The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  Our eyes locked again as his thumb caressed my wrist. He leaned ever so slightly toward me, his lips parted, and I found myself doing the same, as if compelled by some force outside myself.

  But I was not compelled, and that was the sin.

  Quickly I leapt up, pulling my hand from his. “I … I apologize, Your Eminence,” I said. “I should go.”

  “Please, stay,” he said, rising as well. “Until you are less upset. You are surely in no state to make your way home.”

  “You have been too generous already,” I babbled. “It was so very kind of you to find out this … news for me.”

  His expression was solemn as he regarded me. “I fear it was not kind at all.”

  “But now I know,” I said. “I … I needed to know.”

  “I am sorry, Maddalena.”

  I bobbed him a curtsy, not daring to look at him. “Goodbye, Your Eminence,” I said. Then I whirled on my heel and fled.

  * * *

  I did not get very far. Some hours later I was still on my knees in one of the chapels in St. Peter’s Basilica. I had staggered in and dropped to my knees before the altar. “Why?” I had nearly howled, looking up at Jesus Christ on his cross above the altar through my veil of tears. “Why would you take someone as kind and decent and full of life as Federico? Why? Why?”

  I had dissolved into weeping then, and once the tears finally subsided I had risen on unsteady legs to light a candle in Federico’s memory. After, I knelt once more, taking deep breaths to calm myself, and I prayed. I prayed for Federico’s soul, that he might be admitted to Heaven straightaway; I prayed for God to punish those who had murdered him; I prayed for the soul of his friend; I prayed for God to ease my grief; I prayed for the grief of Federico’s family to be eased, after losing a second son so soon after the first.

  And I prayed to be forgiven, though I did not see how it could be so.

  I could have averted this, and that I must bear the rest of my days. I must bear Federico’s death for the rest of my days. Another sin added to the tally that grew ever larger within my soul.

  It was a tally that now included the shameless, wanton way I had acted earlier that day. Cardinal Cesare Borgia, a prince of Holy Mother Church, had told me of the death of my betrothed, and I had cried in his arms, pressing myself against him like a brazen slut. I had taken comfort in his embrace, in the embrace of a man of God. While mourning the death of the man I was supposed to love, I was filled with lust for another, a man forbidden by all laws of God and the Church. What forgiveness could there be for me?

  There are seven deadly sins, Maddalena, but lust is the deadliest.

  On my knees on the hard stone floor, I gazed up at the crucifix and could only beseech the Lord Jesus to tell me what would become of me now.

  Chapter 34

  CESARE

  Rome, March 1495

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so quickly, Your Excellency,” I said, rising to greet Girolamo Giorgio, the Venetian ambassador.

  He inclined his head. “It is an honor, Your Eminence,” he said. “I look forward to a productive discussion.”

  “As do I. Please, sit.” I gestured to a chair in my private audience chamber. Once we were seated, I snapped my fingers, and a servant bearing a tray with a decanter of wine and two goblets—Venetian glass, of course—entered the room immediately. The ambassador’s eyes widened in appreciation.

  I had remained out of sight in the castle at Spoleto for almost three weeks—all a part of Father’s plans. Just as I had envisioned, I had nearly been able to hear the French king howling with rage all the way in Velletri. He had written a furious letter to the pope, railing at his and my treachery. Father had responded in a mild and apologetic tone, asserting that he had known nothing of my escape until it happened and assuring Charles he would be reprimanding me for it. Charles, by then having cut his way through Ferrantino’s troops and in the process of ensconcing himself in Naples, had little recourse.

  Once enough time had passed, Michelotto and I rode back to Rome, for there was work to do.

  I had kept my promise to Maddalena and inquired after her betrothed—unfortunate, but in truth what I had expected. There were many such sad stories in Rome from the French occupation. It had pained me to give her such news and cause her such sorrow. Yet—and it was wicked of me—I had rather enjoyed holding her as she wept, feeling the supple curves of her body pressed against mine. I wondered if Federico had known what a pearl he had in her. But I was not so without scruples that I would seduce a grieving woman, a fact I’d acknowledged with a touch of regret.

