* * *
It was some weeks before I saw the other son, Cesare. It was late evening, and he looked to be heading in the direction of the pope’s private rooms. I curtsied to him as he passed in the darkened hallway in his purple archbishop’s robes. I felt his eyes on me as I curtsied, and when I rose our eyes met briefly. Goodness, but he was handsome, with his head of thick, dark curls under his cap and his dark eyes and the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, which looked like they belonged on a statue in the Vatican gardens. He was much more handsome than his fop of a brother, that was for certain. His eyes turned away, forward once more.
My cheeks burned with shame as I continued on, back to my cot in the bowels of the palace where I shared a room with three other maids. Cesare Borgia was a man of God, an archbishop, no less—it was not meet that I should think him comely or attractive. I crossed myself, whispering a silent prayer of forgiveness. Back in my room, I bent over the handkerchief I was embroidering, squinting at it in the dim light, and recited a prayer with each few stitches to keep my thoughts from wandering where they did not belong.
Chapter 4
CESARE
My father had sent for me at last, late in the evening, as though he did not wish anyone to see me. I stewed over this on my ride to the Vatican. Juan strolled in and out of the palace as though he were master of it, in broad daylight, wearing his ridiculous clothes. Yet I, the son our father had chosen to follow in his footsteps—the worthy son—waited weeks on his pleasure and came to the palace only under cover of darkness.
I made my way directly to his personal chambers, where he had indicated I would find him—lest he have to greet me in full view of anyone at the papal court, I thought bitterly.
“I am His Excellency, the Archbishop of Valencia,” I said curtly to the guard beside my father’s door. “His Holiness has sent for me.”
The guard nodded once and swung the door open. “God give you good evening, Your Excellency,” he said.
I stepped in, the light within as dim as it had been in the hall. As the door shut behind me, my eyes adjusted further, and I saw my father standing by the fire, for the evenings had gotten cooler. It was the only source of light in the room.
At the sight of him, head bare and dressed in a simple white robe, all the anger and frustration I harbored melted away. Here was Rodrigo Borgia, the father I knew from my childhood, the father I had always sought to impress and whose regard I craved above all others, save perhaps Lucrezia.
Yet now he was the pope. He was not just a man, but God. Not just my father, but the father of all the Church.
I approached him and dropped to my knees, kissing the Fisherman’s ring on the hand he extended to me. “Holy Father,” I murmured, the awe in my voice genuine.
He placed a hand on my head in blessing. “Rise, my son,” he said, and my heart lifted at the warmth in his voice. I stood and beheld his smile of pride before he embraced me tightly.
“The archbishop’s robes look well on you,” he said as he drew back. “I am proud, Cesare.”
I bit back the urge to grin like an idiot.
He gestured toward the two chairs in front of the fire. “Sit, sit. Have some wine.”
I obeyed and poured us both a glass of blood-colored wine from the decanter on the table between us, first into his gold-and-ruby-encrusted goblet, then mine. I drank deeply, feeling both body and mind relax. I was in my rightful place at last—at my father’s side, if only for a few hours.
I wanted to ask his purpose in sending for me, but with a patience that was hard-won I schooled myself to wait. There was no point in acting like a schoolboy impatient for his dinner.
“I trust you were not disappointed to have your studies interrupted,” my father said after a moment. “But I needed all our family in place for this momentous occasion. And now I need you by my side.”
“Not disappointed at all, Holy Father,” I said, all but glowing at his words. “I learned much in my time there, but I agree I shall be more useful here with you.”
“Indeed.” He leaned toward me. “I have need of your sharp mind, Cesare, as I always anticipated. The Curia is a den of snakes, as I have long known, but it all takes on quite a different cast when one is the head viper in the nest.” He wore a sardonic smile as he lifted his goblet to his lips.
I wondered at his metaphor, verging on blasphemy in its conjuring the image of the serpent in the Garden of Eden and Eve’s temptation. Yet it was something my father would have said before he ascended to St. Peter’s throne, and so, blasphemous or not, it went no small way in putting me further at ease.
