The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “His Highness asks Your Holiness to turn over the Castel Sant’ Angelo to him, that he may properly defend the city, and prepare for his Holy Crusade,” the messenger began, reading from a scroll of parchment.

  Not even a breath disturbed the stillness of the audience chamber. My father’s grip on the arms of his throne tightened so that his knuckles paled, but he did not speak.

  “He also requests that Your Holiness give into his custody the infidel Prince Djem, as a token of Your Holiness’s good will.”

  So Charles can receive the payments for Djem’s keep from the Sultan, more like. My father merely raised his eyebrows at the messenger.

  “Finally,” the messenger went on, and here he hesitated briefly, “His Royal Highness requests, as yet a further token of Your Holiness’s good will, that Cardinal Cesare Borgia ride with his expedition to Naples.”

  Rage exploded behind my eyes, but I fought to keep my expression impassive. No good would come of me showing my true feelings at this juncture.

  But the nerve of him, the absolute gall, to ask to take me as a hostage! He wanted the Castel Sant’ Angelo and the pope’s son, a prince of the Church?

  A hostage. Father would never agree to it.

  Would he?

  “Is that all?” Father inquired mildly.

  The messenger rolled up his scroll and bowed. “It is. I trust Your Holiness does not find these things too much to ask, given the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances, as I see them,” Father said, speaking softly but with underlying steel, “are that King Charles has pushed his way into the Holy City and demanded these boons from me, the Pope of Rome and Vicar of Christ, in my own city, when I hold the crown of Naples in my keeping. I wonder that he feels owed anything at all.”

  The messenger gaped at him.

  The pope rose suddenly. “You are dismissed,” he said curtly. “This audience is at an end.”

  “But … I … what shall I tell his Highness?” the messenger babbled.

  “Tell him no.” With that, the pope swept out of the room, and I followed closely behind.

  * * *

  Father was of the opinion that Charles, while he would no doubt be enraged, would still not deem it politic to use force against the pope or the Vatican. Yet with della Rovere whispering poison into the French king’s ear, there was no telling what they might attempt. So, that very night, Father and I, along with Burchard and the four cardinals still present, took our most necessary belongings and escaped to the Castel Sant’ Angelo via the secret tunnel between the fortress and the Vatican. If we were going to wait out Charles, best to do it from behind impenetrable walls.

  Chapter 27

  MADDALENA

  I arose early one January morning and climbed up to the Terrazzo dell’ Angelo, to watch the sun rise over Rome and to pray in sight of the statue of Saint Michael. Since he had come to me in my dream, this had become my custom. It was as much comfort as I could find in these uncertain times.

  I had yet to hear from Federico, though I had begun to hope he would find a way to get a message to me, or even come to the Castel after all. His was the face that now haunted my dreams, his fate the one I worried over most. The guilt that had slid into my heart with deadly aim that day outside the stables continued to fester. Federico and I might both be safe and together had I not been so selfish, so full of sin.

  That is my fault. My fault. And there was nothing I could do but pray.

  When I reached the terrace, I was surprised to find I was not alone; someone stood in my usual spot, gazing out over the Eternal City. When the figure turned to me, it was as though my dream had come to life in earnest, for before me stood Cardinal Cesare Borgia.

  All thoughts fled as I stared at him in dumbfounded surprise, our eyes locked, before I knelt hastily. “Your Eminence,” I murmured, eyes cast down on the stone walkway beneath me. My heart pounded, racing with joy and delight. He was here! We were saved. “Forgive me; I did not expect to see you here.” But I had, hadn’t I?

  “Rise, Maddalena,” he said, his voice low and intimate in the early dawn light. When I met his gaze again, he was smiling slightly. “You did not expect to see me up so early, or you did not expect to see me at the Castel Sant’ Angelo at all?”

