“I think we all must agree, we must keep this to ourselves,” Fabrizia went on. “I’ve no need for word to get out and have it traced back to me, and I’m sure you both feel the same.”
Isabella and I both nodded.
“Allora, but I’m glad I ran into you, ragazze. I simply had to tell someone!” She giggled. “I could not have kept it to myself much longer!”
“Such a coincidence that we should see you,” Isabella said. “You have answered my questions, to be sure!”
“Indeed,” I said. “It was nice chatting with you, Fabrizia, but I’ve some shopping to do yet. We must be getting along.”
“Ah, very well! God bless you both. Perhaps our paths shall cross again soon!” Fabrizia waved farewell and turned to leave the market.
As Isabella and I returned into the maze of stalls and stands, she was nearly cackling with glee. “It is as I said, Maddalena! Can you believe it? Well, maybe not exactly as I said, for I never speculated on who Donna Sancia was meeting … I never imagined she’d be so bold!”
“And what of him?” I asked aloud, cursing myself silently for even responding. I wanted this conversation over as quickly as possible. “What of the vows he made to God and Holy Mother Church? Why is the shame only on her, and not him?”
Isabella shrugged. “Men—even and perhaps especially men of God—can do what they like and always have, Maddalena. It is not fair, but it is the way of the world. They shall have their reckoning with Jesus Christ in the end.”
“Well, we can at least acknowledge they both have sinned, instead of placing the blame solely at her feet,” I said briskly. “Now come, I’ve ribbon to find yet, and the ladies will no doubt be back at the palazzo soon.”
For the rest of that day, I could not shake an overwhelming feeling of betrayal. And I prayed I might be delivered from temptation, from this cycle of sin I had found myself in.
Chapter 40
CESARE
I was a man possessed. In the weeks following our first tryst, I expected to tire of Sancia. Never had I met a woman who could hold my interest—in bed and out—for more than a few weeks.
Yet Sancia was different. She consumed my every waking thought. Those nights we could not meet, I dreamt of her. And when she was in my bed once more, my entire being was focused only on the pleasure I could give her, and the pleasure she gave me in return.
It was just as well there were no urgent political matters that required my attention just then, beyond the usual meetings with ambassadors and attending audiences with the Holy Father. I could not concentrate on any of it. Even the fact that Juan was en route to Rome from Spain could not spoil my dazed happiness.
I wanted Sancia, and only Sancia. I wanted her by my side always. I wanted to discuss everything with her, each matter that crossed my desk—after making love to her.
And what only increased my ardor was how she returned my passion, fully. She was enthusiastic about pleasing me in bed, and afterward, content to talk for hours—if we did not get lost in pleasure once more. She was a great admirer of the poetry of Dante and had given me a book of his love sonnets I had never read before. She took to reading aloud to me as we recovered between rounds of bed sport, which only served to ready us all the sooner to devour each other again. I took to studying the book when she was not with me, and one night I whispered one of the poems in its entirety into her ear as I moved inside her. The strength of her climax proved my efforts had not been in vain.
I was unsurprised to learn she was possessed of a sharp intellect, among her many gifts. I found she had not been shocked by the French assault on Naples—indeed, she had been expecting it. “We always knew they would try to reassert their false claim to the throne,” she told me one night. “We knew it would not be while my grandfather Ferrante lived, though. Everyone feared him, even the French.”
“And did you ever set eyes on his … museum?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. And I was not afraid. He loved me for it.”
“Such a bloodthirsty woman,” I murmured, kissing her neck.
She was not to be distracted, however. “They were enemies of Naples. They deserved their fate.”
I sighed, somewhat reluctantly returning to the conversation at hand. “And no one feared your father, King Alfonso, then?” I asked. “When I met him, he seemed a most capable man. As capable as any can be in such a difficult situation.”