“What troubles have emerged thus far?” I asked, taking another sip.
He sighed, and I could see how weary he was. He was older than the last time I had seen him, I reminded myself, and though still possessed of his legendary energy and vigor, I could see his first weeks on the papal throne had not been easy. “Claims I bought the election, of course,” he said. “Della Rovere’s voice is the loudest among them, as we might expect. Such rumors are nothing new following a papal election, but they stick more firmly since I am a Catalan, not an Italian like the rest. Corruption is all par for the course when their own countrymen do it.” He chuckled, but turned a serious gaze on me. “They see us as outsiders, Cesare. Never forget that.”
There was a note of anger in my voice as I spoke. “But you are the pope, and so they must respect our family. We will be greater than any of them.”
“Yes, we shall, but until that day comes, until we have shown them what we are capable of, be cautious and circumspect, Cesare. Rise above the pettiness and hatred but never be ignorant of it.”
I snorted. “You may wish to impart such wisdom to Juan, then,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Rumor has it he fought a duel with a man in some tavern in Trastevere for scorning the name of Borgia.”
“I have spoken to Juan, and he well knows what is expected of him,” my father said, his voice cold. “Do not worry about your brother’s actions. You are neither his keeper nor his judge.”
“But his actions reflect on all of us, and I will not have—”
“Silence,” my father said, his voice booming, and like a child I obeyed. “It is not for you to say what you will or will not have, Cesare. Mind you do not forget that. I am head of this family, and head of the Church. You owe your full obedience to me.”
I remained silent, inwardly seething but knowing I could not argue with him, which only made me angrier.
“We need Juan to fulfill our military ambitions,” my father said. He had lapsed into the plural we, and I could not tell if he was using it as popes customarily did—to refer to himself and the Almighty God who spoke through him—or if he meant the house of Borgia. Perhaps there was no longer a difference. “The lords of the Romagna owe us their allegiance and their tribute, as Rome is their overlord, but they have been neglectful of this duty, using their funds and men to engage in petty border squabbles with one another. That ends now. We will demand that we are paid what we are rightfully owed, and if they do not give it to us we will take it with fire and steel.”
I nodded my agreement. The Romagna and its collection of small city-states surrounding Rome proper was a lawless, unruly place, ruled by brutal warlords and petty princes who abused and exploited their people for their own gain. The pope was their temporal lord as well as their spiritual one, but the Holy See did not often have the money or the men to enforce its rule via military strength. This, my father wanted dearly to change.
That was to be Juan’s role, though I doubted mightily he would succeed. “And what of Lucrezia?” I asked to change the subject, though not without trepidation.
My father’s entire countenance softened at the mention of his only daughter. If Juan was his favorite son, certainly Lucrezia was a favorite as well, in the way that only a daughter of an indulgent father can be. And where does that leave me? I wondered sulkily. Yet I loved Lucrezia as much as our father did, if not more.
&n
bsp; “Lucrezia,” he sighed. “She must be married, of course. I wish that it need not be for a few years yet, but we will need the support her marriage can bring us, both political and military. We must continue to strengthen the alliances that have brought us to St. Peter’s throne.”
“The Sforzas,” I said. The rumors were true.
My father raised his eyebrows. “You are well informed, my son.”
“I make it my business to be.”
He nodded. “Good. Yes, the Sforzas. Ludovico is already married—damnably unfortunate, that. So is his nephew, the true duke, though Ludovico is the real power in Milan, however ill-gotten that power. I don’t trust him and his scheming ways, so it would have been well to bring him into the fold. Alas, we must find another Sforza relation for our Lucrezia. God and all the saints know there are enough of them.” He took another long drink.
I stared into the fire. It was just as well that Lucrezia would not be packed off to Milan. Perhaps there was a lesser, more pliable Sforza lord she could marry who might be convinced to stay in Rome. Yet that would mean he had no land or estates of his own, and thus he would not be a grand enough match for Lucrezia Borgia, the pope’s daughter.
