The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Indeed,” the cardinal said, taking a sip. “The combined forces of the Holy League met Charles’s retreating army at Fornovo and have won a great victory, under the command of the Marquis of Gonzaga. Charles escaped, but there were heavy casualties, and he was forced to leave behind all the plunder he had acquired on his trip across Italy.”

  A smile slipped across my face. I had pieced together most of Charles’s trials in Naples: too much wine and whoring had made Charles’s soldiers impossible to command, and the people of Naples had turned on them. Hearing news of the Holy League forming against him, Charles reluctantly set out for home, hoping to reach the northern mountains before the allied forces could meet him. He had passed by Rome—causing much alarm and near-panic; I had hardly slept for days—reportedly hoping that the pope would now bestow the crown of Naples upon him. The pope, however, was not in Rome at the time, having taken the papal court to the hilltop city of Orvieto for a spiritual retreat, or so it was claimed. And so, thank God and all His saints, Charles had ridden by Rome and kept riding.

  Giulia clapped her hands together. “So it is over? The French have truly gone?”

  He nodded at her. “They are making for France as fast as they can march.”

  Adriana crossed herself. “Praise God,” she said. “This great trial is at an end. And a true triumph for His Holiness.”

  “And for you, Eminence,” Giulia added. “I am given to understand you played a crucial role in the negotiations that brought the Holy League together.”

  The cardinal smiled. “You are well informed, Madonna Giulia,” he said. “I did indeed assist His Holiness in negotiations and am pleased all came to fruition, and to a happy outcome.” He glanced over at me, met my eyes briefly, and smiled.

  I was sure the naked admiration was quite visible on my face. The dream that God had sent me, of Cesare Borgia appearing like St. Michael the Archangel, wielding holy vengeance with his sword to save us, had been true after all. And Cardinal Valentino had kept his promise. The cardinal waged his battle in a different way than with the sword, but he had liberated us from the French all the same.

  Yet if that dream had been sent from God, what to make of the dreams I’d had since? I shivered and shoved the thought aside.

  Their talk turned to other things, news of His Holiness and of Lucrezia in Pesaro and Juan in Spain. Isabella and I were sent to fetch some sweetmeats from the kitchen, and to bring more wine.

  “Would you do us the honor of dining with us this evening, Your Eminence?” Giulia asked as the hour grew late.

  He rose from his chair. “Much as I would enjoy the pleasure, I am set to dine with His Holiness this evening,” he said. “I shall gladly accept such an invitation at another time, though.”

  Adriana went to kiss her cousin on the cheek. “Thank you for bringing us the news,” she said. “Giulia and I shall both be on our knees in the chapel this evening, thanking God for this deliverance.”

  He swept them a bow, looking more like a young gallant from the streets than a prince of the Church. “It is always a delight to be the bearer of fine news,” he said. “I wish you both well, and hope we see one another again soon.”

  “Maddalena,” Giulia called, “see His Eminence out. Isabella, see to the dishes.”

  I bobbed her a curtsy and followed Cardinal Borgia to the door. “This way, Your Eminence,” I said, stepping past him to lead him out. “Though I am sure you know the way.”

  “I do indeed,” he said, but he followed after me.

  Upon reaching the entrance hall, I gave him a curtsy as well. “Farewell, Your Eminence,” I said, though there was more—so much more—that I wished to say. “May God give you a good evening.”

  My breath caught as he took my hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “And you, Maddalena,” he said softly. “Are you well? I have thought of you often these past months.”

  “Your Eminence is too kind,” I said. I met his eyes, my expression surely wan and drained. I had not been sleeping so well, after all. “I am as well as can be expected.”

  He nodded grimly. “I am sorry for your grief, Maddalena. None of us are without our scars from these last months, it seems.”

  I wondered what had happened to him of which he did not speak. I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything, all the thoughts and sins and scars and joys he carried in that unknowable heart of his.

  I wanted to know him.

  But I was only a serving girl, and he a cardinal. If God in His wisdom had put this man in my way, likely it was only to teach me humility.