  “Both,” I replied. “I have been coming here many a morning, for quiet reflection and prayer. I have yet to find anyone else doing the same. And I thought … I assumed Your Eminence would remain at the Vatican with His Holiness.”

  “His Holiness is here as well,” he said. “We arrived late last night.”

  “And have you come to—” I broke off, embarrassed. Have you come to tell us we are saved, and can return to Santa Maria in Portico? I wanted to ask. But that was a silly question. The Pope of Rome and his son the cardinal need not come to the Castel Sant’ Angelo in person to tell the pope’s women they might go home.

  But surely they—surely Cardinal Borgia—were here to liberate us?

  My face flushed, and the cardinal looked at me expectantly. “Yes?” he prompted. “You may speak freely.”

  My face heated even more. “I … I only meant to say … to ask if you have come to tell us we are saved,” I said at last. “Surely the pope has reprimanded the French king, and he will be leaving Rome soon?”

  Cesare sighed heavily. “Would that that were the case, Maddalena,” he said. “No, sadly, we have come for no such happy purpose. The French king is as much ensconced in Rome, and in Italy, as he was before. His Holiness and I are now inmates of the fortress as well.”

  I could feel my face fall, though I tried not to show my disappointment. How had my dream so misled me? Were not such dreams sent by the saints to guide us?

  And had not Cardinal Borgia proven to be my savior before?

  Listen to yourself, Maddalena, a small yet caustic voice within me chided—a voice suspiciously like my mother’s. The saints sent a heavenly portent in a dream to you, so lowly and unworthy a woman?

  Cesare Borgia was only a man, after all, not an avenging angel. I would do well to remember that.

  He seemed to correctly interpret my crestfallen expression, for he hastened to explain. “We have not given up,” he tried to assure me. “Neither I nor His Holiness nor Naples. We shall not let the French have Italy. This is simply a more … defensible and strategic position.”

  He hesitated as he spoke the last words, almost as if he did not believe them. Yet I was more astounded that he felt any need to explain himself.

  “Of course,” I said, hurrying to reassure him in my own fashion. “I understand. His Holiness is guided by God and Christ Jesus, and so will only do what is best for his people. For all his people.”

  “Yes,” the cardinal said, though he sounded even less sure. “But I am glad to see you, Maddalena,” he said, changing the subject. “I had hoped you were safe with Adriana and Donna Giulia. You are looking well.”

  Warmth spread within me at the realization he had been thinking about me, anxious over my welfare. “I thank you, Your Eminence. I am as well as anyone can be, under the circumstances.”

  A smile, albeit brief, broke across his handsome face, and it dazzled me more than the sun then rising over the buildings and churches and fields of the Eternal City. For a moment, it was as if we were two equals, two friends. “I can certainly understand that,” he said. “Is there anything you want for, Maddalena? Anything you need?”

  “I do not think so, Your Eminence,” I said. “Madonna Giulia and Madonna Adriana brought the best of their food stores and wine, and—”

  “I did not ask about Giulia and Adriana,” he interrupted. “I asked if there is anything you want or need, Maddalena.”

  I paused, taken aback. That Cardinal Cesare Borgia should concern himself with my desires … “Oh, I … Your Eminence is too kind, but…” I mumbled, bowing my head.

  “Come, Maddalena,” he said, smile back on his face, and once again it was as though I were speaking to a friend, to someone comfort
able teasing me and being teased by me in return. “Surely there is something I can do for you. To reward your staunch loyalty in serving my family.”

  Before I could think better of it, my smile rose to match his, and I said, “If I were to be completely honest, Your Eminence, there is much I would do for some fresh cheese.”

  He laughed brightly. “Fresh cheese? Then you shall have it. Surely the pope’s son can have some fresh cheese sent to the Castel Sant’ Angelo for a pretty maid with a smile like the sunrise.”

  I was struck, almost physically so, by both the compliment and the way his words so closely mirrored my own thoughts of him. “Your Eminence is too kind, truly,” I said again. This time I met his eyes and widened my smile, letting him see how happy I was.

