The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “He will do,” Father said. “He will join us.” He rose from his chair in turn. “You have always been envious of your brother, Cesare, to the point of hatred, and nothing in this world saddens me more. Furthermore, your envy and disdain cloud your judgment where he is concerned. You are not able to see his many gifts and talents. Pride and envy, Cesare—those are deadly sins.”

  “There is no sin, deadly or otherwise, I am guilty of that Juan is not,” I retorted. “And pride—I have some right to that. While Juan was off carousing in Spain and barely paying attention to his wife, I was here, at your side, helping to guide the Church and Rome through the French invasion. I was helping drive them out of Italy. I was the French king’s captive. And,” I added, “at least stupidity is not one of my sins.”

  “Enough!” Father roared. “Enough. I’ll not tolerate this disrespect anymore. You must accept your place in life and accept your brother’s. We must stand together against those who still consider us outsiders for our Catalan blood. We must present one unified force. Juan shall learn, you and I shall prepare him, and he will bring great honor and triumph to our family. Now, remind me how many men the Colonna have promised?”

  I sat back down, still seething, and tried to refocus on the numbers and figures in front of me. Why did Juan need to be prepared by me for a role for which he was not suited? Why not give that role to me?

  I got through the meeting, but could not tamp down my irritation the rest of the day. That night Sancia could tell I was somewhat distant, but I refused to explain when she asked repeatedly what was wrong. I was not about to admit my feelings of jealousy and resentment toward Juan to her of all people. I could not let her know how inadequate I felt.

  After that, Juan did indeed begin to join our meetings and councils, contributing nothing of value. He would make suggestions as to strategy only to be contradicted by Montefeltro and myself, until even Father could no longer pretend to consider it. He would praise Juan mightily each time he made a completely obvious point, and my hands itched to punch Juan right in his smug smile. This was the man to whom we were entrusting the papal armies? Montefeltro would provide a more experienced, steadying hand, but it was somewhat disconcerting to realize that the Duke of Urbino would stand no chance whatsoever against Virginio Orsini, were he free.

  As Juan was named Captain-General in St. Peter’s, swearing his sword to the defense of Holy Mother Church, I could only sit and watch, hardly able to hear the words of the ceremony over the howling question in my head: Did I want Juan to fail, or succeed?

  * * *

  Juan rode out the next day with Guidobaldo da Montefeltro and Fabrizio Colonna to set to their task. At first the news was good: castle after castle fell before the combined papal and Colonna troops, and Father was jubilant. But the castles they were taking were small ones, of little strategic importance, and had hardly been manned. At the sight of the approaching army, the few Orsini troops stationed at each would put up a token resistance, if any at all, before quickly surrendering. The papal forces worked their way through the countryside north of Rome with little to no opposition, scarcely having to fight.

  The true test would come with their ultimate target, the Orsini stronghold of Bracciano. They laid their siege at the beginning of December, and it seemed the entire papal court held its breath—especially after Guidobaldo da Montefeltro was wounded early in the siege, leaving Juan to lead the papal troops alone.

  * * *

  “What can be taking so long?” Father demanded one day, pacing angrily in his audience chamber after the last of his meetings was done. “The castle is held by a woman, of all people. Juan cannot manage to best her?”

  I remained silent, proud of myself for keeping my laughter within. It had been weeks, and still Bracciano had not fallen. It was being held by the admittedly formidable Bartolomea Orsini, sister of Virginio and wife of one of their best captains, Bartolomeo d’Alviano. The castle’s defenses were holding, and they had stocked themselves well, knowing the siege was coming. There was no sign that the people within were beginning to run out of provisions.

  Juan, on the other hand, was running out of patience. No doubt waiting out a siege was not the military glory he had in mind. He sent Father long, whining letters, cursing the Orsini (and Bartolomea most of all) and asking for more troops. What good more troops would do him in capturing a castle he could not storm, I wasn’t sure, but there were no more troops to send. He resorted to making his unhappiness plain in his correspondence to our father, no doubt hoping he would be recalled.