  “Your words mean a great deal, Your Eminence,” I said.

  “I hoped it may bring you some comfort that I did as you commanded me,” he said, and I looked up to see a slight smile curling his lips. “I did everything I could to drive the French from Rome. Would that I had done it sooner.”

  I had thought of his promise many a time, yet I’d never imagined he did as well. “You remember that?”

  “Of course I do. I remember everything about that morning.” He chuckled. “It was, after all, the first time I was slapped by a serving maid.”

  I let out a giggle and tried desperately to compose myself. “I … I truly am sorry about that, Your Eminence.”

  “No, you’re not,” he teased. “Nor should you be. I deserved it.”

  I looked away from the warmth in his eyes, a corresponding warmth spreading through my body. “Your Eminence, there was nothing further you could have done. By then it … it was already too late for Federico.”

  He kissed my hand again, his eyes never leaving mine. “May God grant you relief from your sorrow, dear Maddalena,” he said. “And perhaps He will send you another worthy man.”

  “Perhaps,” I said as he turned to leave.

  But he can never send me the one I want most.

  PART THREE

  SANCIA of ARAGON

  Rome, May 1496–May 1497

  Chapter 36

  CESARE

  It was not quite summer, and still the Roman sun beat down with extraordinary heat upon the Vatican piazza. The heavy crimson velvet of my cardinal’s robes was not helping matters. A line of sweat trickled down my back as I stood on the massive marble steps of the palace. Father sat beside me on a throne brought outside for the occasion, but he had the good fortune to be seated beneath the papal canopy and thus shaded from the sun’s glare.

  Where are they? I wondered irritably, squinting toward the other end of the square. Surely they have entered the Lateran gate by now.

  We were awaiting the arrival of Jofre and his wife, Sancia. Once the Holy League had successfully met the French in battle and the chaos of the French invasion was over, Father had declared his intention to have his family around him once more. “This crisis has taught me that we never know what misfortune may befall us here on earth, nor when,” he had said. “And so I want all my children here in Rome with me, where I may work to assure that each of them has the glorious future to which you are all entitled.”

  It was understood—but not spoken aloud—that Father’s triumph in the French crisis had also helped to solidify his grasp on power. As such, he could afford to flaunt his family in a way even he had not quite dared before.

  Lucrezia had arrived last fall, and she and Father and I had had a most joyous reunion. Her erstwhile husband had elected to remain behind in Pesaro, for reasons she could not adequately explain.

  Father had not been altogether displeased by this turn of events. “You were right about this Sforza marriage, Cesare,” he had admitted shortly after Lucrezia’s return. “I should have heeded you. The Sforza family was not brought to heel by their ties to me, and Giovanni Sforza failed to bring his army when commanded. This alliance has brought us nothing, and it would be far better if Lucrezia were free.”

  The Cesare of a few years prior might have gloated right to his face, but I had learned a great deal since then. “Divorce is always a possibility,” I said levelly. “Especially for the
pope’s daughter.”

  “Hmmm. I have considered it, of course. It bears further thinking, though.”

  I had not commented on the matter further. There would be plenty of time to decide what might be done.

  Next in Father’s quest of reuniting the family had been making arrangements for Jofre and Sancia to come to Rome from Calabria, where they had passed the French invasion thankfully unscathed. I was eager to see my little brother and intrigued to meet my sister-in-law.

  Father and I had arranged a great ceremony to welcome them to the Eternal City. Their retinue would be greeted at the Lateran gate by the cardinals and their servants, the head of the Vatican guard and a troop of soldiers, and ambassadors from Spain, Venice, the Holy Roman Empire, and other nations.

  And Lucrezia. Or so she had decided the night before.

  “You mean to ride out to greet them?” I had asked her incredulously as we’d dined together. “Why not wait at the Vatican with Father and me?”

  “No. I shall greet them straightaway,” she insisted. “I am excited to see Jofre, and to make Sancia of Aragon’s acquaintance. I’ve already had Maddalena lay out my best dress.”

