With that, I bowed to Cardinal Sforza and continued on my way. I did not look back, but knew he was likely staring after me with a mixture of anger and worry.
Chapter 18
MADDALENA
I assisted in serving lunch to Madonna Lucrezia and her brother, the Archbishop of Valencia. As ever, they were happy to be in each other’s company, and it made me glad to see their obvious, easy affection. Some things in the world could still be simple. Being in their presence was the first time I had felt my confused, muddled thoughts of Federico quiet and recede in my mind.
Unfortunately, these thoughts were replaced by flashes of that damnable dream. Cesare Borgia above me … his eyes looking down into mine as he …
Stop it, Maddalena, I scolded, lowering my gaze in the hopes of hiding my reddening cheeks. I did not want another week of only bread and water as penance, now, did I?
If I must think such lustful thoughts, they should be of Federico. He would soon be my husband, and any such imaginings would be easily forgiven.
Yet my eyes continually strayed to the archbishop whenever I thought he would not notice. He was impossibly handsome, and so kind and loving toward his sister. A fine man indeed, as I had been so bold to tell him once.
At one point I stole a glance at him, only to find him already looking back at me, seeming to study me. I blushed as our eyes locked, and he gave me a warm smile and a nod. I quickly looked away, embarrassed to have been caught but elated that he had been looking at me.
After the meal, I removed the dishes and assisted with their washing as Madonna Lucrezia and her brother adjourned to another room to continue their conversation. Once everything in the kitchen was back in order, I made my way upstairs to continue my mending tasks for that day. As I approached the sitting room where I usually worked, I came upon the archbishop leaving that very room. I curtsied, eyes cast down as I murmured, “Your Excellency.”
I expected him to merely pass me by, but instead he stopped before me. “Rise, per favore,” he said. “I was coming to find you, Maddalena.”
My heart began to pound inordinately fast. “You … you were?”
“Indeed. I’ve a … rather delicate question to ask. Please walk with me, if you would. I would not want my sister to overhear.”
My breath caught in my throat as I followed him. What delicate matter could the Archbishop of Valencia have to discuss with the likes of me?
I knew well what wealthy and powerful men—even churchmen—often asked of their female servants, but His Excellency did not seem the type. Yet what other “delicate matter” could he possibly have in mind? My heart pounded even faster, and though I tried to tell myself it was with fear, it did not feel true.
He paused within the entryway of the palazzo and glanced quickly about. “I shall not keep you from your duties long,” he said. “I hoped you might answer a question for me. It may be you do not know the answer, in which case I beg you to simply be truthful.”
Perhaps my initial guess had been wrong. “I shall assist however I can, Your Excellency.”
“Good.” He lowered his voice and stepped closer. I shivered slightly at his nearness. “I would know whether or not Giovanni Sforza has consummated his marriage to my sister.”
I sagged at his words and told myself it was from relief and not disappointment. “He has not, Your Excellency, though I do not know why,” I said. “It has been a source of great distress to Madonna Lucrezia.”
The archbishop closed his eyes briefly in relief. “Good. That is what I had hoped to hear.”
Suddenly I remembered my previous puzzled reasoning: a marriage can be easily put aside if it was never consummated. Oh, dear. It seemed that was indeed what the archbishop—and by extension, surely, His Holiness—had planned for my mistress. How I wished I did not know!
“Say nothing to Lucrezia of this,” the archbishop advised me. “I do thank you profusely for your information.” He slipped a gold coin into my hand.
Even as I slid the coin into the pocket of my apron, the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I thank you for your generosity, Your Excellency. But Madonna Lucrezia puts her trust in me, and in future I would not wish to jeopardize that trust by spying on her and her affairs for anyone. Not,” I added boldly, “even her own brother.”
He paused and scrutinized me, his gaze impassable. I met his gaze evenly, but inwardly I was already regretting my words. Surely I would be dismissed, and Federico and I would leave Rome forthwith.
But I owed Lucrezia Borgia a great deal, and grand lady or no, pope’s daughter or no, she was entitled to keep private her personal business.
Yet I was surprised to see a wide grin spread over the archbishop’s face. He chuckled, shaking his head. “I admire your loyalty, Maddalena,” he said. “I was right to send you to serve my sister, and she is well served by you indeed.” He donned his bishop’s cap and nodded to me. “I shall take your wishes into account in the future, as much as I am able. And I thank you for your service, both to Lucrezia and to me.”
With that, he turned and left, and I could only gape after him, marveling at my good fortune and at the odd mixture of relief and regret roiling in my belly.
* * *
I tried to put the Archbishop of Valencia from my mind after that. I found the reaction I had to his presence disturbing, and it would do no good to dwell on it. I did not want to have to confess any more sinful dreams. Once had been embarrassing enough.
Yet when I succeeded in banishing Cesare Borgia from my mind, my thoughts returned to Federico—a proper topic, as he was my betrothed. But I found such thoughts no less troubling, for reasons I could not quite identify. So I focused on my embroidery, began stealing even more time to work on it—new handkerchiefs, even a fine set of sleeves for myself. I’d work late into the night, dreading the moment I would lay down to sleep and all my confusion and uncertainty would come rushing back. Even this made me feel guilty. Should I not meet these disquietudes head on, push through them, and emerge to the other side, at peace with my decision?