Sancia snorted with derision. “He was cruel, but he was also a coward,” she said. “And you see the result. King Ferrante was cruel, yes, but only where it was warranted, and he possessed not an ounce of fear in his body.” She shook her head. “My father betrayed his country when it most needed him, and I shall never forgive him for it. Nor shall I forgive the rest of Italy, who handed us over to the French when it suited them.” She smiled at me then, her quiet rage seeping away. “Not Rome, of course,” she said, kissing me. “Not His Holiness and his most esteemed son the cardinal.”
“The Holy League came together in the end,” I reminded her.
She scowled. “When it suited them, they did.”
I laughed. “I do agree with you, you know. It was something my father and I spoke of at the time. Why can Italy not unite against foreign invaders? If we could all put aside our differences, we would be a force to be reckoned with on the world stage, a mighty empire; not scraps to be fought over by the dogs of Spain and France.”
She smiled up at me. “And who will be the hero who unites us? You?”
“Find me an army, and I shall. I will bring all of Italy to your feet.”
“And I would take it.” She grinned. “A true Caesar you would be, my love.”
“Mmmph,” I groaned. “Say that again.”
“Which part, hmmm? The part about you as Caesar, or the part where I call you my love?”
“Either makes me hard.”
She laughed. “I can see that. Typical man. Power and the promise of fucking both induce the same reaction.” She pushed me down into the mattress and swung her leg over my waist, so she sat astride me. “But in this bed I shall conquer the fearsome Cesare.”
“Oh, shall you?” I asked her. “Surely you know that the Church forbids this position.”
“So I have heard.” Slowly, she lowered herself onto my manhood, and I groaned, bucking against her. “If His Eminence the cardinal tells me to stop, surely I must do so.”
“God, no. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, going still, my entire length sheathed within her. “I should not wish to invite damnation upon us both…”
I shifted my hips, thrusting upward. “Sweet Jesus, no, Sancia, do not stop, please…”
“Ahh.” She leaned down and kissed me. “I do enjoy hearing you beg as well.” With that, she began to move, riding me, and I could no longer harness my thoughts. There was only sensation, only her body moving slickly around mine, only pleasure.
* * *
One night we were all gathered for dinner at the Vatican, only our family and Father’s most trusted cardinals—as well as Burchard, and Giovanni Sforza, who had finally followed his wife back to Rome. As everyone finished eating, Father clapped his hands and called for music, and musicians were sent for. I expected to be called upon to dance with Lucrezia, as Father always enjoyed seeing us dance, but instead he cast his eyes about the room and decided on a different pairing.
“Lucrezia,” he boomed, “and Sancia. Lucrezia, teach our new daughter one of the Spanish dances.”
“Of course, Papa,” Lucrezia said, smiling prettily as she rose. “You might have told me! Sancia and I could have practiced!”
“There is one Spanish dance we do at the court of Naples which perhaps Madonna Lucrezia knows as well,” Sancia said, her southern accent thicker now as she addressed the court. Sancia walked over to converse with the musicians, and they struck up a dance Lucrezia knew well indeed. My father’s eyes trailed Sancia eagerly, and I tried to tamp down my burst of jealousy. My fa
ther appreciated nothing in life so much as a beautiful woman, but he would never make advances toward Sancia—not his son’s wife.
Unlike his son, who is all too happy to bed his own brother’s wife, I thought guiltily as the ladies started to dance. There was much giggling as they tried to decide who should take the man’s role, and not to my surprise, Sancia did.
As though summoned by my guilt, Jofre came to sit beside me and watch the women dance. “She is beautiful, is she not, brother?” he asked, his eyes greedily following Sancia as she moved. Her sinuous grace as she danced only made me think of her glorious body writhing against mine in bed. I forced myself to give her a cursory glance and look away.
“She is indeed,” I agreed.
“I thank God every day that he sent me such a wife,” Jofre said. “I still cannot believe I have been so blessed.”