  I had jumped slightly at the mention of Maddalena, wondering if Lucrezia had noticed me surreptitiously peering around Santa Maria in Portico for her. No doubt she was too busy seeing to my sister’s wardrobe to make an appearance at that particular moment. “I see,” I said. “Well, whatever you like, Lucrezia.”

  She cast her eyes down. “They say she is very beautiful,” she said to her plate.

  “Who?” I asked, my thoughts still caught on Maddalena Moretti.

  “Sancia of Aragon.”

  “Yes, they do say so,” I said, with an inkling of where this was headed. “I have never set eyes on her, but those who have all agree on her great beauty. Jofre is a lucky man.” Still I found it strange—absurd, almost—to refer to my little brother as a man rather than a boy. He was still only fifteen, yet he had ever seemed younger than his years, even as Lucrezia and I had been wiser than ours. Perhaps it was what came of being our mother’s youngest.

  “Do you think…” Lucrezia trailed off.

  “What is it, Crezia?” I asked gently, and at last she met my eyes.

  “Is she … do you think … is she more beautiful than me?” she asked.

  I wanted to smile at her question, at how young and innocent Lucrezia could still be, despite all that she had been through in her young life. But I knew I could not treat this as anything less than the deadly serious query she meant it as. “As I said, I have never seen her,” I said, and Lucrezia’s face fell. “But,” I went on, “I cannot imagine that any woman in all the world could be more beautiful than you.”

  She tried to hide her pleasure. “Not even Giulia Farnese?”

  “Not even Giulia Farnese,” I confirmed. “You are more beautiful to me than she is.”

  Lucrezia’s face lit up.

  “And you should not think of Sancia as a rival, Crezia,” I went on. “The two of you might become great friends. Your ages are not so different.”

  “Perhaps,” she conceded. “They say she is very proud, and somewhat vain.”

  “If by vain, you mean she has a care for appearance and for fine clothes and jewels, that seems a common affliction among women,” I said, arching an eyebrow at her.

  She giggled. “And many men, too.”

  “And many men,” I agreed. “As to pride, she is a king’s daughter, after all. She has a right to be proud, to a point.” I leaned forward slightly. “But do not forget: you are the pope’s daughter, and your place is as first lady of Rome. We Borgias are entitled to our pride as well.”

  She smiled. “You are right as always, dearest Cesare. However did I get along without you for so long?”

  “I’m sure I can’t say,” I said lightly, pushing down the guilt that always surfaced when I remembered my failed promise to her. My guilt was only assuaged—mostly—by how safe she had been in Pesaro when the French came. Better that she’d been out of the way, so that Charles had not gotten any other creative hostage ideas.

  Our talk soon turned to other things: how different Jofre would look, when Father might summon Juan home, and how soon we all might join our mother for a meal together. I could not help but think back to the meal we had all shared just after Father had been elected pope, and how much had changed since. Lucrezia, Jofre, and Juan were all married; I was a cardinal. My three siblings had traveled far afield, and I had been through a war. What—and who—would we see once we all gathered, and looked around at one another at long last?

  Whether my words to Lucrezia had ultimately reassured her or not, she had still ridden out to be among the first to greet Jofre and Sancia, no doubt decked out in all her finery. I hoped she had been pleasant to Maddalena as she was readied for the occasion.

  I had nearly dozed off in the sun when I heard trumpets and the sound of many hooves approaching. I straightened quickly, and Father leaned forward eagerly in his seat.

  “I look forward to finally meeting the famous Sancia of Aragon,” Father commented. “And to seeing your brother, of course.”

  “Yes,” I replied, wondering what on earth could possibly be so fascinating about Sancia that she made the members of my family forget Jofre was returning as well. “I’m sure Jofre has grown a great deal.”

  Father chuckled. “If this wife of his hasn’t made him into a man yet, nothing will, I’ll warrant.”

  I frowned at the slight to my little brother, but it would not do to challenge Father over it. Not when the riders were growing ever closer.

