Chapter 2
CESARE
Rome, September 1492
The archbishop’s purple velvet mantle and robes of purple silk were damnably uncomfortable in the Roman heat. Even sitting in the shade of the loggia in my mother’s lush courtyard, I felt as though I were roasting in hellfire—as well I may, for being as I was and daring to wear an archbishop’s robes anyway. If the Almighty takes issue with me for such, I would beg him to lay the blame at my illustrious father’s door, I thought crossly, pulling the collar irritably away from my neck. He had not wasted much time after his elevation to the throne of St. Peter in bestowing upon me his old archbishopric, and as such I was now the Archbishop of Valencia.
Yet hypocrisy amongst His servants did not seem to bother God in the least, judging by all I had observed in my years in Rome and elsewhere in Italy. Were He to set about smiting them, He would have a very long list to attend to before reaching me.
As my mind ranged over these dark musings, a pair of cool hands covered my eyes. “Lucrezia,” I said, smiling as I heard her telltale giggle. I seized her arm, tugging her around me and into my lap.
“Cesare, germà,” she said in the Catalan we always spoke when we were alone as a family, kissing my cheek. “Perhaps it is just as well that you are not a warrior, for I was able to sneak up behind you quite unnoticed!”
The same words from our brother Juan would have set my fingers itching for my dagger, that I might cut out his tongue, but from my sister they made me laugh. “Ah, but even the greatest of warriors shall always be bested by woman’s wit and cunning,” I said, my tongue sliding into Catalan as well, still familiar after all those years of speaking only Italian and Latin at school.
She giggled again. “I have taken the liberty of sending for some chilled wine, if it pleases Your Excellency,” she said.
I groaned. “None of this ‘Excellency’ business from you of all people, Crezia,” I said. “Though the wine will please me well enough.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Donna Adriana has taken to reminding me of proper addresses and courtesies,” she said. “She says I need them now that Father is the pope.” We both crossed ourselves at this mention of the change in our family’s fortunes. “Summer is the time for making popes, it seems,” she added.
“It seems so, indeed,” I agreed.
One of the servants came bearing a tray with a decanter of wine and two glasses. Lucrezia poured the straw-colored liquid herself, first mine, then hers. I took a grateful sip and closed my eyes, letting the sweet, cool liquid roll over my tongue.
“And so it seems everything Father planned has come to pass,” Lucrezia said, leaning back in her chair with the listless grace of a young girl. “Soon he can make you a cardinal, and he will send me off to marry.”
I remained silent, not sharing the rumor that was making the rounds of Rome: supposedly our father had offered Lucrezia’s hand as a bride to the family of the cardinal who had brought him the most votes in conclave. No one knew for sure which cardinal this was, but the consensus seemed to be that Ascanio Sforza, the younger brother of Ludovico Sforza of Milan, had been the one to tip the scales. Sforza was still rather young for a prince of the Church, and that he had been promoted to the post of Vice-Chancellor of the Curia—my father’s old post, and the most important and lucrative after the throne of St. Peter itself—just after the conclave, over the heads of older and perhaps better qualified candidates—such as Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, my father’s old enemy—spoke volumes.
Technically Lucrezia was betrothed to a Spanish nobleman from Valencia—our family’s place of origin and my new archbishopric—but such a contract could and would be easily set aside. There would be much higher targets, much more prominent and profitable matches, for the daughter of a pope as opposed to the daughter of a cardinal.
The very thought of my dear sister being used as a bargaining chip in the tawdry game of politics was enough to make me want to do my father injury, sin though it was to raise a hand against one’s father. And raising a hand to the Holy Father was a sin that no doubt Lucifer himself would hesitate to contemplate.
“And has His Holiness spoken to you of your marriage yet?” I asked casually.
My sister shook her head, her gold curls tumbling about her shoulders. “No,” she said. “His Holiness has, I believe, had much more pressing matters on his mind. Perhaps soon, once he has become accustomed to his new station.”
Our father had had much to preoccupy him since his ascent, but I knew him better than Lucrezia did if she thought her marriage was not a pressing matter to him.