I wondered—did he know? But as I turned to look at my brother, his expression was utterly free of guile. He was simply that enamored with his wife and took every possible opportunity to speak of her to others. As he spoke to me, he could scarcely keep his eyes off her.
“You are worthy of many blessings, Jofre,” I said. You are worthy of a family much better than this one, I added silently. My shame felt like to drown me, yet perhaps the greatest source of that shame was I knew I would not stop my affair with his wife. Nothing on earth would compel me to give her up. I loved Sancia more than I loved Jofre. And I loved myself more than I loved Jofre.
He grinned at me. “To Sancia,” he said, raising his goblet.
“Yes. To Sancia.” I tapped his goblet with mine, and we both looked at the woman in question. She saw us watching and threw a wink in our direction. We each assumed it was for us alone.
* * *
A few nights later, when she arrived in my rooms, I asked Sancia, “Does Jofre still come to your bed?”
She smirked. “Jealous?”
I did not answer, merely stared at her until she sighed and looked away. “Yes. He does. Once a week or so, twice if he is feeling bold. He greatly enjoys the act, and I cannot say no. He is my husband.”
“And you?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Do you enjoy it?”
“The act of love? I should think you of all people would know how very much I enjoy it.”
I was not in any kind of mood for her teasing. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Sancia.”
She rolled her eyes. “My, my, someone is testy this evening. Very well, if you must know, no, I do not particularly enjoy it when Jofre claims his husband’s right. I am not repulsed by him, certainly, but he has no true skill, nor does he have the patience to learn.”
I was far more pleased to hear this than I should have been.
She stepped closer, pulling my shirt off over my head. “Do you wish me to refuse him?” she asked softly. “Should I make some excuse each time? I will if you ask it of me.”
I sighed heavily, considering. “No,” I said reluctantly. “He might become suspicious. Besides … should you become with child, it is best that Jofre believes it is his.”
“I do not wish to bear his child,” she said, running her fingers down my bare torso. My muscles twitched involuntarily under her touch. “But yours I would bear gladly, and with pride.”
I crushed her to me at these words, holding her tightly as I envisioned all I had not dared to imagine: Sancia with my child heavy in her belly; us raising our child together. Sancia as my wife.
“Ah, God, why did Fortuna send you to him and not me?” I murmured against her hair.
She drew back and looked up at me. “But Fortuna did send me to you. I am here with you now.” She began unlacing my breeches eagerly. “Enough talk. You are so tense, so angry, Cesare. I know a much better outlet for such feelings than thinking about your brother…”
I picked her up and carried her to the bed, not even bothering to remove her shift. I simply hiked it up and plunged into her, hard, her cry one of pleasure and surprise. She reveled in the roughness and haste of it, urging me on between gasps. I thrust into her fiercely, branding her with my body, wanting to erase every other man who had dared try to claim her.
Chapter 41
MADDALENA
In August the member of the Borgia family I had hoped never to see again returned home.
I did not attend the procession for Juan Borgia’s return to the Vatican, but Isabella slipped out of the palazzo to join the crowds thronging the streets. She reported back that every member of his entourage was outfitted in silk and pearls, and that the Duke of Gandia was weighted down with so many jewels it was a wonder his horse could carry him. The procession that met him was much larger than the one that greeted the Prince and Princess of Squillace, and the whole piazza in front of the Vatican was trimmed with banners in the colors of the Spanish flag and crests bearing the Borgia bull. There was no doubt who the pope’s favorite son was. I wondered, fleetingly, how Cesare Borgia must feel.
* * *
Not long after his arrival, the Duke of Gandia came to Santa Maria in Portico to visit his sister. I was in attendance should they need anything, praying fervently he would not notice me. I hoped he had forgotten about me in the years since he had tried to force himself on me.
Lucrezia and her brother immediately started to converse in Catalan. I had learned a few words of the language in my time serving her, but not enough to make out their conversation.
After they had been visiting for a time, Sancia of Aragon happened into the room. “Oh, do pardon me, dearest Lucrezia,” she said, glancing at Juan. “I did not realize you had a guest.”