  As Father paced, Michelotto slipped into the room. “Your Holiness,” he said, bowing. He turned to me and bowed. “Your Eminence. I’ve news.”

  “Very good. Come, Michelotto.”

  We made to leave, but Father stopped us. “What news? News of the siege?”

  Michelotto hesitated. At my direction, he had placed spies within Juan’s camp, so I might hear the news first and so I could learn what Juan exaggerated or glossed over or omitted entirely from his communications. I had not told Father, but it did not surprise me that he knew. “Yes, Your Holiness,” Michelotto replied reluctantly. “I had planned on giving a report to His Eminence…”

  Father sat back down on the papal throne. “You may as well tell us both. If it is news from the siege, I wish to hear it as well.”

  Michelotto shot me an apologetic look, and I shrugged. Neither of us could disobey an order from the Holy Father. Given my captain’s reluctance to speak, the news he brought must reflect negatively on Juan. I was both eager and afraid to hear it.

  “Very well,” Michelotto said. “Bracciano holds firm; there is no sign it is going to fall.”

  When he paused, Father motioned impatiently for him to go on. “Yes, yes. This is hardly news. We were saying as much when you came in.”

  “Indeed,” Michelotto said, and looked over at me helplessly. I gave him a subtle motion to carry on. He must have poor news indeed. “The Orsini have grown quite confident in their victory and as such rather … bold. Just yesterday they…” He sighed and plowed ahead. “They sent a donkey into the camp of Your Holiness’s and the Colonna troops. Around the donkey’s neck was a sign reading ‘I am the ambassador of the Duke of Gandia.’ There was a letter addressed to the duke tied under the donkey’s tail.” Michelotto glanced over at me. “I do not know what the letter said, but—”

  “Enough,” Father said, rising from the papal throne. “Enough. I have heard enough.” He descended the steps, and we both bowed as he passed on his way out of the chamber. As he reached the doors, he turned to me. “Are you happy? Are you satisfied now that Juan has been made a fool of?”

  The desolation and anger mingled in his eyes made for an expression I could not recall ever seeing on his face before. The entire French army had borne down on us, with more men and weaponry than we could possibly match, and yet I had never seen him look quite so defeated as when his favorite son had disappointed him. “He may still succeed,” I said without conviction. “This is only an embarrassment, not a mortal blow.”

  Father waved this aside and walked away. If the Orsini were feeling this bold, the cause was all but lost. We both knew that where Juan was concerned, a public shaming and a mortal blow were one and the same.

  * * *

  Within two days, the story of Juan’s embarrassment—and, by extension, the pope’s, and therefore the Borgia family’s—was all over Rome. No doubt it did not take much longer for the tale to spread all over Italy. Even with the season of Advent upon us, Father excused himself from all public appearances. He did not even attend Mass on Christmas Day. He did not send for me. He conducted only what business was absolutely necessary with Burchard or another cardinal.

  December came and went and still Bracciano had not fallen.

  What with Father’s withdrawal, I found myself at loose ends. When not wrestling or sparring with members of the papal guard or Michelotto, I found myself with more time to spend with Sancia—perhaps th
e only thing that brought me more pleasure than exercising and training in the martial arts. She and I even met a few times in my rooms during the day as that dark winter continued, laughing like spoiled children at our nerve and praying we would not be caught. Michelotto, well aware of our affair, was given the additional task of making sure no one else discovered it.

  Much as I had tried to keep my impatience and disgust with Juan—and Father’s preference of him—from Sancia, it was inevitable that we should speak of the matter. I could no longer keep my thoughts to myself, and she was the one person to whom I could speak freely who might understand and be sympathetic. The same could not truly be said of anyone in my family, not even Lucrezia.

  “I knew this would happen,” I fumed to her one night. We had already made love once, and yet I was still agitated. I had pulled on my shirt and was pacing the room. “He sends Juan, a man with no military or political experience, to besiege the mightiest fortress north of Rome. Could Father have truly expected Juan to succeed? Is he really so blind? And as a result, the whole of Italy is laughing at us.”