It galled me that I had been in Rome two weeks already and still had not been summoned to the Vatican. After his election, I had been rousted from Siena, where I’d been preparing a horse to race in the Palio, and sent to our family’s castle in Spoleto, an old and out-of-the-way place where nothing ever happened, to bide my time until I was needed. Yet now I had been sent for, ordered to return to Rome, and still I had not seen my father. I should not be forced to speculate about his doings; I should be by his side, his right hand, helping him and our family to greatness. I understood why I was not: Roman gossips and Vatican power mongers alike would be quick with accusations of nepotism should the new Holy Father show too much favor to his family too quickly. Pope Alexander would know best how to proceed; yet knowing this did not make the waiting easier.
And as to Lucrezia’s marriage, that was a subject on which I would have much to say, whether His Holiness asked for my opinion or not.
“It is all in God’s hands,” Lucrezia added.
I held my tongue. My pious sister could not begin to imagine how little of God was to be found in the running of His Church. No doubt she would learn someday, and the day Lucrezia lost her faith would be a dark one for us all.
“But while we wait,” I said, “let us enjoy the sunshine, and this delicious wine you have been so good as to pour for us.” I raised my glass in a toast. “You shall win the day no matter what His Holiness decides for you,” I said, “for you will always be the most beautiful woman in Rome.”
She giggled, and drank along with me.
Our talk turned to other things: Lucrezia’s complaints about Madonna Adriana, our father’s cousin and her governess, and how our mother’s temper grew ever shorter in the Roman heat. I regaled her with stories of my time in Pisa and Siena that had not made it into my frequent letters to her and assured her the castle at Spoleto was as dingy and boring as ever.
Soon our pleasant afternoon was quite spoiled by the arrival of our brother Juan, the Duke of Gandia, a Spanish title our father had seen bestowed upon him several years back. Even in the heat, Juan was dressed in his usual outlandish costume: bright yellow leggings with a yellow and crimson striped doublet. His black hat sported a large white feather, and he wore a codpiece so enormous that it was only a matter of time before some whore he patronized accused him of making false promises.
“Sister,” he said, sweeping a bow over Lucrezia’s hand and kissing it. He turned and bowed to me as well, this time with mockery in every movement of his muscles. “Your most esteemed Excellency.”
I ignored him.
“Wine, germà?” Lucrezia said, signaling to a servant, who waited just out of sight. “I shall send for another glass.”
“You know me too well,” he said, flopping down into the chair on Lucrezia’s other side. “My mother’s house is always the coolest and most pleasurable oasis in all of Rome.”
“The whores will be surprised to hear it,” I sniped. “No doubt since you have taken your leave of them, they are flooding the churches to offer thanks for their deliverance.”
Petulant anger crossed Juan’s face. “Jealousy is unbecoming to a man of the cloth, brother,” he said. “Just because you do not know how to use what is under those archbishop’s skirts of yours—”
Lucrezia took both of our hands. “Please!” she cried. “Be at peace! It is far too hot for such petty quarrels. C
an you two ever be together without arguing?”
Chastened, I fell silent and turned my attention back to my wine. I would never enjoy Juan’s company, but the last thing I wanted was to upset Lucrezia.
“It has been damnably difficult to see Father since the coronation,” Juan said, idly spinning the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and forefinger. “I do not suppose you have had any luck, Cesare? I would speak with him.”
In debt again, are you? I nearly asked. “His Holiness is no doubt quite busy with the affairs of Holy Mother Church,” I answered instead. I would be damned if I would admit to Juan that I had not seen our father since being summoned home, though he likely knew. “He has much less time for family matters.”
“It sounds as though you do not know our father as well as I, Cesare,” Juan said, smirking. “Has he not told us all these years that it is precisely for the family’s benefit that he must rise to the throne of St. Peter? The business of the family and the business of Holy Mother Church are one and the same, I think.”
“Of course,” I snapped, losing patience. “It is all a matter of appearances, fool. He must be seen to serve the Church first, and his family second.”