Was there any way through this thicket of doubt?
Federico and I continued to meet as often as our respective duties permitted. I still enjoyed his company, found him charming and amusing and handsome. Yet I found myself wishing I had accepted his offer for time to consider his proposal. Why had I been so hasty?
I knew deep down there was no reason to say no. I cared for Federico, and he for me. Marriage was a most desirable state according to the Church, especially for a woman. Upon my marriage to Ernesto, Uncle Cristiano told me, Matrimony is a holy state, Maddalena, and the one that God wishes for his flock. I knew this to be true. I also knew the marriage bed was the one place I could satisfy my desires without sin.
And yet.
Chapter 19
CESARE
Rome, September 1493
The two papal bulls sat on the table in front of me. I let my eyes listlessly wander over the Latin text, though I knew what they said. I’d always known this day was coming, had known it since my father was elected pope—since before then. This was what he had always wanted for me, and he was only a step away from making it so.
The first bull declared me the legitimate son of Vannozza dei Cattanei and Domenico da Rignano, my mother’s husband at the time I was born—a necessary fiction for me to be made a cardinal. Illegitimate sons are not eligible to receive a red hat.
The second bull, to be issued in secret but no less official, countered the first one, naming me the son of Rodrigo Borgia and Vannozza dei Cattanei. My father, proud man that he was, could not bear the thought of issuing a proclamation that I was not his son without correcting it, even if no one would know the latter had been issued and everyone knew the former for the falsehood it was.
Foolish, really—could not a man such as my father see that the means are irrelevant if the end is in sight? But apparently, in this, he did not. It was all done, and in consistory a few days hence he would na
me me a cardinal, along with several other men who would be beholden to him for their investiture and therefore keep Borgia interests close to their hearts.
I could feel my father beaming across the table from me. “Soon it shall be done,” he said. “You are staring your future full in the face, Cesare. How does it feel? Does it not feel glorious?”
Slowly I raised my head and looked at him. I had fought a long, raging, anguished battle with myself over what I was going to say at this meeting, ever since he had told me last week that the bulls were being drawn up. I did not want to enrage him or alienate him when he was finally beginning to fully trust in and rely on me. Yet this was my last chance, futile though it might be, to convince him he was wrong, that this was not what was best for me or for our family. All too soon there would be no going back.
“It does not feel glorious,” I said slowly. “It cannot, when I am on a path contrary to the one in my heart.”
Instantly Father’s good humor vanished. His face set like one of the marble statues in the basilica. “What is in your heart is of no use to me, nor to this family,” he said coldly. “It is what is in your mind that will serve us, and what I intend to make use of within the Curia.”
“Do you not think a mind is needed to serve us on the battlefield? To create strategy and tactics and to run an army?” I demanded. I laughed shortly. “You must not think so, if your hopes for a general are pinned on Juan.”
Father slammed his hand down on the table, and though I was startled I remained still, staring back at him impassively.
“We have been over this again and again since you were a boy, Cesare,” he growled. “And you are still a boy, clearly. Which is why I make the decisions for this family, and you obey, as a good son should.”
“Do you not see that I am not suited for a cleric’s life?” I asked, raising my arms as if to draw his attention to my purple robes. “My strengths do not reside in quill and parchment and whispered negotiations in back hallways. I—”
“You speak as if I mean to make you a parish priest, burying plague victims and hearing villagers’ confessions,” he spat. “I am placing you on a path to power, to true power, to the most respected power in Europe.”
“Is Rome really so?” I shot back. “How can we be without an army? If Charles of France decides to come, he can lay waste to all of Italy with his troops and weaponry, let alone Rome. True power is won at the point of a sword—”
“You speak like a foolish child,” he said, derision dripping from every syllable. “Like a boy who knows nothing of the world, nor of how battles are really won. You will learn. I will teach you, and despite your fantasies of becoming the next Giulio Cesare, someday you will be the third Borgia pope. My uncle Pope Calixtus III made me a cardinal, and I as a pope do the same for you. Someday you will sit on St. Peter’s Throne, and make a son or nephew a cardinal. And so it shall go on throughout history, and the Borgia family will have our own dynasty within the Church.”
“But my talents would—”
“Your talents are much the same as mine, for the politics and negotiations you show so much disdain for,” he snapped. “I need you here. This is where you will be of most use to me.”
“It seems you do not know my true talents,” I said. “And why should that surprise me, when you insist on seeing myriad talents in Juan when he possesses none.”
“If you were still a child I would send you to your nursemaid to be thrashed,” he snapped. “I’ve half a mind to do it myself. You’ll not speak ill of your brother, and you will not forget that it is I who sits on St. Peter’s throne.”
Silence. My face burned with shame and anger at his words, at his condescension. I would always be naught but a boy to him, someone to be lectured and taught the error of his ways. He claimed to value my counsel, but when it most mattered—when it most mattered to me—he would not hear it.
