The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “I do not want to be safe without you,” I said, nearly sobbing.

  “All shall be well,” he said, drawing me against him once more.

  “When this is over, and the French are gone,” I said, “when we are reunited, we will leave Rome. At once. We shall go to your house in the countryside and marry immediately. I am sorry, Federico. So terribly sorry I delayed us this long.”

  He bent his head and kissed me soundly, passionately. I still could not sink into his kisses as I longed to; could not melt into his arms with abandon as I had in that damned dream of so long ago. But it would come. With love and tenderness and marriage, the passion would come.

  “When we are reunited,” he repeated as he drew away. “I shall hold you to that, Maddalena. I shall dream of it throughout the coming days. You shall be my strength, as though you are the Madonna herself.”

  I tried to laugh around the tears that had begun to choke me. “Such blasphemy,” I chided.

  “Then God shall have to punish me for it, because it is true,” he said. He kissed me again, and for an instant I felt a tingle of desire, something so largely unknown to me, and I pressed closer to him hungrily, eager. But all too soon, he drew away. “I must go,” he said. “I am sorry, my love. But I will be missed, and you soon will be, too. Hurry back before it gets dark.”

  “I will see you soon,” I called to him as he turned toward the stables.

  He spun to face me one more time. “And soon I will make you my bride, but not soon enough!” he said. He waved to me once, a smile on his face, as if we were saying but a brief goodbye and he would be taking me for a stroll the next night.

  As though we had any idea of when we might see each other again.

  I shivered, suddenly mindful of the cold, and turned to make my way back to Santa Maria in Portico in the falling dusk.

  Chapter 24

  CESARE

  “Your Holiness.” A weary and rumpled Ferrantino of Aragon knelt before the pope, still dressed in his armor from the hard ride to Rome. “My army is here and at your service, at the service of our common cause.”

  “Arise, Your Highness,” the pope said. “We are indeed glad you are here and thank God for your army’s safe and timely arrival.”

  “Your Holiness is kind,” Ferrantino said, his exhaustion evident as he stood. He was obviously ready to dispense with the formalities. “And not a moment too soon. The French will be upon us any day.”

  Father’s face was grim. “Yes. We are hopeful our allies among the Orsini family can hold them off north of the city.”

  “You may hope, Holy Father, and pray for it, but unless God grants us a miracle, I do not think it likely,” Ferrantino said bluntly. “This French force is like nothing Italy has ever seen, not in recent memory.”

  “Does Charles fancy himself a new Caesar, then?”

  Ferrantino shook his head. “I know not. But he wants my home and my crown and my birthright, and I shall die before I let him have it.”

  Father nodded and rose from his chair in the audience chamber. “Come. Dine with us—your generals as well. We have much to discuss.”

  I followed after the pair. Ferrantino’s arrival filled my father with more hope than it did me. His Holiness was of the mind that if the Neapolitan force was already in Rome, Charles might be inclined to avoid the city altogether. But as far as I could see, the French were bound here no matter what.

  As we stepped out into the hall, Michelotto moved silently to my side. “I intercepted the messenger,” he said, handing me a letter. “I knew you’d want this directly.”

  I opened the letter and scanned it quickly, my eyes delighting in Lucrezia’s careful, lovely hand. “She is safe,” I said. “The French have not been near. They will simply pass by Pesaro, as we guessed.”

  “Good news, then.”

  I read the rest of the missive before crumpling it in my fist. “Not entirely. Her worthless husband still has not stirred forth with his army. He has not even mustered a force. He will not be coming to our aid, just as I expected.”

  Michelotto snorted. “What use is he, then?”

  I scowled. “No use at all.”

  Though I had not truly expected Sforza to come, it would have been a welcome surprise, and I found myself further disheartened. Prince Ferrantino was better off taking his force home, to defend Naples as best he could. It seemed as if there was no hope of saving Rome.