  “And you think he should have sent you?”

  “Of course. Of course I wanted to go, and exact revenge on those Orsini bastards myself. But if not me, at least someone capable.”

  “This is what comes of being the best man for every job, no doubt,” Sancia said, lying languidly on the bed and watching me pace. I paused to appreciate the sight of the flickering firelight making shadows on her smooth bare skin. “His Holiness cannot send you everywhere, have you do everything. He needs you here.” She caught my eye and arched an eyebrow. “I need you here.”

  Gratifying as this was, I did not respond. What could I do? How could I save our family from this shame Juan had inflicted on us?

  Nothing, I realized, and that was what galled me most. There was nothing I could do. Juan would make the Borgia family a laughingstock, and I could do nothing but remain in the Vatican and stew.

  “Perhaps this will be the end of it, at least,” I said. “Perhaps this will finally show Father that Juan is not fit to be a general. Perhaps he will let us switch places.”

  “And you think Juan is fit to be a churchman, do you?”

  “You think I am?” I demanded, whirling to face her.

  She smiled. “I suppose in terms of keeping your vows, you are somewhat lacking. But you have excelled in your position so far. And you would excel as a soldier as well, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Yes. And Juan excels at nothing, other than drinking and whoring.”

  Sancia was silent. “Your sister wishes you to come and visit her,” she said finally.

  I sighed and sat down on the bed. “Changing the subject, are you? Sick of my frustration with Juan?”

  “No. I only just remembered to tell you.”

  “She did not…” I felt sudden alarm. “She did not ask you to tell me, did she? She does not know we are…”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. She only mentioned it in passing yesterday, and I thought I would tell you.” Sancia smiled. “I could have told her that I am taking up all your time, but I thought it best not to.”

  “A wise choice.” Lucrezia would never betray us should she know the truth, but I could not bear facing the condemnation in her eyes if she knew what I was doing to Jofre. “I will go see her tomorrow. Provided His Holiness does not need me, which I doubt he will.”

  “Such tension,” she murmured, coming up behind me and running her hands down my back. She lifted my shirt off. “You need an outlet for such tension, methinks.”

  I smiled, turning to her. “Changing the subject again?”

  “No. Tell me all about Juan and how you feel about him.” She lay back against the pillows, parting her legs.

  “I don’t want to speak or hear his name while I am in bed with you,” I said, and took her in my arms.

  Chapter 43

  MADDALENA

  Rome, January 1497

  I heard the news directly from Cardinal Valentino—one of the many advantages of working for his sister was that I was among the best informed in Rome. No matter who Madonna Lucrezia had visiting—family members, Roman nobility, churchmen or politicians seeking a favor from her or Giulia la Bella—I tended to be present in the room. I was, I had come to recognize with pride, one of her favorite maids, along with Pantasilea, the maid who dressed and undressed her each day.

  Juan Borgia’s disastrous attempt to besiege the castle of Bracciano was well-known to all in Rome. The castle looked like to hold forever, until a man named Carlo Orsini arrived with Vitellozzo Vitelli—the latter a fearsome name well-known to most in Italy—to break the siege. Or so Cardinal Borgia was saying.

  “And so the fool marched north to Soriano and met them in open battle,” he was telling his sister. “They had no prayer of winning, not with the enemy’s numbers and Juan’s incompetence. Poor Montefeltro has been taken prisoner, we have lost all of our artillery, and five hundred soldiers were killed.”

  “What would you have had our brother do?” Lucrezia asked softly.

  “He should have surrendered,” the cardinal said bluntly. “If he had half a brain in his head he would have known he could never win, and so he should have lifted the siege and come home. That would have been a far better outcome.”

  “Is it not shameful, to give up like that?”