“Ah, well,” Juan said, still grinning. “This is why Father made you the cleric. Men of action like me have no head for politics.”
“Even so, a brain in your head would not go amiss,” I grumbled.
“You two agreed not to fight!” Lucrezia cried in a petulant tone I did not often hear. She must be upset indeed for her persona of the poised, elegant Roman lady, for which she strived so hard, to slip.
I sighed. “Perdó, germana,” I said.
“We shall behave ourselves, if only to see our little sister smile,” Juan added, and at his words a small smile bloomed on her lips.
“Juan! Cesare!” a high voice exclaimed, and a small boy crashed into me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I laughed and ruffled my youngest brother’s hair. “Jofre,” I said. “I have missed you!”
“I missed you, too!” he cried. He ran around me to hug Juan, who pulled him into his lap.
“Why, I only saw you a few days ago, and I swear by the Virgin you have grown since then!” Juan said.
“Like a weed, that one is,” said a low, throaty feminine voice, and I immediately rose from my chair to face my mother. I swept her a bow and kissed her hand. “Madre,” I said, switching to Italian. Though her years with Rodrigo Borgia—and his children—had taught her much of the Catalan tongue, she still preferred her native Italian.
“Cesare,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Welcome home, figlio mio.” She smiled as she appraised my attire. “Or as I should rightly say, ‘Welcome home, Your Excellency.’”
“My mother can address me however she pleases,” I said.
Vannozza dei Cattanei was a handsome woman, with a dark Roman complexion and rich auburn hair that had yet to show signs of silver. It was easy to see how she had caught—and kept—Cardinal Borgia’s eye for all those years. Now she seemed quite comfortable in her palazzo—purchased for her by her old lover—with Carlo Canale, her new husband. Canale had also been procured for her by our father, who had also seen to it that he had the post of Governor of the Torre di Nona, the city prison, so he might keep his wife in the style to which she was accustomed.
She went to kiss Lucrezia, then Juan, before taking a seat at the table, and Juan poured her a glass of wine. “I hope you will all stay for dinner,” she said. “It has been some time since I had all my children about me.” She smiled at each of us in turn.
“I would be honored,” I said.
“Indeed, Mother,” Juan said. “I can think of no place I would rather be.”
Juan patted Jofre on the back and shifted him off his lap. “Run and fetch the chess board, little brother,” he said. “I must see how far you have progressed since we last played.”
Jofre ran to do as he was bidden, and the five of us spent a pleasant evening together in the garden as the shadows lengthened and the air cooled. Even Juan and I managed to be civil to each other, a rare feat. Our mother provided us with a simple meal of cold soup, bread, cheese, and some cured meats—the perfect light fare for a hot summer evening.
As the sun began to set, Mother asked me to see Lucrezia home, saying a young noble girl can never have too many guards on the streets of Rome.
“Even the pope’s daughter can never be too safe,” she said. She shivered as she reached up to brush a long strand of unruly hair away from my face. “Nor can the pope’s sons, for that matter. I worry about you, Cesare,” she said, lowering her voice so the others could not hear. “I worry about you all, now that we are the first family of Rome.” She glanced back to the table, where Juan and Jofre were engaged in an arm wrestling contest for the last sugared plum; Juan, in a great show of being overpowered, yielded to our brother, who squealed with delight before presenting his prize to Lucrezia.
My mother looked back up at me. “I used to miss the power that being Rodrigo’s mistress gave me,” she said. “All those petitioners lined up at my door, bringing me gifts and promises in hopes I might whisper their desires in his ear. All the women in Rome scorning me yet craning their necks to see me so they might copy whatever I was wearing. And yet God has blessed me doubly,” she went on, “in that I now enjoy a simple life, as a simple gentlewoman with her husband.” She sighed. “Rodrigo would think I had taken leave of my senses to hear me say it, but it is this simpler life that I would wish for my children, if it were within my power to wish anything for them.”
I embraced my mother tightly. “It is a mother’s prerogative to make wishes for her children,” I said.
