The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I slipped into the stables and found myself with a sword immediately at my throat. “Who goes there? State your business or I cut your throat,” a man barked. He had the Catalan accent I recognized among those members of His Holiness’s personal guard.

  I let out a squeak of panic. Hands trembling with fright, I lifted my hands and pulled down the hood of my cloak. “I … my name is Maddalena Moretti,” I said, my voice shaky, much as I would have liked to sound strong. “I am a maid, in the service of—”

  He sighed with both relief and annoyance and lowered his blade. “A servant girl,” he said, disdainfully. “What in Christ’s name are you doing here?”

  “I … I am looking for someone,” I said. “My betrothed. His name is Federico Lucci. He is a footman in the service of His Holiness, but is often in the stables. Have you seen him?”

  “I know the fellow, but I have not seen him, no,” the man said brusquely. “You had best get the hell out of here and somewhere safe. No doubt your man will come find you if he can, a tasty thing like you.”

  My skin crawled at these words, and I hurried out of the stables. Yet such a comment was the least of what I had to fear on the streets of Rome.

  I hastened to the Vatican servants’ quarters next and found them deserted. No doubt everyone who had not fled was in hiding. I thought hard about where else Federico might be if in fact he had not gone home or remained with the horses in the countryside.

  He could be dead. I gasped aloud as the thought slithered its way through the shields I had erected in my mind to keep it out.

  No, I did not know that. I didn’t have any reason to believe it, to believe that he wasn’t perfectly safe somewhere.

  Then I recalled his friend’s wine shop, where he and I had passed so much time. Perhaps he had sought shelter there. If nothing else, I might find someone who had seen or spoken to him.

  I set out from the Vatican before I could think better of it. The walk to the wine shop was not a long one, and I tried to stay in the shadows cast by the newly risen sun and out of view of enemy soldiers.

  The streets were as empty as I’d ever seen them, and I could not help a shudder at how eerie it was. I pulled my cloak closer, as if hoping it would make me invisible; I was all too conscious of how very conspicuous I was, out on the streets all alone.

  In the distance, I heard shouts and breaking glass, and whooping and hollering, as if a fight had broken out. I quickened my pace, crossing myself under my hood, begging God and His saints to see me through this.

  Finally the shop came into sight. It was dark and silent, apparently abandoned. As I drew nearer, I saw the windows had been smashed and the furniture splintered within. Broken glass carpeted the floor, as did spilled wine and what might have been—what I hoped wasn’t—blood.

  I remained stock still, peering in horror at the evidence of violence inside. Dread began to coat the inside of my stomach, heavy as lead. There had been a struggle here. I crossed myself again, murmuring a prayer for the shop owner, Federico’s friend whose name I could not manage to recall.

  It was not certain that Federico had even been here, been a victim of this horror. He might yet be safe in the country, or somewhere else in the city, somewhere I would not know to check. I must have faith.

  I could look around the shop, I reasoned. Perhaps there was something that might help me. I was reluctant to go inside for some reason I could not explain, but having come this far, it would be foolish to turn back now. Lifting my skirts, I stepped onto the threshold and past the broken door.

  Suddenly I heard a burst of laughter and shouting from nearby. I turned to find two men walking along the street—French soldiers, judging by their dress and the language they spoke rapidly to one another. I could not be sure, being unfamiliar with the French tongue, but it sounded as though they were slurring their words, still drunk from the night before.

  I moved to dart into the shop to hide, but they caught sight of me, and quickly hastened toward me. One caught my arm and whirled me around to face him. He asked me a question in his language, his companion laughing by his side.

  “I … I do not understand.” I struggled against his hard grip. “Let me go, please!”

  The men continued speaking to each other, and the one holding me ran a finger along my cheek. “Please, let me go!” I cried. I doubted they could understand my words, but surely the sentiment was clear enough as I struggled against them. They simply had no intention of obliging me.

