Little Rodrigo misses you, too; he asks constantly for his Tia Sancha. You would not recognize him: he has grown so! Each day he comes to resemble his father more and more.
There is little news to tell: the days are all the same, and blur together. But I must report that, not long after my arrival, Cesare and his army came and made camp here one night. I was obliged to entertain him, and the more outstanding members of his company.
He travels now with the artist and inventor, Leonardo da Vinci. Don Leonardo came to supper that night. He is a kindly old man, eccentric-looking, with a crooked nose, large, startling eyes, and long white hair and beard which are both unkempt. Despite his age, his mind is exceptionally keen. Cesare says he is an engineering genius, and has proven of great use in terms of using explosives for the demolition of bridges. I only know that he was very gentle and possessed of a fine sense of humour. While we sat at dinner, he called for parchment, and produced a quill and ink which he keeps on his person at all times; while Cesare spoke at length about the military campaign, Don Leonardo proceeded to draw. Rodrigo appeared, and showed quite an interest: I was about to take the child back to the nursery and chide him for bothering a guest, but Don Leonardo was very sweet, and let Rodrigo sit on his knee and watch while he made his sketch.
Back to Cesare, and his campaign. I must mention here another member of his company, a certain Niccolo Machiavelli—a tight-lipped, unpleasant man—who scarcely touched his supper because he was recording furiously in a diary while my brother spoke, as though Cesare’s words were pearls.
My brother told me he took the properties surrounding Bologna and Florence easily; the great cities signed over fortresses and estates out of fear of his army, since it has been strengthened by a gift of ten thousand men from King Louis. Cesare now says he is invincible, and can march through Italy and seize whatever lands he wishes.
Once my brother was done speaking, at the end of the supper, Don Leonardo presented me with a completed sketch. I was very flattered, for it was a rendering of me as I had appeared at the table; yet I was surprised to see how very sad my own expression was, for I had been making an effort to seem bright and lively for my guests.
Beneath my portrait, Don Leonardo had written a line from the poet Sannazaro:
Per pianto la mia carne si distilla.
My flesh melts away with my tears.
He is very wise, Don Leonardo. He sees through outward appearances to the very soul of the person, and has the magical talent of conveying what is in a heart using mere parchment and ink. There are many other things I could tell you, but a letter is not the best means for conveying what I wish to say. I shall have to wait until I can see you again in person.
I pray for you each night, sister, and think of you with great fondness. Never did I find a better or more trustworthy friend. May God keep you well.
Affectionately,
Lucrezia
I folded the letter back up and put it for safekeeping inside my little copy of Petrarch. I understood that Lucrezia could not fully share her thoughts with me; I understood her allusions to her great sorrow, her hints that she was overwhelmed by guilt, her statement that she was ‘obliged’ to entertain her brother—which meant she had done so quite unwillingly. She had hinted at her longing for forgiveness.
I could not, would not respond. What news had I to share? That I had gone mad with grief, due in part to her treachery? That the only thing that brought me joy was the thought of revenge against Cesare?
Later, I privately showed the letter to Dorotea de la Crema. Her lips thinned as she read; at last, she nodded. ‘Cesare is seizing whatever lands he wishes,’ she confirmed. ‘And whatever women, too. I have heard the latest news; when he conquers a new town, he seizes all the noblewomen for his travelling harem. And every night, he chooses a new woman to humiliate.’
Such news fuelled my hatred, and made me dream at night: of seizing the sword that still impaled my heart, of using it to strike out, with a flash of steel, and sever Cesare’s head from his body in a single, avenging blow. Of smiling as I watched the head topple and roll away from the falling corpse, of watching the most evil blood to fill any veins flow freely as the Tiber.
Oddly, in the dream, I heard my brother’s voice cheerfully repeat: You have simply tried to kill the wrong man.
Summer 1501–Early Winter 1503
XXXVI
The egg has cracked, Alfonso said. He was dressed, as always, in pale blue satin; his visage was uncharacteristically stern, a warning. And this time it cannot be repaired…
I woke with a gasp to a humid August morning, and the sound of Esmeralda’s cries out in the antechamber. I ran out to find her huddled over, clutching her heart, as if she was in the grip of a fierce pain.