  * * *

  A week after the arrival of Ferrantino and his army, the Orsini betrayed us and surrendered all their holdings—including the key fortress of Bracciano, north of Rome—to the French. There now lay nothing between the Eternal City and King Charles’s force, Ferrantino and his men being camped south of the city. Our last bulwark, our last hope, was gone.

  “The traitorous, cowardly, sinful bastards!” my father roared. He toppled a heavy brocaded chair in his rage, upending it and sending it crashing into the wall with the force of his strong arms, still powerful, even at his age. The messenger narrowly missed being struck, his eyes wide with fear.

  “You are dismissed,” I said curtly. The messenger wasted no time in making a hasty bow and fleeing.

  My father, in his rage—so rarely aroused to this extent—did not notice. “How dare they! Virginio Orsini, who holds a contract with the King of Naples, with the royal house of Aragon, invited us into his castle and plotted strategy with us, only to betray us all! His employer, and his liege lord and spiritual father the pope!” He sent another chair flying. “Judas Iscariot himself would blush with shame at such treachery!”

  This was the same sort of blasphemy Father was wont to scold me for, but I knew better than to remark upon it. “And yet Virginio rides south to Naples, to continue his employment for King Alfonso,” I said, shaking my head. “These petty lords and princelings of Italy are a faithless lot.”

  “They are faithful to their coffers only,” Father bellowed, “to their coffers and to their own damned skins. What a fool I was to expect anything better. What a fool Virginio has made of me!”

  I remained silent. I had not expected the Orsini to be able to beat back the French, but neither had I expected this. I had thought Virginio’s condotta with King Alfonso would keep the Orsini family firmly arrayed against the French, but in this I, too, had been mistaken. It was not the first time an Italian warlord had behaved in such a manner, nor would it be the last.

  Father had calmed down slightly, though he was pacing the room like an agitated bull, stalking up and down its length, his ire visible in every stride. “This changes everything,” he muttered to himself. “But once we get through this, oh how those Orsini will pay…”

  I cleared my throat, reminding him of my presence. “We must ride for Naples,” I said. “We must leave for Naples with Ferrantino’s army and regroup there.”

  “To what end?” he demanded.

  “To what end?” I repeated incredulously. “To save our skins, that’s what! The French are at our gates. If we have any hope of seeing this through, we must go to Naples and confer with King Alfonso.”

  “Think about what you are proposing, Cesare,” Father snapped. “You would have me flee the Vatican and leave Rome to Charles to do with as he will. And with St. Peter’s throne vacant, do you really think della Rovere will not seize it for himself?”

  “He would not dare.”

  “Who would stop him, if Charles holds Rome? And once made pope, he would have the authority to crown Charles King of Naples. No, fleeing Rome would play right into their hands. If I stay, I force Charles to contend with me.” With the departure of his fury came the return of his cool calculation, the political acumen for which he was renowned.

  He was right, and I cursed myself for a fool for not seeing it. I just felt such an urgent need to do something.

  “And furthermore,” Father went on, “if I were to go to Naples, I have no doubt I would be a guest at the king’s pleasure, however long that might last. They would keep me there however long t
hey needed to legitimize Alfonso’s claim. I would be obliged to do whatever they asked of me.”

  “I know. You are correct,” I said. I slammed a hand down on the arm of my chair in frustration and rose, beginning to pace myself. “I do not know what else to do, that is all. Are we to simply sit here and wait? Wait to see if Charles invades Rome by force? Wait to see if we survive? Wait to be taken prisoner? There must be some action we can take!”

  “Charles—even with della Rovere at his side—would not dare capture the Holy Father in the Vatican itself,” Father said.

  “You sound awfully sure of that.”

  “I am as sure as I can reasonably be. It would be a great deal less trouble for him to persuade me to do as he wishes than to depose me, no matter what he may have promised della Rovere. Deposing a pope is a messy business. No, he will wait to see if I admit him to the city before he tries to enter by force. He will want to meet with me.”

  “And what will you do?”