  Rage began to fill me as their fingers poked and prodded, as though I were a piece of horseflesh at market. First Juan Borgia, and now this? Were men animals, all?

  The Cardinal of Valencia was not coming to save me this time, but I had been doing a fine job of fighting off his despicable brother even before he arrived that day. And I could do that now.

  “Let me go!” I shouted. I drove my knee between the man’s legs, and he let me go with a scream of pain. I did not hesitate; I bolted away from them and back down the street from which I had come, toward the Vatican.

  I heard shouts and looked back to see the man’s companion pursuing me. He wove unsteadily across the cobblestones, drunk indeed, and as I was about to look away, he tripped and fell to the street. He let out a yell of pain, and I ran on. When I glanced back again he was nowhere in sight.

  A hysterical burst of laughter escaped me. Those men deserved whatever pain they got, and then some. Perhaps they would no longer prey upon young women in the streets. I could only hope.

  I veered down a street that would extend my journey slightly but would likely throw them off should they start to pursue me again. Yet no one followed.

  In sight of St. Peter’s Square, I had finally allowed relief to flood my blood when I heard hoofbeats coming up behind me. I turned to see a mounted rider pursuing me. “Stop!” he cried.

  I screamed and ran faster, futile though I knew it was, and my legs felt like to give out. I could never outrun a man on horseback.

  “Maddalena! Please!”

  I stopped dead at the sound of my name and turned to face the mounted man. By then, he was almost upon me, and before I knew what was happening he had slowed his horse, seized me by the waist, and pulled me up into the saddle in front of him.

  I screamed again, in panic and outrage. “Let me down! Who—” I broke off as I finally got a look at the man’s face. “You … Your Eminence!”

  “Yes,” Cesare Borgia said, spurring his horse on. “What are you doing out on the streets, Maddalena? Surely you know it’s not safe—why, I saw you running as though you were being chased, and—”

  “I was being chased, by two French soldiers who accosted me,” I said. “I fought them off and ran, and then you came riding up behind me, and…” Suddenly all the fight went out of me, and I sagged against his lean body. Only then did I notice how good he felt against me, and just like that, all the thoughts I’d been trying to suppress—as well as, God forgive me, that sinful dream of over a year ago—came roaring back. I drew a sharp breath and quickly recited the Pater Noster in my head. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil …

  He chuckled. “Fought them off, did you? Well done. But what in God’s name possessed you to leave the Castel Sant’ Angelo in the first place?”

  “I was looking for someone,” I explained. “A … a friend.” If I wondered why I did not use the word betrothed with Cardinal Borgia, I did not stop to examine it too closely. “I have not heard from him and do not know if he is safe, and I was worried. I … decided to try to find him.”

  By this time we were back at the Vatican, and Cardinal Borgia directed his horse into the stables. He swung down from the saddle and lifted me down after him. “That was brave of you,” he said. “Brave, but foolish. And did you find this friend?”

  “No. No, I did not.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” He led the horse into the stable before drawing me toward the palace. “Come. We must both get back into the Castel. Luckily for you
, I decided to ride out to try to find my mother.” He gave me that smile I had remembered so many times—too many times. “It seems I have saved you again.”

  Before I realized what I was doing, I reached out and slapped him across the face.

  I could not tell who was more shocked, him or me. No doubt I had not truly hurt him—I was a slight women, with no experience in violence, and he was a man and no doubt trained to protect himself. But the astonishment in his gaze was comical all the same.

  I bit back the apology that leapt to my tongue, the horror at my actions that years in service to those above my station had ingrained in me. Instead I said, “I do not need you to save me, Your Eminence. I managed quite well before you found me. If you need to be a savior to someone, save the people of Rome.”

  I expected his ire, even anger, in return; but as he had before when I had spoken boldly to him, he surprised me. He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I shall do as you bid me, Maddalena, avenging angel, Madonna of Holy Vengeance,” he said, without so much as a trace of mockery. “I shall do the best I can.”

