He let go a groan—not of grief, but of great inconvenience.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded again. ‘Who speaks?’
I lowered my fan, drew back my hood, and lifted the mask to fully reveal my face; I showed him a regal haughtiness worthy of my father at his coronation. Bereft of supporters, he was no more than a whimpering coward.
‘Call me Justice,’ I said.
XXXVIII
I moved swiftly down the staircase and returned to Jofre; he sat, shoulders slumped with guilt and grief, beside the motionless form of the Pope. I glanced at Alexander: his eyes were half-open now, dulled and sightless, fixed on a far-distant spot beyond the walls; his lips had been forced open by his violet-black, swelling tongue. His great broad chest had at last fallen still, and rose no more.
Around us, two servants—a man and a woman—were busily stuffing exquisite gold-threaded tapestries into a sack; others, I knew, would soon join them, and Alexander’s quarters would soon be as bare as Cesare’s. Yet neither I nor my husband made any move to stop them.
I took Jofre’s hand. His own remained limp; he did not return my grip, and I let his fingers slip away from mine. He spoke in a tone devoid of feeling, his gaze fixed on the body of the man who for so many years had owned him as son. ‘Gasparre has gone to tell the cardinals, and make preparations. Someone will come to wash him, then take him for burial.’
I stood silent for a time, then said gently, ‘I am going home.’
He grasped my tacit meaning and turned his face away. I understood from the gesture that he had decided to return to Squillace; from that time on, we would live apart. He was not strong enough to remain with the one who had lifted the final dose to his father’s lips, not strong enough to live in the presence of our shared guilt.
I leaned down, placed a gentle kiss upon his head, and left him.
By the time I arrived once more at the Vatican gates, most of the guards had fled; those few who remained let me pass without jeering. An odd silence fell over them at the sight of me, as if they sensed my power.
I walked through the gates onto the cobblestone piazza of Saint Peter, unafraid of the darkness despite being a woman unarmed. My spirit felt light—like Rome, the Romagna, the Marches, finally free of the Borgia curse. My brother’s ghost had been avenged, and could rest at last. Ironically, Cesare had finally given me those things he had promised in the heat of love: my native city and a child.
In the distance, on the other side of the Tiber, stood the Castel Sant’Angelo, with the Archangel Michael spreading his wings over the stone keep; several of the tiny windows—those of Cesare’s madwomen—glowed yellow. I smiled, knowing that Rodrigo and Donna Esmeralda awaited me there.
Behind me, the bells of Saint Peter’s began their dolorous toll.
I stepped onto the bridge and crossed the dark river; this time I smelled only sweet brine. My heart was already in Naples, where the sun gleams off the pure blue waters of the bay.
Afterword
The details of Pope Alexander VI’s viewing and burial are particularly gruesome. After his death, his body was washed and clothed and, following custom, put on display in Saint Peter’s so that it could be visited by the faithful. But as it lay in state, the Pope’s body swelled monstrously and blackened, becoming so frightful in appearance that it was covered. The people began to murmur that Alexander had been possessed by the Devil, or had at the very least sold his soul for temporal power. Accompanied by a small group, the body was swiftly carried away for burial—to the chapel of Santa Maria della Febbri, where Alfonso of Aragon had been taken only a few years before.
The actual interment was horrific: Alexander’s corpse was so swollen it failed to fit into the coffin, and was literally beaten into it with shovels. A great stone was placed atop the grave to keep the lid in place.
Although he eventually recovered, Cesare was resoundingly abandoned by all who had previously supported him. The treacherous Don Micheletto Corella confronted the Pope’s Treasurer at knife-point, and made away with most of the papal funds; King Louis deserted Cesare at once. Friendless, with countless enemies in Italy and no support in France, Cesare was arrested by King Ferdinand of Spain. The monarch had been lobbied for years by Juan’s wife, who publicly accused Cesare of her husband’s murder. Cesare eventually managed to escape, however, and distracted himself by fighting in minor skirmishes.