She smiled. “I know you do not believe me, Cesare. But I think the day will come when you will remember my words and realize I was right. Mothers usually are,” she teased.
I laughed and kissed the top of her head—when had she become so small, and I so tall? I glanced over at my brothers and sister, and for a moment I understood what she was saying—and yet I would never be free of my ambition, even if it did not align completely with my father’s. Who would I be, if I were a simple gentleman, and not Cesare Borgia? I did not know, and I would never be given the chance to find out.
Chapter 3
MADDALENA
Not much changed for those of us in service at the Vatican Palace when the new pope took over. There were still the same tasks to see to, the same rooms to be cleaned, the same floors to be scrubbed, and the same laundry to be washed. The Holy Father was to be obeyed whoever he was, and his earthly house was to be kept clean and running smoothly so he could attend to far more lofty matters.
One morning I was returning to the kitchens with an empty tray from one of the cardinals’ rooms—the new Vice-Chancellor, Ascanio Sforza by name—when I passed a man heading for the Holy Father’s audience chamber. He was rather garishly dressed, in brightly colored hose and tunic with a huge codpiece, and wearing a hat with a large feather in it. He winked and leered at me as I passed, and I cast my eyes down. Surely such a man was not fit for an audience with the Holy Father?
I caught up with one of the other maids, Fabrizia, at the end of the hallway. “Fabrizia,” I murmured, my voice low so my words would not echo off the marble floors and walls, “who is that man?” I jerked my chin toward the man’s retreating back.
She snickered. “That’s Juan Borgia. The pope’s son,” she confided.
I gasped. All of Rome knew of the existence of Cardinal Borgia’s children—Pope Alexander, I corrected myself. It was no secret that many of the other cardinals had mistresses and bastard children as well. But for a pope to acknowledge such children … “He brings his children into the Vatican?” I asked, shocked. “He allows them to be known as such, even now that he has been made pope?”
Fabrizia nodded. “It is unusual, indeed. No referring to them as his nephews or nieces, as popes usually do. And you know he keeps a mistress, yes?”
I gasped again. I had heard the
whisperings, but I tried my best to close my ears to such things. Gossip—especially gossip about the Holy Father—was a sin.
Yet my curiosity rose, despite my pangs of guilt. I shall confess this sin after Mass on Sunday, I promised myself. “I … he does?” I asked.
Fabrizia’s eyes gleamed, and she drew me into a small alcove. She was well and truly settled in to gossip. “Oh, yes. Honestly, Maddalena, even for a country bumpkin you seem altogether too innocent sometimes—and you a widow, no less. Her name is Giulia Farnese and she is the most beautiful woman in Rome. He keeps her with his cousin, Adriana, and his daughter, Lucrezia. Can you imagine? And La Bella Farnese is married to Adriana’s own son! They were just married when Giulia La Bella caught Cardinal Borgia’s eye, and so Donna Adriana banished her son to the country estates to get him out of the way—before the cuckold’s horns were even properly affixed to his head, they say.” She snickered. “If the stories are true, Cardinal Borgia—Pope Alexander—has rewarded Adriana and her family richly, including the poor cuckolded son, which is exactly what she was hoping for.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice further. “He is said to be moving them to the palace of Santa Maria in Portico. He wants La Bella Farnese nearer to him—they say there is a secret passage that connects the Vatican Palace to that one, so he can visit her in secret.”
I crossed myself automatically. “God forgive him,” I said. “He has been led astray by a harlot.” Immediately I regretted my words—he was the Holy Father; he could do no wrong. Who was I to criticize, when I could not understand the ways in which God spoke to His representative on earth? “But that is not for us to say,” I added hastily.
Fabrizia rolled her eyes. “Indeed,” she said. “All I know is men do what they want, whether they wear hose or a cardinal’s robes. Or a pope’s, even. I don’t know that God has much to say about it. But his son, that Juan…” She nodded in the direction from which we’d come. “They say Pope Alexander has big plans for him, and for his other son, Cesare. He’ll not let his children fade into the background, not the Borgia pope.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 2