  Soon the parade entered the square, with the captain of the guard and some of his soldiers riding at the head, where they’d no doubt been clearing the streets. Directly behind them I made out three sparkling figures on horseback, flanked by a soldier on each side.

  On the far right was Lucrezia, her blond head shining in the bright sun. Her dress glimmered with gold thread, and diamonds encircled her throat and hung from her ears. I allowed myself a small smile. She was still determined to outshine the famous—or perhaps infamous—Sancia, that much was plain.

  Sancia rode in the middle, her head turned slightly toward my sister to speak to her. As yet they were too far away to clearly discern her features, but her hair was a lustrous dark brown, almost black, and her skin was a dark olive. Next to my fair sister and her creamy skin, the difference was especially pronounced. Her gown was of a crimson that allowed her skin to fairly glow, and her fine jewelry sparkled in the sun.

  On Sancia’s other side rode Jofre, and even at a distance it was easy to tell that he was taller, and his shoulders somewhat broader. I smiled, eager to embrace him.

  The company who had gone out to greet them rode at a slight distance behind, and some of the Roman people trailed behind them and into the square, joining the cheering crowds that waited there, eager, as ever, to catch a glimpse of the pope’s family.

  “Splendid,” Father said as they drew near. “Splendid. What a picture the pair of them make, eh? And your sister as well! This is as fine a spectacle as I could have hoped.”

  And indeed, the spectacle had been important to him. He had wanted to reinforce to Rome, and all of Italy, that the Borgias were triumphant, firm and unshaken in their place atop the heap of Italian politics. He had led the scattered nations of the peninsula through a foreign invasion as well as anyone could have, and as such his position was stronger than ever. He took each opportunity he could to remind the people of that, and this was no exception.

  The trio reached the steps of the palace, and grooms appeared immediately to assist them in dismounting and take their horses to be stabled. Lucrezia led the way up the stairs and dropped into a deep curtsy before Father’s throne.

  “Holy Father,” she said, and rose. “I am honored to present to you my brother Jofre Borgia and his wife, Sancia of Aragon, the Prince and Princess of Squillace.”

  It was a perfect speech, and prettily perfo
rmed, especially since we had given Lucrezia no official role in the ceremonies. Yet I hardly heard her, for my attention was fixed, totally and inexorably, on Sancia of Aragon as she came up the steps.

  My eyes were drawn to her as the head of a flower will follow the path of the sun across the sky, and I could not look away. She knelt before the pope, kissed his slipper and his ring, and he raised her up and spoke words of welcome to her and Jofre, but I heard nothing. I could only stare at this woman whose beauty had been spoken of to such a degree I was certain it had been exaggerated. Yet the praise had not done her justice. Every inch of her, every gesture, seemed designed to captivate: strong yet perfectly balanced features with graceful dark brows; perfect breasts shown off just enough by the neckline of her gown; a tiny waist and generous hips hinted at by the cut of the garment. But it was her dark eyes and the look within them that truly captivated me: one of brilliant and vibrant life, and utter pleasure at the world around her.

  I wanted her to show me the world as she saw it, show me how to find such pleasure wherever I looked. And it was pleasure of a somewhat different kind that I imagined as well as I looked at her. Images tumbled through my mind faster than I could try to keep them out, images of things one should never consider doing with a dear brother’s wife.

  She turned, approaching to greet me as well.

  I thought of all the things I wanted to whisper in her ear: So this is what the poets write of, of what the troubadours sing. This is what Dante felt for his Beatrice, and Petrarch for his Laura. This is what a humble country friar feels for God.

  Of course, I could say none of these things. When she knelt gracefully before me to kiss my ring—Holy Mother preserve me, the sinful images would not leave my mind—I quickly raised her up and spoke the words expected of me, and therefore loathsome: “Sister. I welcome you to the Eternal City, and to our family.”

  She was nearly as tall as I—we would fit together perfectly. As her eyes met mine, I thought I saw a spark within them as she assessed me. Was she feeling the same things I was? I did not know whether to hope for or dread it.