  It was my turn to look shocked, to be rendered speechless.

  “And I shall start with your friend,” he said. “What is his name?”

  I shook my head, as if to clear it. “Federico Lucci,” I said. “A footman in the employ of His Holiness.”

  A sardonic smile curled his lips. “Is this man your lover, then?”

  “No!” I gasped in shock. “I am not … I would never…”

  “I did not mean to offend you,” he said, in earnest. “But it seems plain that this man is dear to you.”

  “He is,” I said. “He is … we are betrothed.”

  He frowned slightly before his expression cleared, becoming neutral once more. “I see. Well, you have my word on this, Maddalena Moretti. I shall have my men find out where he is, and what has become of him, and I shall tell you. I swear it.”

  Relief and warmth spread through me in equal measure. “I … I do not know how to thank you, Your Eminence.”

  He took my hand and kissed it again, his lips warm against my skin. “It is as I told you before, Maddalena. A man will do a great deal to see that smile of yours. The smile of an angel of holy vengeance.”

  I struggled to compose myself as he led me back into the Vatican Palace and to the secret tunnel.

  An angel of holy vengeance, indeed. Perhaps my dream of him as such an angel had not been so far from the truth, after all.

  Chapter 30

  CESARE

  Immediately upon returning to my rooms at the Castel Sant’ Angelo, I summoned Michelotto and directed him to gather whatever information he could about this Federico Lucci—as soon as it could be safely done. I would keep my promise to the magnificent Maddalena, no matter how long it took.

  Later that night, I paced restlessly in my chamber, unable to sleep, even having discharged the good deed I’d promised. I could not get Maddalena’s face at the moment she’d slapped me out of my head: haughty and imperious in her outrage, like a statue of some ancient Roman goddess. Madonna of Holy Vengeance, I’d called her. By God, but if I was a painter, I would paint her just so, and give the work that title.

  I admired her, true, but my admiration was not keeping me awake; rather, I had lust to thank for that. A woman as beautiful and firm-willed as she inspired a great deal more than admiration in a man, after all.

  I could seek her out, find where she was sleeping, and invite her to my bed—invite, of course; it would never be anything but her choice. She certainly did not seem the type to be unfaithful to her betrothed, but I could not help but contemplate what it would be like if she was. I had to smother a moan as I allowed my imagination free reign. To have her writhing beneath me in this bed, all that fire and will directed toward me …

  I got up and began to pace, hoping to make my arousal fade. Because of course I would not seek her out. Not today. Not like this. Not when she had fought off some lechers seeking to demean and violate her, all while trying to find the man she was promised to marry. Christ, was I not a better man than them, at least? Could I not respect her virtue?

  But I thought—perhaps only hoped—such an invitation from me might not be completely unwelcome to her. She had melted so deliciously against me when she sat before me in the saddle; and in the past, her smile had seemed inviting and warm; that she even enjoyed my company …

  Basta, Cesare, I told myself firmly. You, a prince of the Church, would worry over a servant girl’s opinion of you?

  But I did, and in the dark of night, in the agony of unfulfilled lust, I could admit that much to myself, at least.

  Yet now was hardly the time to be distracted by a serving girl, beautiful and righteous and alluring and headstrong as she may be. The French were in our city; it could be none of us would live out the month.

  And if I wanted to do something for Maddalena, I could make good on my promises to her: to find her man (though I felt very grudging about it just then) and to do something for the people of Rome. And so I resumed pacing, trying to think of some way the Borgias—and Rome—might emerge victorious from this crisis.

  * * *

  Despite my best intentions, things soon deteriorated far beyond anyone’s control. If there was still any belief that God was on the side of the pope and his cause, this belief collapsed on January 10 with a section of the Castel Sant’ Angelo’s wall. Though the French troops had set up some of their fearsome cannons facing the fortress, they had remained still and silent, ominously so. But no, the wall, insufficiently reinforced, collapsed on its own, leaving a hole large enough for French troops to spill through should they choose.