  There were political matters to see to as well. The pope was planning to create what he called a Holy League, between as many Italian and European powers as possible, with the aim of driving the French out of Italy. And when he summoned me directly upon my return to the Eternal City, he made it clear he needed my help in doing so.

  It had been a proud moment. I had played my part perfectly, and he trusted I would continue to do so. I was, at last, necessary. Perhaps even, finally, indispensable. If it had taken my adventure in French captivity to prove that, then it had been well worth it.

  Hence the meeting I had arranged with the Venetian ambassador.

  I raised my goblet in a toast to the ambassador and took a sip. He followed suit. “A fine vintage, Your Eminence,” he said. “Very different from the vino rosso we get in the Veneto—earthier, a bit heavier. A wonderfully complex flavor.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Excellency. It comes from the countryside not too far from the Holy City. I’ll see that you are sent a barrel.”

  “Your Eminence is too kind.” Giorgio took another appreciative sip and set the goblet down. “I was glad to receive your request to meet with you. I know this meeting would be most welcome to my masters in the Senate and the doge himself. Mother Venice and the Holy See have common aims at this time.”

  “I perceive the same, Excellency,” I said smoothly. “I can well understand Venice’s neutrality when the French first invaded—why should La Serenissima concern herself with the crown of Naples, no? But I think the time has come to agree the French have no further business remaining on the Italian peninsula. Who knows what threat they will pose to the sovereignty of all Italian nations if left to run unchecked in our lands?”

  Giorgio smiled slightly as he raised the goblet to his lips again. “Those are Venice’s feelings precisely, Your Eminence. And war, as you surely know, is very bad for trade. The French presence in Italy has proven harmful to Venice’s mercantile interests on the peninsula. Nothing crippling”—he waved a hand casually, assuring me Venice remained the richest nation in Europe—“but certainly it is an unwelcome development for my country. Should the French remain, and thus continually unsettle the region, the damage to our trade will only worsen.”

  I smiled, pleased with myself for foreseeing this outcome. A Venetian cared about nothing until it harmed his purse. Luckily for the Holy See, the French presence in Italy was doing just that.

  And if Venice was hoping to wind up with a chunk of Ludovico Sforza’s Milanese territory—which they had always coveted—it would only assist in securing their cooperation, even if it would be impolitic to mention it.

  “The Holy Father is certainly aware of these developments, Excellency, and finds them as untenable as does Venice. And so we find our aims are united.”

  The ambassador nodded. “And what does the Holy See require of Venice?”

  “Military support,” I said, “and Venice’s signature on a treaty to create a Holy League against the French.”

  “And who shall comprise this Holy League?”

  Ah. The delicate part of the negotiations. Venice was still hedging her bets. “The Holy Roman Emperor has already agreed, as has Spain.” Well, Spain had not agreed yet—my meeting with the Spanish ambassador was the next morning—but they would. After all, it was their ancestral claim to Naples being uprooted. “And His Holiness expects Milan to join
us as well.”

  Giorgio snorted. “As well Milan should. They got the rest of us into this mess.”

  “Indeed they did. And between you and I, Excellency…” I leaned forward conspiratorially, prompting Giorgio to lean toward me in turn, “His Holiness is most displeased with Milan and its masters at this particular time. And he means to make his displeasure felt.”

  There. Let Venice think she might end up with pieces of the duchy of Milan, even as I promised no such thing.

  “Is that so?” Giorgio said, barely hiding his smirk. “Well, that is most meet and fitting, to be sure. His Serenity the doge will be glad to hear it.”

  “No doubt. Do I take it, then, Your Excellency, that Venice is in agreement?”

  “She is,” he said. “I shall write to the doge and senate this afternoon, and as soon as a treaty is drawn up, Your Eminence may expect my signature.”

  I raised my goblet, smiling, and the ambassador clinked his against it. “Then we are in accord.”