As for Sancha, she succeeded in returning to Naples with her nephew Rodrigo, while Jofre returned to Squillace to rule. Curiously, Cesare brought the Roman Infante, Giovanni—his and Lucrezia’s illegitimate son—to Sancha in 1503, asking that she raise the boy; one can only speculate that Cesare still had affection and respect for her. Sancha acquiesced to his request and took care of the two children, surrounded by the surviving female members of her family. Unfortunately, she died shortly thereafter of an unrecorded illness. Historians disagree on the year: some list it as 1504, others as 1506.
Interestingly, Cesare died not long after: in 1507, in Viani, Italy, while serving as a mercenary, he unwisely rode so far ahead of his own troops that he was immediately surrounded by the enemy and killed. Many considered his death a suicide.
Lucrezia remained in Ferrara and bore Alfonso d’Este four children. Towards the end of her life, she became increasingly religious, and took to wearing hair shirts beneath her glamorous gowns. In 1518, she joined the Third Order of Saint Francis of Assisi. She died in 1519, after giving birth to a short-lived baby girl.
Jofre returned to Squillace. Upon Sancha’s passing, he married Maria de Mila and produced many heirs. He remained at his estate until his death in 1517.
Historians have speculated for centuries as to who actually poisoned Alexander VI and his eldest son. The mystery has never been solved.
Sancha of Aragon and the Borgias provided delicious nuggets of history. Here are some recorded facts which are included in this novel: the madness of Ferrante I and Alfonso II of Naples; Ferrante’s ‘museum’ of mummified enemies (yes, he talked to them); Alfonso II’s witnessing of his own daughter’s marriage act with Jofre Borgia; Alfonso II’s abandonment of Naples and theft of the Crown treasure; Savonarola’s prediction that Pope Alexander VI was the Antichrist; the Pope’s lewd conduct with women, including his fondness for dropping chocolates down women’s bodices, and his love for his teenage mistress, Giulia; Lucrezia’s unwed pregnancy and her incest with her father and brother; the murders of dozens of cardinals and nobles by the Borgias; the filling of the Tiber River with literally hundreds of bodies during the period of the ‘Borgia terror’ the hanging of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza’s guest; Cesare’s murder of his brother, Juan, Duke of Gandia; Cesare’s acts of rape and barbarism during the war; Don Micheletto Corella’s murder of Alfonso of Aragon in the Hall of the Sibyls; Sancha’s arrest and subsequent mad preaching from the Castel Sant’Angelo tower. I have omitted mention of numerous other murders to spare the reader redundancy.
Also by Jeanne Kalogridis
The Burning Times
Acknowledgements
This novel centres around a woman thrust into the role of a hero. Heroes are uncommon, but I have been blessed to come across more than a few in my life, and I would like to name some of them here.
First, I am indebted to Jane Johnson—especially for her extreme patience, her keen, boundless talent as an editor, and her refusal to accept less than my best. Without her inspired comments and suggestions, this book simply would not be. Thanks must also go to her associate at HarperCollins UK, Emma Coode, for all her wise input. Both have, in no small way, helped to shape this novel for the better.
I am also deeply grateful to my heroic U.S. agent, Russell Galen, for his saintly tolerance, his unwavering support, and his constant hand-holding; in addition I wish to thank my foreign agent, Danny Baror, for his unparalleled tenacity as my advocate. Both of these gentlemen are brilliant negotiators; I’m fortunate to have them on my side.
Now, the greatest hero of all: my husband, Georg
e. George has endured with good humour what no partner should have to—helping an extremely cranky novelist edit her bulky manuscript. His eye for spotting repetitious phrases and logical gaps is unmatched, and he offered up numerous ideas (which I cheerfully stole) for making dull scenes in this novel come to life. (His suggestions for Sancha and Jofre’s wedding night helped make the encounter far more poignant.) Over the twenty-odd years I’ve been writing, George has been pressed into service countless times during every stage of the book. Here are heartfelt thanks for you, sweetheart, though I know they do little to ease the pain.
THE BORGIA BRIDE. Copyright © 2005 by Jeanne Kalogridis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Map and family trees drawn by Leslie Robinson
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kalogridis, Jeanne.
The Borgia bride / Jeanne Kalogridis.—1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-312-34138-1
1. Italy—History—1492–1559—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Married women—Fiction. 4. Borgia family—Fiction. 5. Rome (Italy)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A41675B67 2005
813'.54—dc22
2004066433
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers
Jeanne Kalogridis, The Borgia Bride
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