  He did not answer for a long time. “I cannot refuse him for long, not with the army he brings. I have the people of Rome to think of. They look to me for safety and protection.” He cursed again. “Damn the Orsini, damn them!”

  “So you would admit an invading army to prey upon them?”

  “It will go much better for the people if I allow them entrance than if they force their way in.”

  That was likely true.

  “But yes, Cesare,” he continued after a pause. “Difficult though I know it is for you and me, we must wait. There is nothing else we can do.”

  * * *

  Both armies, the Neapolitan and the French, waited at His Holiness’s pleasure. The Roman people waited at his pleasure. Charles had sent a messenger to the pope asking that the gates of Rome be opened, and he and his army admitted. The pope sought to delay as long as possible, but the situation was untenable. Charles sent another message, saying he was loath to enter the Holy City by force, but he would do so if necessary.

  Ferrantino was spoiling for a fight, but to pitch such a battle here and now would be suicide. “His Holiness cannot truly be considering letting the bastards in,” he snarled to me as we left a meeting in the Vatican.

  I raised an eyebrow. “What would you have him do, Your Highness? Allow Rome to be sacked before they ride south to conquer your kingdom? I do not like it any more than you, but our resources here are limited.”

  Ferrantino growled in response but did not reply.

  I tried to persuade Father to flee to the Castel Sant’ Angelo for safety, where he had already sent Giulia Farnese and cousin Adriana and their household. “No,” he said firmly. “When the French ride into this city, they will find me on St. Peter’s throne, not hiding behind fortress walls.”

  He had said when the French ride in, not if.

  On Christmas Day, instead of celebrating the coming of a savior, Pope Alexander announced that he would admit the French king and his army into Rome.

  There was no savior coming for us.

  * * *

  There was nothing left for Ferrantino to do but ride for Naples with his army and hope to defend it as best he could. “It was a good plan, Your Eminence, thanks in large part to you,” Ferrantino said as I rode beside him through the streets of Rome, the army in retreat. “We just couldn’t execute it quickly enough. And perhaps even then we did not have enough men.”

  “I wish things had turned out differently,” I said helplessly.

  “It’s not over yet. I will fight every moment there is breath in my body.” He swore and spat. “Better I should be dead than see my kingdom in the hands of the French.”

  As we reached the Lateran gate, he turned to me before we parted. “What does he have planned?” he asked, nodding back in the direction from which we’d come. “His Holiness? How does he mean to avoid giving all of Italy over to the French king yet keep his tiara at the same time?”

  The question grated on me, for I had wondered the same thing, and despite being at the pope’s right hand throughout this crisis, I still had no idea. “I do not know,” I was forced to respond. “I wish I did. But I would have faith in no man in this situation but Pope Alexander.”

  Ferrantino snorted bitterly. “You are a good sort, Cardinal Borgia,” he said. “You are wasted in the Curia. I could use a man like you on the battlefield.” He reached over and clasped my hand. “Godspeed, my friend. May you come through this in one piece.”

  “And you and yours,” I said. With a certain bitterness, I turned and rode back to the Vatican Palace, while the Neapolitan army streamed out of Rome and toward their homeland.

  Chapter 25

  MADDALENA

  On the last day of December I found myself on the very upper terrace of the Castel Sant’ Angelo—the Terrazzo dell’ Angelo—along with Giulia and Adriana and the rest of their household. We stood below the great statue of St. Michael the Archangel sheathing his sword, promising protection from evil to all the children of God. It was cold and clear out as—with dread in our hearts—we watched the French army ride into Rome.

  Pope Alexander had opened the gates and allowed them admittance. They were not sacking the city. And yet we understood Rome and its people would not escape unscathed. Not when an entire army of French soldiers and Swiss mercenaries were within its walls.

  People would suffer.

