The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “And so what do we gain in return?” I asked, my tone short.

  “Retain is perhaps the better word. Charles has sworn to protect and obey me, as all the kings of France before him. He will not get the Castel Sant’ Angelo, and I have not recognized him as King of Naples—he did not ask it and I did not offer it. Nor have I denounced King Alfonso’s right to rule.”

  Fascinating. Charles had brought an army to the pope’s domain, yet he lacked the nerve to insist upon the very thing he had come for. Was the scourge of Italy, Savonarola’s fiery sword of redemption, truly so weak a man?

  “Naples will not thank you for sending the French to their doorstep,” I said.

  “Yes, but I withheld formal recognition, so it is left to the Neapolitans to defend their own,” Father said. “I have done what I could. The rest is up to Alfonso and Ferrantino.”

  “I suppose this is the best outcome we could have hoped for, under the circumstances,” I said, rising. “If that is all, Father, I think I am for my bed…”

  “Sit down, Cesare.” His voice turned suddenly ominous.

  I froze briefly before lowering myself back into the cushioned chair. “What is it?” I asked, dreading his answer.

  “I am sorry, Cesare,” he said. “But I conceded one further thing to Charles.”

  “What?” I asked, a part of me afraid I already knew.

  “You, too, will be sent to ride with the French expedition to Naples,” he said.

  I exploded from my chair. “You are giving me to him as a hostage? Without discussing it with me?” I demanded. All the awe I had felt as I beheld him before the fire just minutes ago had vanished. He had betrayed me, his supposed right hand. I was to be given over to the enemy.

  “You will be safe, and I will have eyes and ears inside Charles’s camp,” Father replied.

  “You would send me away? With them? When I should be at your side?”

  Father rose. “As you said, you are mine to command,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And so I do command you. You go where I send thee, Cesare.”

  “I do,” I said bitterly, moving toward the door, “but that does not mean I like it or understand it.” I banged out of his chambers, storming back to my own rooms and no doubt yet another sleepless night.

  * * *

  “What news?” I asked the next night as Michelotto stood before me in my private chambers. He had been on the streets of Rome much of the day, listening and speaking with his informants. Bodyguard, assassin, spy, spymaster—Michelotto’s many talents were worth their weight in gold, I was finding.

  “It would seem His Holiness has won a great victory over those who oppose him,” Michelotto reported. “Ascanio Sforza has ridden for Milan, and Giuliano della Rovere has reportedly collapsed in a fit of rage and taken to his bed.”

  “They did not imagine the pope and King Charles would come to such accord,” I observed. Earlier King Charles had accompanied the Holy Father to the basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano, that they might pray together. Such a friendship was not why the rebellious cardinals had sided with the French king.

  “The looting has subsided as well,” Michelotto reported. “No doubt the soldiers have had their fun, and the army is preparing to march again.”

  “And we shall be going with it,” I said bitterly.

  “My lord?”

  I told him of the demand my father had granted the French king, and was not surprised when he nodded rather sagely. “Ah, yes. I heard a rumor of that. I was not certain it was true, or if you would prefer that I stay in Rome.”

  “No,” I said. “I will need you with me to watch my back in that nest of vipers. Charles may be an easy dupe, but I do not trust him.”

  “He would have nothing to gain by hurting you,” Michelotto pointed out, ever the strategist.

  “True, but I had rather rely on your eyes and skills than Charles’s good will.”

  * * *

  The following night, a banquet was held at the Vatican to celebrate the agreement between pope and king. Charles and his generals were in attendance, as were those cardinals who had stayed loyal to my father, and a few who had not, welcomed back into the fold. I’d had Michelotto arrange for another two food tasters in the kitchens. I did not trust any of these men.

  The French king, as my father described him, was a notably unimposing figure. His back was indeed bent and hunched, taking away from a height that was not impressive to begin with, and made for a painful-looking walk. His nose was large, entirely out of proportion with the rest of his features. He had coarse black hair and a beard that looked rather unkempt.

  In addition, his table manners were atrocious; he belched loudly and ate with his hands, eschewing the offer of a fork. He hung on the pope’s every word, and my father’s charm and good will were on display at every turn. Charles was duly impressed, and must be kept that way.

  “A pleasure to meet you finally, Your Eminence,” Charles said to me at the start of the meal, his Latin heavily accented. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  I gave him a tight smile. “As does yours, Your Highness,” I said. “Or perhaps it is only your cannon that precedes you.”

  He guffawed loudly, and I wondered if he simply meant to overlook the subtle insult, or if he had not noticed it at all. “My country has many great arms-makers, Your Eminence. I shall be happy to allow you to inspect the cannon, if you are interested.”

  “Very interested, Highness.”

  “And you shall have ample time, no? We will soon become much better acquainted, I do not doubt.”

  “Indeed,” I said, finding it hard to retain my brittle smile.

  “I hope you will enjoy the journey. Naples is said to be a beautiful place.”

  “Indeed it is, Your Highness. No doubt that is why you have gone to such trouble for it.”

  He gave me a curious look. “Yes,” he said, somewhat uncertainly.