‘Esmeralda!’ I rushed to her side and caught her fleshy upper arms. She was older now, and quite plump; I thought at once of Ferrante’s attack of apoplexy, and helped her to a chair. ‘Sit, darling…’ I rose, found wine and poured a goblet, then raised the rim to her lips. ‘Here, drink. Then the guard will fetch the doctor.’
She took a sip, coughed, then with a dismissive wave of her hand, wheezed, ‘No doctor!’ She looked up at me, her eyes full of grief, and said wretchedly, ‘Oh, Donna Sancha! If only this were something a doctor could help…’ She drew a gasping breath, then added, ‘Do not call the guard. I just spoke to him. He brought news…’
‘What has happened?’ I demanded.
‘Our Naples,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with a corner of her pendulous sleeve. ‘Oh, Madonna, it breaks my heart…Your uncle, Federico, was forced from the throne into exile. King Ferdinand the Catholic and King Louis—they conspired and joined their armies; now they share rule of Naples. Today, the French and Spanish banners both fly over the Castel Nuovo. Ferdinand is now regent of the city proper.’
I released a long breath as I knelt slowly beside her. Even though Alfonso’s death had stolen from me my reason and joy, there had always remained the faint but distant hope that someday, I might return home—to the royal palace, to Federico and the brothers, and the family I had known. Now that, too, had been taken from me.
The royal House of Aragon was no more.
I was too stunned for speech. Donna Esmeralda and I remained silent, grieving in silence for some moments until I said knowingly, a corner of my lip twitching with hatred: ‘And Cesare Borgia…he rode with King Louis’ army into the city.’
She looked at me, astonished. ‘Why, yes, Madonna…How did you know?’
I did not answer.
I fell again into a numb despair, one that even Esmeralda and the doctor’s draught could not pierce. My only respite came during my walks with Donna Dorotea—who now did almost all of the speaking while I listened, mute and uninterested.
One day she brought news of Lucrezia, who had returned to Rome that autumn in response to the adamant summons of her father. Dorotea relayed an encounter between the Pope and his daughter. In the papal throne room, in the presence of Lucrezia’s ladies, the Pope’s servants and the chamberlain, His Holiness told Lucrezia that he and Cesare had studied the suitors lined up for her hand. They had chosen one: Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina. Orsini had proposed marriage to Lucrezia a few years earlier, but had been rejected in favour of my brother.
Now, Alexander informed his daughter, she would become the Duchess of Gravina. Politically, this was the wisest course of action.
No, Lucrezia had told her father. She would have nothing to do with the man.
Startled, Alexander had asked her reason.
‘Because all my husbands have been very unlucky!’ Lucrezia announced angrily, and stormed from the chamber without asking His Holiness’ leave.
Word of this spread quickly throughout Rome. When the Duke of Gravina heard of her refusal, he took great offence (or perhaps he considered the truth of Lucrezia’s words), and withdrew his offer at once.
Shortly thereafter, I found myself restless one evening, and took to wand
ering the corridors. Winter was approaching, and I kept my cape wrapped tightly about me as I headed for the loggia, to take in the bracing night air.
Even before I stepped from the landing onto the floor, I could hear the bells of Saint Peter’s, singing a funeral dirge.
Staring out over the balcony’s edge, pale as the fur she was wrapped in, stood a small, slender woman wrapped in white ermine, accompanied by guards who waited at a respectful distance. I was so distracted by the bells, I was almost upon her before I noticed her.
She was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen, more beautiful even than the Pope’s former mistress, the delicate Giulia. This woman was alabaster-skinned, golden-haired, with blue eyes brighter than any gem; in her bearing was a rare dignity and grace, and in her gaze was a profound sadness. I understood at once why Cesare had wanted to possess her.
‘Caterina Sforza,’ I breathed.
