alfonso said, curious.
‘Your Highnesses, I wished to take my formal leave of you before I depart for Naples.’
‘Ah!’ Alfonso replied. ‘Then you are visiting your family for Christmas?’
‘It is not a visit,’ de Cervillon said. ‘His Holiness has given me permanent leave to return to my native city.’
I felt two separate emotions: an honest sorrow to see the good captain go, and a selfish fear. With de Cervillon gone, who would be our champion?
My brother’s face showed only sadness over the loss of a friend. ‘Dear Captain,’ he said. ‘I am sad for our sakes, as we will miss you; but I am happy for yours. You have spent too many years away from your wife and children in the service of His Holiness.’
De Cervillon acknowledged this with a nod. ‘I have petitioned King Federico, that I might serve him.’
‘Then Naples has a lucky king,’ I said at last. ‘And the Pope has lost one of his finest men.’ Despite my best efforts, I could not entirely hide my disappointment. De Cervillon saw it and said:
‘Ah, Your Highness, I am so sorry to make you sad.’
‘I am both sad and happy, as you said,’ I told him, forcing a feeble smile. ‘I will miss you, but it is not good for any man to be away from his family. Besides, I am sure we will meet again; you will visit Rome, and I will some day visit Naples.’
‘That is true,’ de Cervillon acknowledged.
My brother rose; echoing our last meeting in Naples, he said, ‘God be with you, Captain.’
‘And with you both,’ de Cervillon responded. He bowed once again, then left. We stared after him a time in silence.
‘We will never see him again,’ Alfonso said finally, giving voice to my thoughts.
My brother’s words were prophetic, but not in the way I envisioned. Here is the tale as told by Esmeralda:
That very evening, before his scheduled departure the following morning, the captain attended a celebration thrown by his nephew. As he walked home through the streets, warmed by wine and thoughts of home, he was accosted.
If there were witnesses, none ever came forth: his bloodied body, pierced several times through by a blade, was found lying on the street. The attack had happened quickly; I am convinced that whoever attacked de Cervillon was known to him, and in fact considered a friend—for the captain’s sabre had never even been withdrawn from its sheath.
Like other Borgia victims, Church officials seized control of the corpse. Once again, the customary viewing of the deceased was not permitted; in fact, de Cervillon was buried within an hour after his discovery.
For a full day, I grieved for him and would not eat or drink. Indeed, I grieved for all of us.
Winter–Early Summer 1500
XXXI
On the eve of the year 1500, a great feast was thrown in the Sala dei Santi, the Hall of the Saints; the family and many powerful cardinals and nobles were invited. A massive table had been brought in to accommodate the guests and a surfeit of delicacies; enough spiced wine was poured to fill the River Tiber. I had become inured to the excessive grandeur of the papal palace, but on this night, it seemed once again impressive, even magical. The mantel and table had been swathed in evergreen garlands, and decorated with orange pomanders, all of which gave off a sweet scent; the walls and lintels bore swags of gold brocade. The great fireplace had been lit, along with more than a hundred candles, filling the place with such a warm glow that our golden goblets, the gilded ceilings, and the polished marble floors danced with light; even Saint Catherine’s blond h
air sparkled.
His Holiness was in an exceedingly jovial mood, despite his frailty. He had aged noticeably of late: his eyes had yellowed with jaundice, his hair had turned from iron grey to white. The folds of skin beneath his weak chin had grown pendulous, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with broken veins. Yet he was dressed resplendently in a mantle of gold-and-white brocade studded with diamonds, and a skullcap woven from pure gold thread, created especially for the event.
As he lifted his goblet, his hand shook slightly. ‘To the year 1500!’ he cried, to the large assembly gathered about him at the table. ‘To the year of Jubilee!’
He smiled, the proud patriarch, as we echoed his words back to him. He then sat, and gestured for us all to do the same.
Since this was such a momentous occasion, Alexander felt compelled to deliver a small speech. ‘The Christian Jubilee,’ he announced, as if we were not already familiar with the term, ‘was instituted two hundred years ago by Pope Boniface VIII. It is based on the ancient Israelite custom of observing one sacred year out of every fifty—a time when all sins were forgiven. It is not,’ he added, with a waggish air of pedantry, ‘from the Latin word jubilo, “to shout”, as most Latin scholars assume, but rather from the Hebrew, jobel, the ram’s horn used to mark the beginning of a celebration.’ He spread his hands. ‘Boniface extended the fifty years to one hundred…and here we are, only hours away from an event most never live long enough to experience.’
His tone grew prideful. ‘All of the hard work we undertook last year—the widening of the roads, restoring gates and bridges, repairing damages to Peter’s basilica—is now worthwhile.’ Here, he paused as the cardinals, many of whom had been involved in overseeing the work, applauded. ‘Rome is ready, as we all are, for a time of great joy and forgiveness. I have issued a bull proclaiming that those pilgrims who visit Rome and Saint Peter’s during this Holy Year shall have all their sins forgiven. We expect more than two hundred thousand souls to make the journey.’