  Not Giulia Farnese or Adriana de Mila, of course. Anyone with the wealth to do so had already fled Rome, taking their valuables with them. And the pope’s women had access to his very own fortress. It was only by the grace of God that I was safely ensconced with them. I thanked Him on my knees every day in the fortress’s chapel. Why he had chosen to spare me from this threat, I likely would never know.

  Because the people out there in the streets of Rome—the merchants and shopkeepers and peddlers and craftspeople and artists and servants whose masters did not care enough to save them, the elderly and the children and the sick—would be living in a state of fear today, of soldiers who might strip them of their livelihoods and perhaps even their lives. Who was watching out for them? Who was praying for them, except me?

  I’d had no word from Federico since we had parted outside the Vatican stables, and I could hardly sleep for fear. Was he safe? Would he remain safe, now that the French were within the city walls?

  The only thing I could do was wait, and pray.

  Yet waiting was difficult in these days. There was not much cleaning to do, not in the small suite of rooms we occupied, and there were no dinners or fetes to ready the ladies for, and certainly no visitors. I could not recall ever having quite so much free time, and I did not know what to do with it. For the very first time in my life, embroidery did not serve to distract me; instead of focusing on the stitches, the pattern, my mind worried over what would become of us, of Rome, of Federico.

  A few paces away, Giulia and Adriana were chattering nervously, worrying about His Holiness and what this would mean for him, and about their own palazzo, and whether it would be spared.

  I heard their talk, but I could not listen to it. I liked my mistresses, and all the saints knew they treated me well. But they were worried about the wrong things. I could only hope that God would reveal their error to them in His own time.

  I thought of the soldiers that had come through my village those years ago, the harm and evil they had wreaked. Long instructed that all sin was punished, I had always assumed God had punished them somehow, in some way.

  Yet this was the army of an anointed king who held his throne only because God had blessed him and placed him there. So how could the evils committed by this king’s army—for evils were certain—be punished?

  When God’s chosen vicar on earth was in opposition to an anointed king, who could emerge victorious?

  And what would become of the innocent people caught between them?

  Dear God, protect Federico, and keep him safe, I prayed as I watched the soldiers stream into the Eternal City. If you do this one thing, I shall never
ask for anything else, ever again. Please. I beg of you.

  We stayed on the terrace into the night, unable to look away. We stayed until the entire army had made its way inside the city. The sounds of fighting, of screams, rose up from the streets below and across the city as spots of fire lit the dark sky.

  It was as if we were watching the apocalypse.

  * * *

  That night, on my narrow pallet in a room next to Donna Giulia’s chamber, I had a dream—a premonition, I hoped.

  The statue of St. Michael atop the fortress came to life and stepped from his pedestal. He drew his sword, preparing to spread his wings over the city of Rome to save it, to drive out the French invaders and protect his people from the evil that waited to befall them. I fell to my knees before him, weeping in relief and gratitude, mumbling prayers of thanks. And when I gazed up into the light emanating from him, I saw he wore the face of Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia.

  Chapter 26

  CESARE

  The French messenger approached the throne, kneeling to kiss the pope’s ring and slipper. Good—the French king was respecting the honor and reverence due the pope. For now, at least.

  Father tersely bid the messenger rise. “What demands does His Highness King Charles have for us?” he asked.

  The messenger blanched slightly. “Not demands, Holiness; certainly not. His Royal Highness King Charles understands that he is Your Holiness’s humble servant and can make no demands, only requests.”

  I rolled my eyes, not caring if the messenger saw.

  Father snorted. “Indeed. Let us hear it, then.”

  Only myself, four other cardinals, and Burchard remained in the Vatican with the pope at that point, and all were present for this reception of King Charles’s messenger. We held a collective breath as we waited to hear what Charles would have the gall to demand—or whatever word he wanted to use for it—of Christ’s vicar on earth. Ever since the French king had installed himself in style in the Palazzo Venezia a few days earlier, we had known his terms were coming. Now there was a sense of relief that the moment had finally come. At least now we would know what he wanted, what he expected us to part with. What, if anything, we might be able to retain or gain.