“Do I get no say in my own future?” I asked at last, my voice soft.
“No.” The single word was low and terse. “You will do what is best for your family, as we all do. As I did, when I went into the Church, and when my uncle made me a cardinal. And you will come to see in time that I was right.”
There was so much more I wanted to say, but all of it was ill-advised. Instead I turned and left his chambers without another word or waiting for him to give me leave. He did not call me back.
On September 20, my elevation was put to a vote in consistory. And thus—over the loud objections of Giuliano della Rovere—I would be a cardinal.
* * *
“Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem.”
I spoke the words softly—almost as softly as I was able—in unison with the men on either side of me, all of us dressed in new crimson robes, our heads bare. We knelt before the altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, reciting the Creed and professing our faith in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I kept my eyes cast down in a show of piety so no one would see the misery on my face.
When the prayer ended, we rose, and I caught sight of my father, seated on the papal throne and wearing the immense papal tiara. Tears of pride had sprung in his eyes. The ugly words we had exchanged a month ago had been forgotten, by him, at least. But he could afford to forgive me. He was getting what he wanted.
Eventually I would silence this voice within me that screamed for a different fate. I would become resigned to this life, this life of quietly wielding power. I would come to revel in it. I would perhaps even come to love it.
But that day had not come yet, and I both yearned for and dreaded it.
We recited the oath of obedience to Pope Alexander VI and his successors, and then, one by one, each man stepped forward and had his biretta—the three-cornered red hat—placed upon his head by the Holy Father.
I was somewhere in the middle, no doubt to draw the least amount of attention to the fact that Pope Alexander’s eighteen-year-old son was being made a cardinal. I stepped forward and knelt, and the hat was placed on my head. When I rose, I was a cardinal.
I met my father’s eyes. They had gone cold, calculating. Pride was there still, but also a determination to finally wield this weapon that he had forged in ways only he could know.
I stepped back into my place in line, now Cardinal Borgia, and kept my eyes locked on his until the next man stepped forward and his attention shifted.
I would forge my own weapons, whatever weapons I could. And by God and the devil, I would learn to wield them.
PART TWO
ANGELS of the APOCALYPSE
Romagna and Rome, July 1494–July 1495
Chapter 20
CESARE
Vicovaro, July 1494
King Charles was coming. And far too few in Italy were inclined to try to stop him. And, unfortunately, the ones who were so inclined seemed to be underestimating the threat facing us.
“And Your Highness thinks this plan will work?” I asked the King of Naples, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
I could feel my father’s disapproving glance from where he sat beside me, at the head of the table. Across from me, King Alfonso of Naples merely stared at me, his upper lip curling in displeasure. He had taken the crown a few months earlier, upon the ill-timed death of his father Ferrante—the scourge of popes, even at the end—and this, coupled with Ludovico Sforza’s enthusiastic invitation, finally prompted King Charles of France to announce his invasion of Italy.
“Does Your Eminence have a better idea?” Virginio Orsini asked from beside the king.
I exhaled slowly, thinking carefully before I spoke. Despite my years of study of military history and strategy, and of the geography of the Italian peninsula, I could not hold a candle to the tested battle experience of Virginio Orsini, one of the most noted of the many condottieri on the Italian peninsula, who currently had a condotta to serve under King Alfonso as general-in-chief of the army of Naples. I had to tread carefully here; we needed to keep him on our side, and yet I was determined to have my say. I had somethi
ng of value to contribute, and wanted these men to know it.
“I certainly understand His Serene Highness’s desire to keep the bulk of the Neapolitan forces around the city of Naples,” I said, nodding to King Alfonso. “It is the obvious choice, given that the kingdom and more specifically its capital is the French king’s aim. Yet why wait until they get that far? Have Prince Ferrantino,” I went on, referring to Alfonso’s eldest son and heir to the throne, who was to command the Neapolitan forces, “bring his troops into the northernmost part of the Romagna to see if they can halt the French advance before ever nearing Naples. His force should be able to close the Apennine pass to the French.”
Silence fell as my proposal was considered.
“And,” I added, “this strategy has the added benefit of being near enough to Milan’s territory that Ludovico Sforza should feel sufficiently threatened, which is all to the good.”
The silence continued until Virginio Orsini finally spoke. “His Eminence is right,” he said. “This makes more sense. And then Prince Ferrantino will be near in case Prince Federigo needs aid in his assault on Genoa.”
This last piece was key; King Alfonso’s brother Prince Federigo would need to take and hold the port city of Genoa on the west coast to ensure the French could not access it to resupply and reinforce their army.
Virginio looked from the pope to King Alfonso. “I am in accord, so long as Your Holiness and Your Highness are as well.”
King Alfonso nodded, and his face relaxed somewhat—I had yet to see him smile, and he did not seem like the sort of man who did so often, if at all. “I shall keep a guard around the city, of course,” he said, “but I agree that Cardinal Borgia’s plan is sound. If we can stop the French farther from my kingdom, all the better.”
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