  “And how are you finding Rome, Highness?” I went on.

  “Your hospitality is very fine,” he said. “I daresay I am not as eager to leave as I ought to be.”

  “I should think not. You shall not find such hospitality in Naples, after all.”

  This time Charles glared at me, but I kept my bland politician’s smile perfectly in place.

  “I hope you enjoy the wine, my son,” the pope said to the king then, diverting Charles’s attention. “It is the finest vintage I had in my cellars; I have been waiting for an illustrious guest to share it with.”

  Charles virtually preened at these words. Mother Mary, I thought incredulously, the man is a vain fool. His army’s meeting no resistance all the way down the peninsula has no doubt only heightened his vanity. “Your Holiness is too kind, as always, and the finest of hosts,” Charles said. He rose from his seat, lifting his golden goblet into the air. “A toast, to His Holiness Pope Alexander! May his reign be long and prosperous, and may the friendship between the Holy See and the Kingdom of France be eternal.”

  “Hear, hear!” called the assembled company, and we all drank. Father looked exceedingly pleased, beaming as he set down his goblet.

  Sitting farthest away from the pope and the king were a few of those cardinals who had embraced the French cause. Their faces were frozen into an expression of uncomfortable disbelief, as though they had sat down upon a bed of thorns. I allowed myself a small inward laugh. It would appear they had not truly believed in the accord between the French king and the pope they’d sought to depose until they had seen it with their own eyes.

  The banquet was of interminable length. I stayed quiet through much of it, still struggling with the idea of joining these French barbarians in a matter of days, and that my father was sending me with them. Was I so inconsequential to his plans that he had no better use for me than as a hostage?

  Juan would never have been used as such, were he here.

  Yet as the night drew to a close, my weary mind remembered my promise to Maddalena. My promise to help save the people
of Rome. If the French would not leave without me, would not leave all the innocent Romans in peace until I rode with them, then I would go. I would help in that way. I could only hope it would make her think well of me.

  The thought made it easier to smile congenially as the assembled company drank yet another toast.

  Chapter 31

  MADDALENA

  Once again, the household of the pope’s women had gathered on the terrace of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, but for a much happier reason. Today we were watching the French army ride out of Rome. And good riddance, I thought. May you never come back.

  Our lives could return to normal. We could return to Santa Maria in Portico in the coming weeks and leave this cold fortress that had begun to feel rather like a tomb—fitting, for, as Isabella had told me, that was exactly what it once was. She claimed the structure had originally been built by one of the pagan emperors of Rome as a tomb for himself and his wife. It did not surprise me. I had come to feel a bit like a corpse myself, tucked away behind the cold walls.

  And once our lives returned to the way they once were, surely I would be able to find Federico myself, if I did not have word from Cardinal Borgia first. My failure to do so, even with the risks I’d taken, had not allowed me to sleep any better. With the French gone, the servants would return to the Vatican—no doubt some of them already had, with the Holy Father again in residence—and someone would know where Federico had gone. And if not, I could hire a messenger to take a letter to his family’s vineyard once peace had returned to Rome and its environs.

  But I kept remembering the blood in the wine shop. I returned again and again to that image. It was likely Federico had not been there at all, yet it haunted me each time I closed my eyes, my stomach twisting in a sickening mix of guilt and dread.

  I pulled myself from my dark musings and peered down at the street below. Cardinal Borgia was riding beside the French king as they left the Vatican Palace and rode past the fortress.

  I had not seen Cardinal Borgia since the day I had foolishly left the Castel Sant’ Angelo to seek Federico—the day I had slapped a prince of the Church. I still blushed to think of it, but what I blushed at most was the memory of his lips grazing the skin of my hand, and of the words he had spoken to me with such reverence: I shall do as you bid me, Maddalena, avenging angel, Madonna of Holy Vengeance. Never had someone spoken to me so before, as though I were to be admired, worshipped.

  He had kept his first promise to me: later that same day, several wheels of fresh cheese had been delivered to the Castel’s kitchen expressly for me. I had shared with the staff, of course; the cook had baked us a fresh loaf of bread to go with it, and we all practically squealed with delight as we devoured our feast. Naturally, the others had been curious where I had gotten such a bounty; I lied—promising myself to confess the sin later—and said Federico’s family had sent it. Gossip would be ruthless if I said it had come from Cardinal Borgia; there would be speculation that was neither wanted nor warranted. We had no relationship beyond that of a maid and a man who far outranked her in the world, even if he was particularly kind to me …

  He is very brave, I thought, watching him ride past. He rode into unknown danger, into a war that was not of his making, and yet one he would try to stop.

  And he had kept his promise to me. With the departure of the French, the people of Rome would be safe. However he and the Holy Father had arranged it, the French were leaving, and the city would rejoice. He had even offered himself up as a sacrifice to see it done. Whether or not he could bring me news of Federico, I considered his promise fulfilled.

  He could be killed, I thought suddenly, and the thought forced the breath sharply from my lungs as though I had fallen flat onto stone.