I’ll never allow you to be sent away, husband or no. I swear, by the Holy Virgin herself.
I had never forgotten the vow I had sworn to Lucrezia when we were children. We had never discussed it again, but I was sure she remembered. I had meant it then and I meant it now.
How might I broach my unwillingness to see Lucrezia sent away, good of the family or no?
But my father spoke again. “You have not yet asked the question I have been expecting.”
I looked up, puzzled. “What question is that, Holy Father?”
He waved a hand at me. “In private you may call me simply Father, Cesare. I am surprised that you have not asked of my plans for you.”
I went still. “I believe I know your plans, Father,” I said evenly. “You will make me a cardinal, as you have always wanted. I will be your ally inside the Church. And I trust whatever other plans you have will be revealed in good time.”
He laughed. “Always sharp, and ready with a diplomatic answer when needed,” he said. “You are quite right. You will be made a cardinal as soon as I can prudently do so. You’ll not be the only one. I don’t have nearly enough men in the College of Cardinals who are beholden to me. And then, though I will not live to see it, you shall be pope after me, in time.” His eyes gleamed with ambition. “We shall create a Borgia dynasty so great that all will be beholden to us. Nothing will be done in Italy without our knowledge and consent. They will all look to us, Cesare. To us.”
I took a long pause before speaking again. “You know this was not what I wanted,” I said softly. “It is not what I would have chosen for myself. But I will serve our family as best I may.”
“You certainly will. For the politics of the Church, Cesare, your intellect is needed most. That is why I chose you to follow in my footsteps. You, and not Juan or Jofre. You, the most brilliant of my children.” He smiled. “With the possible exception of Lucrezia. The College of Cardinals is lucky indeed that she cannot be among their number, for she would put them to shame.”
I laughed, knowing he was right, but I sobered quickly. “Father … would not my intellect be well needed, and well used, on the battlefield? Is not military strategy as—”
“No, Cesare. This is as I wish it to be. This is as it must be. I allowed you to question me when you were a boy, but no longer. I expect you to do your duty without complaint.”
Before I could respond, he picked up a small bell and rang it, summoning a serving man from an adjoining room. “Send to the kitchens for more wine for myself and His Excellency,” he ordered. The man bowed and left the room.
Finally I spoke again. “I will, Father,” I said, schooling my voice carefully so he did not hear my resignation. “I will do as you think is best. I want only to make you proud.” This, at least, was true.
“I’ve no doubt you shall.” He leaned back into his chair. “You are what, seventeen? Still scarcely more than a boy. Your temper and passions are high. I remember that age well. But you were born a Borgia, as I was, and so much is expected of you. You must rise above your desires and toward greatness.”
We were interrupted by the door opening, and to my surprise a maidservant came in bearing a tray with a new decanter of wine. It was usually a footman or serving man sent in to attend to the Holy Father; but the hour was quite late, so perhaps she was the nearest servant to be found. I smiled at her as she briefly caught my eye. I had passed her in the hall; she was a pretty thing, and not easy to forget: creamy pale skin, and dark reddish-brown hair. Her wide, striking amber eyes went wider at my smile, and she dropped both of us a curtsy. She carefully placed the decanter on the table between us and removed the empty one. “Would you like me to pour for you and His Excellency, Your Holiness?” she said, a slight quaver in her voice. She spoke with a noticeable accent—she came from somewhere in the Romagna, no doubt.
My father smiled benevolently. “By all means, my child,” he said. She served him first, then me, and dropped another curtsy. “God give you good night,” he added, turning his attention back to me before she had gone and closed the door behind her. “I have every faith you will live up to my expectations, Cesare,” he said, taking a sip of wine, and resuming our conversation as though it had never ceased.
I acknowledged this in silence, sipping from my own goblet. But what if I could not live up to the expectations I had for myself?