  * * *

  Spain needed no urging to agree to the Holy League; indeed, they already had troops on the way. Any chance to strike at their old enemy, France—especially over the right of the Aragonese line to rule Naples—and they would take it. Milan might prove more difficult to convince, and so His Holiness planned to use some of Holy Mother Church’s most potent weapons: shame and guilt.

  He summoned the Milanese ambassador to an audience before the College of Cardinals and the rest of the papal court. There would be no private meeting for Milan—the pope meant to dress down her and her ambassador before the entire Curia.

  I stood to the right of the papal throne as the ambassador entered, knelt, and kissed the pope’s slipper and ring. “Your Holiness,” he said. “An honor to attend you.”

  “Rise,” Father said in a booming voice. “No doubt you know why we have summoned you.”

  “I do, Your Holiness.”

  “Good. We shall waste no time.” He looked down his large nose at the ambassador. “We trust your master, Ludovico Sforza, sees now the error of his ways in inviting the French and their war machines into the Italian peninsula.”

  “He does, Your Holiness.”

  Ludovico was now officially the Duke of Milan; his nephew Gian Galezzo had died in the Sforza castle in Pavia in 1494 shortly after King Charles had visited there. It was widely rumored he had died at Ludovico’s hand, so Ludovico might finally obtain the ducal crown, and was indeed accepted as fact in some quarters. The official story was the poor boy had succumbed to an illness. I was not entirely sure of the truth, but it did not matter in the end: Gian Galezzo was dead, however it had occurred, and his uncle was now Duke of Milan. I could not help but suspect that his finally attaining the ducal crown—and his desire to enjoy it—had played a part in his sudden repentance.

  “We should hope so,” Father said. “And we further trust that he means to make amends for his rash and foolish diplomacy, if it even can be called such?”

  “He does, Your Holiness. Duke Ludovico wanted me to assure you that he, and all his resources, are entirely at Your Holiness’s command.”

  Good. If he was eager to get back into the Holy Father’s good graces, it made our task that much easier.

  “Very good. No doubt, then, we can expect Milan’s agreement to our new Holy League, and the commitment of her troops in driving the French from our peninsula.”

  “Nothing would give Duke Ludovico greater joy.”

  “Well, we certainly strive to bring Ludovico Sforza joy,” the pope said, voice thick with irony. Several of the cardinals tittered at this, and I allowed myself an unabashed laugh. “Very well. As soon as the treaty for the Holy League is drawn up, we will expect Your Excellency’s presence at the signing.”

  The ambassador bowed. “You may count on it, Holiness.”

  “Good.” The pope rose from his throne. “God give you good day, Your Excellency.”

  The ambassador left the audience chamber, and I saw an almost imperceptible relaxing of my father’s large frame.

  * * *

  On March 31, the Holy League pact was signed and sealed, and the major powers of Italy and Europe were in accord. The French had to go, and should they prove reluctant, there was an army massing to help convince them.

  Fortunately Charles would not need much convincing. Naples, though easily conquered, was not easily held, he was finding. After their long march, his soldiers did nothing but loot and take up with loose women. As such, rumor had it a terrifying new disease was spreading. The French called it le mal de Naples, while the Neapolitans had taken to calling it the French pox. These factors did nothing to endear the French to the Neapolitan people or barons, who had at first greeted them as liberators from the tyranny of old King Ferrante and his heirs. The French welcome in Naples, it seemed, had very quickly been worn out.

  After the ceremony for the signing of the Holy League pact, Michelotto found me outside the banquet hall, where a celebratory feast was being held. “Your Eminence,” he murmured, glancing around swiftly. “A word.”

  I led him into a small receiving room nearby and shut the door. “What news, Michelotto?”

  “It is as Your Eminence thought,” he said. “Some of them are still here.”

  A dark smile touched my lips. Some of the troops who had come with Charles remained in Rome after his departure, ostensibly to keep order in what the French king considered a conquered city. In reality, all they did was drink, whore, and get into brawls in taverns and brothels.