Lucrezia and Juan both rose. “Do join us, dear sister,” Lucrezia said, switching to Italian. “You have met my brother Juan, but it will be good for you to become more acquainted.”
Sancia swept the duke a curtsy, and he kissed her hand, smiling broadly at her. “The pleasure is truly mine, sister-in-law,” he said. His eyes roamed lazily up her body before coming to rest on her face.
If she noticed the insolence, she did not comment; in fact, her smile grew even wider. “I look forward to getting to know you better indeed, Your Grace,” she said. “Your wife is not here, correct? We should have loved to receive her as a sister.”
“I was just telling Juan how I long to meet her, and my little nephew,” Lucrezia said.
“Alas, I have left her behind in Spain with our son,” Juan said. “She is with child again, so it was not meet that she should make the journey.”
“You must be eager to get back to her,” Sancia said.
“Indeed, but not before I’ve tasted all Rome has to offer these days,” he said. His eyes flicked over her form once more.
“I am finding it to be a city of many pleasures,” she said sweetly.
Honestly, did the woman flirt as easily as she breathed? Married to one brother, bedding a second, and making advances on the third? The handsomest and best Borgia brother was not enough for her? I cast my gaze down, jaw clenched. Of late I could barely look at her and did so only when she addressed me.
The three of them sat down and began conversing anew, talking of who Sancia had met in Rome and the entertainments Juan hoped to take part in while in the city. I remained at my post against the wall and was relieved they did not call on me all afternoon.
Chapter 42
CESARE
Rome, October 1496
Father had been planning this all along. I fumed as I watched Juan make his grand entrance to St. Peter’s, the sound of trumpets announcing his arrival. With the young Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, at his side, he processed up the massive aisle toward the altar where Father was waiting, beaming at his favorite son. I sat with the other cardinals, practically gnashing my teeth with envy and anger and not caring who knew it.
For months, Father and I had been plotting our revenge against the Orsini family, they who had schemed—through Virginio Orsini—to stand against the French with us, and at the last minute had turned their coats and surrend
ered their fortresses to King Charles and his army. The constant feuding between the Orsini and Colonna clans of Rome was ever the proverbial thorn in any pope’s side, but the Orsini betrayal was more than a mere annoyance. With the final remnants of the French troops left in Naples at last defeated, Virginio Orsini and his son had been thrown into the dungeons of the Castel dell’ Uovo on the pope’s orders, and Father had decided the moment to strike was nigh.
I had agreed; with the Orsini clan so weakened, we would not have a better chance. And I longed for revenge myself. We had made the plans, including investing the Duke of Urbino as Gonfalonier to command the papal armies. He would lead men to lay siege to the Orsini strongholds north of Rome, which Father and I were eager to take into our possession. However, only two weeks ago did he let me in on the rest of his plan.
“Juan shall ride out with the duke,” Father said one day as we were poring over maps and accountings of weapons and horses.
I snorted. “And do what? Groom Montefeltro’s horse?”
Father was silent. I looked up to find him staring at me with a faint look of distaste on his face. “No,” he said slowly, as though I were an imbecile. “We mean to make him Captain-General of the Church. He shall share the command with Montefeltro.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am deadly serious,” Father said impatiently. “This was the plan all along, Cesare. You are my right hand within the Church, and Juan shall be the sword arm of our family, leading the papal armies against our enemies. This is his first task. It is why I have summoned him home from Spain. His time has come.”
“Father, you cannot send Juan,” I said. “He knows nothing of military strategy or tactics. Send him with Montefeltro to learn, but do not give him a command position.”
“This is his destiny.”
“Then he is destined to fail,” I snarled, rising to my feet. “He has done nothing since returning to Rome save eat and drink and gamble and carouse with whores, like always. If he is meant to have such a large role, why has he not been joining us in the meetings? Why does he do nothing to prepare himself?”
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