  “Not if you are preserving yourself and your men and your arms to fight another day,” the cardinal replied. He snorted. “No doubt the worst part for Juan is that he took a wound to his pretty face.”

  I could not help a small smile.

  “Oh!” Lucrezia exclaimed. “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be fine. From what I hear, he’ll have not enough of a scar to ruin his looks, but just enough of one to make him look like an actual soldier,” Cardinal Borgia said sarcastically.

  Lucrezia shook her head. “You should not gloat, Cesare. He is our brother; his failures are our failures. We are all one family. You should have been praying night and day for his success.”

  Praying was the one thing Cesare Borgia likely did not have time for at night.

  He sighed, looking chastened, no doubt in a way only Lucrezia could effect. “You are right, as always, dear sister. I pray the next time we must bring punishment to our enemies, Father chooses a more worthy instrument.”

  Lucrezia glanced over her shoulder. “Maddalena, run and fetch us some wine, won’t you?” she asked.

  I curtsied and left to do her bidding, letting the grin I had been hiding spread across my face.

  Finally, Juan Borgia was reaping some of the evil he had sown. I had no doubt that God was punishing him for his pride, for his lust, for all his sins, which were legion. And I well knew what I would pray for that night: for Juan to continue to pay for each and every one of those sins.

  Yet my smile was soon enough wiped from my face. As I served the wine, Cardinal Borgia barely glanced at me; and later, when he passed me in the hallway, he gave me no more than a distracted nod. No more kind words or laughter; no more inquiries as to my well-being. Not since Sancia of Aragon had come.

  Chapter 44

  CESARE

  Thanks to Juan’s disgraceful defeat at Soriano, Father had no choice but to make peace with the Orsini, which he did in early February. The Orsini could have their castles back once they paid an indemnity of fifty thousand ducats. They accepted these terms and were restored to their status as masters of much of the Romagna as if none of it had ever happened. Money, troops, and weapons all lost for nothing gained in return.

  “At least ransom Montefeltro,” I said to Father after the truce had been agreed upon. The young Duke of Urbino still languished in an Orsini dungeon after the battle at Soriano, with a high ransom price on his head. No doubt that was how the Orsini were hoping to gather some of the fifty thousand ducats they now owed. “It is our fault he was captured in this folly in the first place.” Juan’s fault, I added silently, not daring to say it aloud.

&nbs
p; Father snorted, snapping his fingers for more wine. We were dining together privately, the first time we had done so since the battle, though he had consulted me on the peace terms. “Let him stay there,” he said indifferently. “He was careless enough to get captured, after all. He has proved himself of no use to us.”

  I swallowed my objections. While it was true the Duke of Urbino was not the greatest of military men—not like his late father—he had hardly been set up for success in this venture.

  Still, I reasoned in the days that followed, surely Father had at least learnt his lesson about Juan. Surely there would be no further folly such as this. Father dearly wanted to take the fortress of Ostia: the last stronghold of the French in Italy and a city that was still loyal to Giovanni della Rovere. To that end, he had done what I had advised him to do in the first place to take on the Orsini: he had written to Spanish commander Gonsalvo de Cordoba, then in Naples, to bring his troops north and drive the last remnants of the French from Italy—giving one last thumb of the nose to della Rovere at the same time. Cordoba had obliged, with the blessing of his masters King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, and was even then on the march.

  I underestimated Father’s blind spot where Juan was concerned, however, and the lengths to which he would go to make a hero of a man who had no business aspiring to such a title.

  When Cordoba arrived in Rome, he was summoned immediately to an audience with the Holy Father. I was surprised and discomfited to arrive and find Juan also in the hall outside the audience chamber.

  I had seen him only once since his defeat, at a family dinner Father had held. At the time, he had had bandages bound around his face—more bandages than one would strictly need for what I understood to be a superficial flesh wound. We had not had an opportunity to converse privately, and out of respect for our father and Lucrezia, I had forgone the urge to needle or criticize him. I barely spoke to him all night, could hardly look at him in my disgust, and that suited us both well enough.