  Some, I had suspected, were Swiss mercenaries, more difficult for Charles to control and thus easier for him to leave behind. Swiss mercenaries, the ones who had looted my mother’s house and treated her abominably.

  “And you know where they are?” I asked.

  “I do, my lord. And I know where they will be tomorrow.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “In the piazza outside the Vatican, Your Eminence. I will make certain of that.”

  My smile widened. “Good. See to it not all of them leave.”

  “Consider it done, Eminence.”

  My smile remained in place as I went to rejoin the banquet. Those men would see what befell those who crossed a Borgia.

  * * *

  By the next afternoon, word had spread: two thousand Spanish guards had fallen upon a group of Swiss mercenaries in the Vatican square and massacred them. Twenty-four were killed, many more injured, and still more fled Rome in terror.

  According to Michelotto, the gossip in the streets was that the pope’s son, Cardinal Valentino, had ordered the slaughter.

  The rumors did not bother me. I wanted them all to know. I wanted everyone to know it was me, and to mark it well.

  Chapter 35

  MADDALENA

  Rome, July 1495

  Giulia and Adriana were lounging languidly in the July heat, being fanned by us serving girls, when a footman arrived. “His Eminence, the Cardinal of Valencia,” the man announced. The words were scarce out of his mouth when the cardinal appeared in the room behind him.

  Adriana uttered a cry and straightened in the chair where she had been slouching. “Your Eminence!” she said, rising to her feet and patting her hair. “You should have sent word you were coming! We could have received you properly, and had refreshments—”

  He smiled and raised a hand. “Do not trouble yourself, cousin,” he said. “I bring excellent news, and it could not keep.”

  “Nothing can keep in this heat,” Giulia said, with a sensuous smile. She snapped her fingers at Isabella and me. “Run to the kitchens and fetch us some chilled wine, if there is any to be had,” she said.

  We both curtsied and hurried off. I nearly tripped carrying the tray back up the stairs, so eager was I to hear the cardinal’s news.

  “Steady,” Isabella whispered from behind me. I paused outside the sitting room door, took a deep breath, and went back into the room.

  “… realized he had no choice,” the cardinal was
saying. “He had left his retreat too long already, and he paid for it.”

  I stopped in front of him and curtsied. “Wine, Your Eminence?” I asked.

  “That would be most welcome.” He smiled widely upon seeing me. “Maddalena. I hope you are well?”

  “Very well, Your Eminence,” I said, setting down the tray on the nearby sideboard and pouring him a goblet.

  I had not caught so much as a glimpse of him since the day he had told me of Federico’s death, when I had cried in his arms. With Lucrezia still in Pesaro, he had not much occasion to visit the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico. Which made me all the more curious as to his news, and all the more shamefully delighted to set eyes on him again.

  It had been many long months since I had learned of Federico’s death. My sinful dreams of Cardinal Borgia had since morphed into nightmares of watching Federico die in the wine shop. He lay bleeding, reaching out a hand and begging me to save him as I just stood and watched him bleed to death, unable to move or speak. The nightmares plagued me.

  I had confessed my guilt over Federico’s death, and the priest had done nothing more than lecture me on the desirable state of marriage, especially for women. A woman needed a husband to curb her naturally sinful ways, inherited from Eve. I should not have hesitated in marrying a good man who had asked me. He seemed less concerned that my doubt had unwittingly led to Federico’s death than he was with my hesitation at remarriage. Still, he had assigned me my penance—a week of bread and water once more—and absolved me. Of my feelings toward Cardinal Borgia, my sinful thoughts and dreams and even actions, I said nothing. Not confessing such sins would weigh down my soul enough to drag it straight to hell, but I could not find the words.

  Yet the cardinal’s presence at the palazzo that day still helped to lift the cloud of darkness and guilt I had been living under since I had heard the horrible news.

  “And so?” Adriana prompted once Isabella and I had finished serving the wine—a crisp white from the Veneto the ladies favored in the hot summer months. “You said there was a battle?”