She turned her striking features toward me and regarded me. There was no hostility in her gaze, no condescension, only a grief that verged on madness.
She moved slightly aside, making room at the balcony. It was a clear invitation and I took it, stepping up to stand beside her.
She was silent some time, gazing out again at the piazza in front of the great stone edifice of Saint Peter’s, where a torch-lit funeral procession was slowly making its way out of the cathedral and into the street. From the number of mourners, I judged the deceased to be a person of some importance.
At last Donna Caterina sighed. ‘Another cardinal, no doubt,’ she said, in a voice stronger and more resonant than I would have expected, ‘cut down in order to finance Cesare’s wars.’ She paused. ‘Each time I hear the bells toll, I pray they are for the Holy Father.’
‘I pray they are for Cesare,’ I countered. ‘He is a far worthier candidate for death.’
She looked at me, tilting her lovely head and appraising me frankly. ‘It is better if Alexander dies first, you see,’ she explained. ‘For if his son predeceases him, he will simply find another Cesare to head his army, and continue the Borgia terror. It is a game they play together: the Pope merely pretends not to be able to control Cesare’s cruelty, but believe me, each hand knows exactly what the other is doing at all times. Of course, if Alexander were to die…’ She leaned toward me and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Surely I told you what the Venetian ambassador said to me, long ago, about Cesare.’
I smiled politely. ‘We have never spoken, Madonna.’ I could not fault her for her confusion; I was not in full possession of my senses myself.
She seemed not to hear my words. ‘It was some time ago, before he murdered Lucrezia’s last husband. Cesare was busy testing the waters, playing Spain against France, and France against Spain, waiting to see which alliance would prove the most advantageous.’ She laughed softly. ‘He was so inconstant…He actually went to the Venetian ambassador at one point and swore allegiance to Venice. He said that he trusted neither France nor Spain to protect him should anything happen to the Holy Father. And the ambassador told him, most frankly, ‘You would certainly need help, it is true; for if anything ever happened to His Holiness, your affairs would not last three days.’ She laughed again, and directed her attention once more to the torches moving silently through the dark streets of Rome.
I followed her gaze and contemplated the tiny travelling flames, the small black shapes of the grieving that faded into the surrounding night. Born of madness or not, my brother’s ghost had spoken the truth: I had tried to kill the wrong man.
For the first time since coming to the Castel Sant’Angelo, I considered the canterella in my possession not as a means of self-destruction, but as a solution to the problems facing all of Italy. I returned to my rooms and sat brooding for hours. I possessed the weapon, but not sufficient knowledge of its use; nor did I have the means to deliver it to its target. I was watched at all times: I could scarcely walk into the Vatican and offer His Holiness a cup of wine. Esmeralda, too, was closely guarded; she no longer possessed the freedom to contact an assassin.
‘I am ready,’ I whispered to the strega in the darkness. ‘But if I am to fulfil my destiny, you must send help. I cannot accomplish this alone.’
The next day at dusk, as I sat in my antechamber with Donna Esmeralda waiting for supper to be delivered, the doors were thrown open without the usual courteous knock. We turned; the two guards flanking the entrance bowed low as first Donna Maria, then Lucrezia herself, entered.
Donna Esmeralda rose and stared balefully at the two women, her arms folded across her chest in silent disapproval of our visitors.
I said nothing, but stood and studied Lucrezia. She was clad in blue-green silk skirts, with a matching velvet bodice and sleeves; her neck sparkled with emeralds, and diamonds dotted the gold netting covering her hair. She was dressed grandly, in the Roman style, while I had gone back to wearing unadorned Neapolitan black.
But all her finery could not hide her pallor, or put the spark of life back into her haggard, hollow eyes. Sorrow had worn her; any prettiness she ever possessed had fled.
At the sight of me, she gave a small, tentative smile and spread her arms.
I offered no welcome. I stared steadily at her, my arms at my sides, and watched her smile fade to an expression of veiled hurt and guilt.
‘Why have you come?’ I asked. There was no rancour in my tone, only bluntness.