Chapter 5
MADDALENA
“Buon giorno, Federico,” I called in greeting one afternoon as I passed him in the immense courtyard. He was leaning against the cool stone wall of the palazzo in the heat of the day, reading a bit of parchment. “What have you got there?”
He smiled at the sight of me, a bright, wide smile. “Well met, Maddalena. Just a letter from home.” He held up the parchment.
“Good news, I hope?” I said, drawing closer.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “My father expects a fine harvest this year, despite the heat. He is a winemaker, you see,” he added.
“Indeed? And will you return to the vineyard someday to assume the running of it yourself?”
He made a face. “No, not I, for I am the second son, and content to be so. I have no head for numbers and no true desire to make wine, so it is just as well that my elder brother, Samuele, does. I have a taste for the city life, for adventure, so I struck out on my own to Rome.”
I smiled, pleased that Federico had shared this with me. We’d never spoken much of our lives beyond our work in the Vatican Palace—only the barest of details.
“And what of you, Maddalena?” he asked. “Is there no one where you come from to write to you?”
My smile floundered. “No,” I said, casting my eyes down at the dusty cobblestones. “My husband is dead, as you know, and I have only my mother left.” A mirthless laugh escaped my lips. “And even if she could write, she would have no desire to write to me.”
I jumped as Federico placed a hand on my shoulder, for I had not noticed him draw nearer. “Ah, poor Maddalena,” he said softly. “How can it be that so beautiful and bright a star is not missed?”
I looked away from his earnest eyes. I could never repeat the ugly words my mother had spat at me when I decided to come to Rome after Ernesto’s death, to get away from her and her spite before she could arrange another loveless marriage for me: You are a worthless puttana, a handmaid of Satan himself, that you would leave your mother all alone. There is nothing in a city like Rome but sin and depravity for a woman alone. And what will you do for work, sell yourself? If you leave, do not come back, not with such sins as you’ll find there to stain your soul.
I had no desire to ever go back. Her words haunted me—the promise of sin and corruption and evil—but I had yet to find myself embroiled in any such things. After all, I worked in the house of th
e pope. Where on earth could possibly be safer for my soul?
“It is a long story,” I said at last, meeting his eyes.
I do not know what he saw in my gaze, but his expression softened. “I understand, I think,” he said. “I hope you know I’ve a ready ear if you ever decide to tell it.”
“I thank you for that, amico mio,” I said softly.
“And in the meantime,” he said, his voice louder and more jovial, “I shall write you notes, Maddalena, and have them delivered to you, that you might know the joy of correspondence.” He paused and looked at me anxiously. “You can read, yes?”
I smiled. “I can. I was lucky to have an uncle who was a priest. He taught me to read and write.” Another gift from Uncle Cristiano, who had had the time and love for me that my father never did in his brief life. Uncle Cristiano would have written to me.
Perhaps Federico would have to do.
Federico’s expression cleared. “Eccellente. You may expect messages from me in the future.”
I laughed. “I shall look forward to it.”
He swept me a bow and kissed my hand gallantly. “And if the lady would do me the favor of writing back, why, I may even faint dead away from the honor.”
“Your correspondence must first prove its worth,” I teased.
He tucked his letter from home into his pocket. “I shall give it all due thought and consideration,” he said gravely. “Now I must be off—there is a new horse just arrived in the stables, a Spanish mount, and if I’m to get a look at him before I must be back to work it needs to be now.” With one last bow and a wink, he turned and crossed the courtyard toward the stables. Federico had a great love of horses and spent all his free time hanging about the stables, chatting with the grooms.
I remained where I was, smiling after him like a fool. Federico was as handsome as they came, tall and well-muscled with merry eyes and a head full of sandy curls. And for all his flirtation, could such a man see me as more than an acquaintance, a friend? What had just passed suggested he might. I could certainly find no better catch in Rome, not a young widow of my station. Yet … did I want to marry again?
The Borgia Confessions Page 3