  He closed the distance between us and took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “A man would do much more than fetch you some fresh cheese for that smile of yours, Maddalena,” he said. And, before I could summon a reply, he turned and was gone, descending the stone stairs back into the fortress.

  I remained frozen there after his departure, my smile stuck to my lips, face upturned to catch the early rays of the wintry Roman sun. His words had warmed me more than any fire could on this winter day. His words that surely meant more to me than they did to him, to a prince of the Church, the son of the pope. A man of God, I reminded myself. A man who had risen high in the world and in God’s eyes and so was not free to treat me as a man treats a woman, a man whom it would be a sin to think of as a man. And I a betrothed woman!

  Yet I could not bring myself to extinguish the flame beneath my breastbone. And so I had one more thing to add to the litany of guilt in my prayers.

  Chapter 28

  CESARE

  Even from the window of the papal quarters in the Castel Sant’ Angelo, I could see the chaos sweeping the city outside. Smoke rose off in the distance, and groups of French soldiers and mercenaries made their way through the streets, our people trying to flee or hide.

  To King Charles’s credit—not that I was inclined to give him much—he had tried as best he could to discourage looting in the Holy City, setting up gallows in some of the city squares to serve as an ominous deterrent. He had even executed a few men whose crimes were particularly egregious. Yet, inexperienced in warfare as he was, he was finding out a disciplined army on the battlefield was one thing, and an army at loose ends in a foreign and hostile city was quite another. When the blood of men was raised for battle, they would find another outlet—much to the horror of the people of Rome.

  “Damn Charles, damn him,” I swore, turning from the window. “We cannot let this go on.”

  Father’s face was pale, haggard. “What would you have me do, Cesare?” he asked. “Accept his outrageous demands?”

  “We could at least try to negotiate,” I said. “Send him counter-demands.”

  Father shook his head slowly. “We can wait a bit longer,” he said. “Charles needs my support, or at least acquiescence. This fortress is impregnable; we can wait as long as it takes.”

  “But how much longer can the Roman people wait?” I demanded furiously, gesturing toward the window.

  “This is war, Cesare. You cannot save everyone.” He sighed. “Eventually Charles will be willing to negotiate. He does not wish to stay here any more than we want him here.”

  His Holiness was not entirely without resources, and he had spies in the Palazzo Venezia, where Charles was ensconced with his top advisors and that snake della Rovere. Reportedly the men were living in all but squalor, sleeping on dirty straw beds and burning tallow candles that dirtied the walls and tapestries. Charles was apparently so fearful of being poisoned that he had four men assigned to tasting his food and wine.

  No, he would not wish to linger in Rome. What I didn’t know was what position the pope still thought he had from which to negotiate, other than that he still sat upon St. Peter’s throne. For now.

  We were interrupted by a knock on the door, and when Father called “Enter!” Michelotto slipped inside. “Holiness,” he said, bowing. “Your Eminence.”

  “Michelotto,” I greeted him. “What news from outside?”

  “Pillaging and looting, just as we’ve feared, Eminence,” he said. “But I bring dire news of a personal nature, and it saddens me that I must be the one to report it to you.”

  My blood ran cold at his words. Lucrezia? “Out with it,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “I’ve learned that a band of Swiss mercenaries in the employ of King Charles have ransacked the home of Vannozza dei Cattanei, your mother,” Michelotto told me. “I went there to confirm the information myself, and sadly it is true.”

  “What?” I exploded. “They dare?” I seized a crystal glass from a table and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered into a satisfying number of pieces.

  “Cesare!” Father said, rising. “Have you lost your mind?”

  But I had, no doubt. “Where is my mother? Is she well? Is she safe?” I shouted.