She motioned for Donna Esmeralda and Donna Maria to step outside into the corridor; after they complied, she ordered the guards to close the doors, giving us privacy.
Once assured our words had no witnesses, she answered, ‘I was in Rome.’ Her voice was soft, tinged with shame. ‘But I shall not remain here long. I had to see for myself how you were faring. I have been worried; I heard you were unwell.’
‘It is all true, what they have said,’ I told her flatly. ‘I quite lost my mind. But it returns to me now and again.’
‘And it is all true, what they have said about me,’ she replied, with a trace of irony. ‘I am obliged to marry again.’
I had no reply for such a statement—not when Alfonso’s ghost hovered between us, a silent rebuke.
Lucrezia’s gaze was fixed not on me, but down and away, on a distant spot in the past, as though her explanation were an apology to my brother, not to me. Her face grew taut with loathing and self-disgust. ‘I refused at first—but I am far too valuable a political commodity to have my own way. My father and Cesare…I need not tell you what pressure they brought to bear on me.’ A slight flush coloured her cheeks, as an unspoken memory provoked her anger; she gathered herself, and finally looked directly at me.
‘But I convinced them to let me make the choice, leaving them with final approval. They agreed. I have made it, and they have approved.’ She drew a breath. ‘I chose a D’Este of Ferrara.’
‘A D’Este,’ I whispered. My cousins in the Romagna. Cesare never dared attack them; their army was too strong. He had long ago told me that he would prefer to make them his allies.
‘Cesare likes the arrangement, because he thinks it will bring him more soldiers,’ Lucrezia confided. ‘I was required to visit them, so the old duke, my potential father-in-law, could be assured I was a “Madonna of good character”, as he put it.’ She gave a wry, fleeting smile. ‘I passed old Ercole’s test. But what I did not tell Father or Cesare is that the D’Estes will never be convinced to fight for the papacy. They are good Catholics, but they are wise: they do not trust Pope Alexander or his Captain-General.
‘Duke Ercole insists that I go to Ferrara to wed his son, and live there afterwards, which I have agreed to eagerly. I will never again return to Rome. I will stay with my new husband, surrounded by a strong family and a strong army which cannot be bent to the Borgias’ will.’ Her voice grew laden with emotion. ‘His name is Alfonso.’
It took me a moment to realize that she had uttered the name of her intended groom: Alfonso d’Este, my brother’s cousin.
‘So you se
e,’ she continued, ‘this is to be our last meeting, Sancha.’ She regarded me with sad affection. ‘If there was only something I could do to help your circumstances…’
‘There is,’ I answered immediately. ‘You can do me one final act of kindness.’
‘Anything.’ She waited, eager, expectant.
‘You can tell me how much of the canterella it takes to kill a man.’
She was utterly startled at first, then composed herself and grew very still. Through the distant look in her eyes, her expression, I watched her travel back to the convent of San Sisto, where she had been pregnant with Cesare’s child, and so filled with despair that she planned to end her life.
I watched her recall the missing vial of poison.
She studied me intently then; our gazes met, both steady. In that wordless exchange, we shared complicity in a plot as solid, as explicit in goal as any hatched by her brother and father. To kill a man, I had said. She knew, from the resolve in my shoulders, in the upward tilt of my jaw, that I had no intention of using the vial’s contents on myself.
I was never so sure of her loyalty, or her gratitude.
‘Only a few grains,’ she replied at last. ‘It is extremely potent. It is slightly bitter, so sprinkle it onto food—something sweet, like honey or jam, or directly into wine. That way, the victim cannot taste it.’
I gave a slow nod. ‘Thank you.’
In the next instant, it was as though we had never spoken of such things; her expression changed abruptly. A look of yearning crept into her eyes, a plea. I countered quickly before she could ask the question:
‘Do not ask me for forgiveness, Lucrezia, for I can never give it.’
The last flicker of hope in her eyes died, like a flame extinguished. ‘Then I will pray to God for it,’ she said solemnly. ‘And I will ask only that you remember me.’