  Surely he is in little danger, I tried to reassure myself. He is the pope’s son, after all. It would be more than their soul was worth for anyone to harm him. And behind him rode a fair-haired man I had seen with His Eminence before, his bodyguard. He was not alone. He had his man to protect him.

  And yet … it was war. Horrible and unpredictable things could happen when men have violence in their blood.

  I might never see Cesare Borgia again.

  This should not have mattered to me. I should have harbored no more feeling for him than the respect due a prince of the Church.

  But I did. And wrong and sinful though it was, I could no longer deny it as I watched him ride away and my heart broke.

  Chapter 32

  CESARE

  King Charles had been insistent that I be at his side as he paraded out of Rome, as if I were a captured prince in a triumphal procession. And wasn’t that exactly what I was?

  Yet as we left the city, he was content to let me fall back, which I happily did, Michelotto riding at my side. I had every confidence that I was actor and politician enough to keep Charles in the dark, but best to avoid his notice altogether.

  The night before, my father had finally let me—and Michelotto, as he would be involved as well—in on the full extent of his plans. “So you see, Cesare,” Father had said, once he’d finished explaining, “you shall not be a French hostage for long.”

  We had gone over it again, and again, and one last time for good measure, to ensure we all knew our roles and could execute it flawlessly. We would only have one chance.

  Despite my lingering anger, I had laughed when he’d first explained the plan, and I wanted to laugh again each time I pictured what the expression on Charles’s face would surely be when he found out what we’d done. But it did not do to look too pleased with myself as I rode along. I was a virtual prisoner, after all. Instead I retreated firmly behind a polite yet brooding exterior, a slight scowl permanently upon my face.

  It was not all that difficult to maintain. I only had to dwell upon my father sending me away in the first place—with a plot up the sleeve of his papal robes, yes, but he had sent me away, nonetheless. Our political situation had been largely improved, but that he could part with me at all still did not sit well with me. He did not need me at his side, as he claimed. He had—almost literally—moved Heaven and earth to get me into the Church, and yet still I was not indispensable.

  What would it take?

  I could start by carrying off this adventure flawlessly. And I would.

  He could never have trusted Juan with such a task, I told myself smugly as I rode. Juan would have botched it immediately. No doubt even Father knew that.

  If nothing else, at least I had kept my promise to Maddalena, I reminded myself. I couldn’t help a smile as I indulged in the memory of how she had looked after she’d slapped me. An angel of righteous vengeance, indeed. Now she—and the people of her city that she loved so much—would be safe.

  After several hours on the road, one of the French officers kept glancing over at me—annoyed, it seemed, by my surly silence. It would not do to give too much offense to my temporary hosts; the time had come for a show of casual resignation. “How are you enjoying the ride, Michelotto?” I asked.

  Michelotto looked up, far too savvy to betray surprise at the first words I had spoken in hours. “Very much, Your Eminence,” he said. “I have never been south of Rome before.”

  “Indeed? Then you are seeing much of the beautiful countryside.”

  “I am. I like it very much.”

  “Naples has some truly beautiful views,” I went on. “I look forward to beholding them myself.”

  “I am eager to see them, my lord. Is there not danger from the volcano near the city?”

  “Mount Vesuvio? Yes, I daresay there is,” I said. “The faith of the people of Naples must be strong indeed, for them to live constantly in the shadow of such danger.”

  “Only God’s will protects them, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” I echoed. “The stewards of the city, whoever they may be, must be very careful to always act in accordance with God’s will, lest he use the volcano to express his wrath.”

  The French officer who’d been glaring at
me scowled at these words. I doubted his Italian was very good, but he clearly understood enough. It was for that reason that I had addressed Michelotto in Italian instead of Catalan, which we could be safely assured none of the Frenchmen spoke. I did not want them thinking we plotted against them in a language they could not understand—we did plot against them, of course, but it wouldn’t do to be obvious about it. And I enjoyed needling them where I could—the type of paltry revenge one could afford to allow a hostage.

  That night we camped upon the road, and I took great pleasure in imperiously directing the set-up of a tent for Michelotto and myself, taking great pains to ensure the dozen trunks I’d brought—which, I had said, contained my most valuable possessions and from which I could not be parted—were securely settled nearby.

  “Will there be a man assigned to guard my trunks?” I asked of a passing officer.

  He grimaced. “You’ve brought your own man, haven’t you?” he asked in broken Italian. “He can guard your things.”

  I spoke French rather well, of which King Charles was aware, but these men didn’t need to know that. “Oh, no, monsieur,” I said haughtily. “That will never do. My man must guard my person at all times.”

  “You’re in no danger so long as His Holiness keeps his bargains.”

  “His Highness King Charles would never dare, not when His Holiness embraced him as a son,” I declared. “But His Holiness does have enemies, may God forgive them. And so I must have a guard with me at all times.”

  “We haven’t the men to spare to guard your vanities, Eminence.”

  “The biggest army Italy has seen in centuries hasn’t a man to spare? Must I ask the king himself?”

  The man sighed heavily. “Very well. I’ll have a man spread his bedroll here, if that will help you sleep, my lord.” He spat the last two words.

  I smiled condescendingly. “It shall, monsieur. God give you good night.”