  “She is, but shaken,” Michelotto said, his calm demeanor somehow completely unchanged. “I spoke to her myself, and she received me once she was certain I came on your business, Eminence. The mercenaries handled her a bit roughly when she tried to halt their entrance, but they…” He hesitated, glancing at the pope. “They did not violate her person. She is a bit bruised but will recover.”

  “Why did you not bring her here?” I demanded, thrusting my face close to Michelotto’s. “Why did you not insist she come to the Castel Sant’ Angelo, for her own protection?” I whirled on my father. “Why did you not have her brought here as soon as the French army was at our gates?”

  “Your mother and I are no longer a part of each other’s lives, Cesare,” Father said. “Had she sought protection here I would have granted it, a fact she knows well. She chose to stay in her home, and I cannot say that surprises me.”

  “With respect, Eminence,” Michelotto spoke up, “I did insist she accompany me back here. But she chose to retreat to her house in the country for the time being. I did my utmost to persuade her, but she would not be moved.”

  “God’s teeth,” I swore, clenching my fists against the desire to hurl something else at the wall. “Could the woman be any more stubbornly foolish?”

  “A trait you might recognize in yourself,” my father said tartly. “What happened to her is horrible, but she shall be safe in the country until this is over.”

  I stalked back to the window. “That they would dare assault the home and person of the mother of the pope’s children,” I muttered. “They will pay for this, those men that dared lay a finger on my mother,” I swore. “I will see to it.”

  Both of them simply looked back at me in silence. For what could I do to seek my revenge, trapped in the Castel Sant’ Angelo like a rat, while the French had the run of the city outside?

  I did not know, and that feeling of impotence made me want to put my fist through the very stone walls that hemmed us in. But I would find a way.

  Chapter 29

  MADDALENA

  I was not reassured after my encounter with the Cardinal of Valencia—if anything, I was less so. Certainly the situation must be more dire than we’d known, if it was no longer safe for the pope to remain in the Vatican Palace. When I was not worrying, I was struggling to push Cesare Borgia from my mind—his smile, his kind words, the way his tongue seemed to caress my name. Each fond remembrance was a sin, and even the thought of speaking such sins aloud to my confessor made my cheeks burn in shame.

  And so I would turn my thoughts to Federico. It was my fault we were both still in the city and that he was in the way of such danger.

  The more I ruminated and stewed in my regrets and my culpability, the more I felt I could not stay safely shielded behind these walls, not when Federico—my friend and, yes, the man I might love—was in danger beyond them.

  I had to find him. I had to at least try. Surely there was still someone at the Vatican Palace I could ask. Perhaps
he had already fled to the country, and then at least I could rest easy that he was safe.

  Or perhaps I would find him, and at last bring him back to the safety of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. Surely he would acquiesce, now that he had witnessed what the French were doing to the city.

  I slipped from my bed early the next morning, as usual. Isabella, who shared the small room with me, would not think anything of it. Hopefully I could be back before too long.

  Hopefully I would come back at all, and not run afoul of some French soldier.

  I shuddered as I donned my heaviest cloak against the winter chill, pulling up the hood to conceal my face. Hopefully there would be few of them up at so early an hour; hopefully they were all sleeping off a night of drink and dissolution and so would take no notice of one servant girl slipping through the streets.

  Mother Mary, Christ Jesus, blessed and righteous St. Michael, watch over me.

  I had discovered, after much idle poking about the fortress these past few weeks, where the secret walkway that led to the Vatican Palace was. I slipped through unnoticed.

  It was open to the air, which I had not expected; though the high stone walls hid anyone passing from the view of whoever might be on the street below. My heart beat rapidly beneath my breastbone at the audacity of what I was doing. I hoped fervently that I would not encounter anyone on my way.

  Soon I found myself in the Vatican Palace. I huddled in a corner, struggling to steady my breath and get my bearings. Once I had recognized where I was in the palace, I headed for a side servants’ entrance that would lead me to the vicinity of the stables. If Federico was well and had not fled, this would be where I found him.