  Leaving guards at the fortress for the women within—and the Papal Treasury, which had been transported there as well—Father returned to the Vatican, bringing me with him. The hour of reckoning had come. He would receive the French king.

  He no longer had a choice. Yet as angry as I was that it had come to this, I was also relieved. The moment had come, and we would face our fate.

  * * *

  I was not permitted to be present during Father’s audience with King Charles, nor were any other cardinals or advisors—only a pair of guards for each man, who would stand at a distance. I understood this, even as I resented it. I paced my Vatican chambers like a caged lion. Charles would be sent to the Vatican garden for the meeting, where he would come upon the pontiff, supposedly deep in prayer, and the king would then genuflect three times before the pope raised him up to greet and embrace him. It had all been arranged carefully between the two men in advance via their envoys.

  It was not until late that night that I was finally summoned to my father’s chambers. I made my way quickly, practically running. The guards outside immediately opened the door to admit me, and I passed through the outer rooms into Father’s private chambers.

  He was waiting before the fire for me, still dressed in a simple white cassock and skullcap. I assumed that this was what he had worn to greet the French king, and I couldn’t help but wonder at the choice. Surely a set of resplendent robes, perhaps even the papal tiara, would have served better to impress and intimidate Charles, who by all accounts was a small, awkward, and even ugly man with a bent and twisted spine. Yet there was brilliance in the choice he had made as well: Charles would no doubt have expected to be greeted with splendor, to be overawed by the Holy Father. And so Father had done the unexpected: dressed in simple, spotless white, as though he were an everyday priest humbly greeting and providing guidance to one of his parishioners.

  I was struck anew by the sight of the man before me, just as the first time I had beheld him as the Pope of Rome, the Vicar of Christ on earth. In this moment, he seemed to me more than a man indeed.

  I approached him and knelt. “Holy Father,” I murmured.

  His hands rested on my head in blessing. “My son,” he said softly, real affection in his voice. “I have much to tell you.”

  “I am yours to command,
” I said.

  “I know,” he said, his voice still soft. “Rise.”

  We both took chairs in front of the fire. “King Charles and I agreed to many things today,” Father said at last, after a few beats of silence. “Some of which I could not avoid. And yet it went better than I had expected.” He chuckled. “He is an interesting man, Charles. For all the might of his army, he is remarkably ineffectual in person, and so it was not difficult to persuade him to my way of thinking.”

  Interesting indeed. “What are the terms?” I asked, unable to wait any longer.

  “I promised to grant Charles free passage through the Papal States,” Father began.

  Not that Charles needed any such thing—no one in the Papal States would try to oppose his army. Yet I saw the political value in the pope naming this as a concession, as something he was generously granting the French king. “What else?”

  “Charles shall have Prince Djem ride with the expedition, though I shall continue to receive the payments for his keep,” Father went on. “He cares only about the prestige of the hostage, apparently. Charles shall also keep the papal fortresses he is already in possession of—I had no way to deny him, of course. And I promised cardinals’ hats for a pair of Frenchmen at his request.” He grimaced. “And I must forgive and welcome back into the fold the cardinals who betrayed me.”

  “God’s blood,” I swore. “Those traitors?”

  “I do not like it either, Cesare, but I did not have a choice. Charles insisted, and in granting this I shall be safe on St. Peter’s throne.”

  “Will you be, though, with those vipers at your breast?” I demanded.

  “Charles does not seek to depose me; he finds me amiable and agreeable,” Father said. “Which is not at all what those cardinals, especially della Rovere, wanted. They’ve been thwarted and will come back with their tails between their legs. And my forgiveness will hopefully eliminate their desire to rebel again.” He sighed. “Forgiveness is always the better course if possible, even if it is not the easiest one.”