The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “He is a fine dancer.”

  “I mean it, Sancia,” I said. “Do not try to make me jealous with him. I speak in earnest. If … if I were someday free, free to marry, would you agree to be my wife?”

  “What about Jofre?”

  I waved aside her words and my guilt. “We will have your marriage annulled. He was so young when you were married—is still so young—that no one would find it hard to believe it was never consummated.”

  She was silent, her eyes wandering over the ceiling above the bed, as though she could see the future I painted for her. “And I would be at your side as you ride out to conquer Italy?” she asked. Her habitual seductive, teasing tone was still there, but lesser now, and filled with more wonder, as though she were as enamored with the idea as I.

  “Yes. I will make you a queen.”

  She smiled. “And I would consent to be queen.”

  I kissed her fiercely, kissing my way down her body, using my mouth and tongue on every inch of her until she was writhing beneath me and nearly screaming my name. Just as I liked her.

  God Almighty, what rotten turn of the wheel of fortune had made me the eldest Borgia son, instead of the youngest, the one married off without a care to Sancia of Aragon? For if I could not achieve the destiny that I had been born for, what more did I need than this?

  Chapter 46

  MADDALENA

  “Maddalena! Oh, Maddalena, you must help me!”

  I dropped the embroidery I was working on at my usual post in the public receiving room and quickly stood as Madonna Lucrezia burst into the room. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was nearly shaking with despair. “Madonna Lucrezia! Whatever is the matter?”

  “Come with me,” she choked out between sobs, grabbing my hand and pulling me after her down the hall and into her rooms. She slammed the door behind us and sank down onto a daybed in her private sitting room, dissolving into tears.

  I hovered beside her, uncertain of what to do. “What is it, Madonna?” I asked hesitantly.

  She looked up at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “He’s gone,” she choked out.

  “Who? Who is gone?”

  “My husband.”

  Shock filled me. “But … gone? Madonna, are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” she cried, sounding like a spoiled child, which she so rarely did.

  “But … and I mean no disrespect, Madonna, how do you know he has not gone off for a ride or a hunt or some such thing?”

  “Because I asked one of the grooms!” she exclaimed. “I had not seen him since the day before yesterday, and when I went to seek him he was gone, along with all of his things. So I went down to the stables, and one of the grooms told me he had ridden for Pesaro with a few of his men the night before last.” Her voice hitched as another sob forced its way out. “Without even saying goodbye! Without even telling me he was leaving!”

  Moved beyond propriety by her distress, I sank down onto the daybed beside her, hesitantly rubbing her velvet-clothed back. “He did not even leave a note or…?”

  “No, he did not. I looked and asked the groom if he had left a message. He had not.”

  “Perhaps there was an emergency in Pesaro that he needed to tend to immediately?”

  “So immediately he could not even take his leave of his wife?” she countered. “Had that been the case I would have gone with him. Of course I would have! A wife’s place is at her husband’s side. And I know my duty.” She looked up at me earnestly. “I know my duty as a wife, Maddalena, I swear I do! I have tried to be a good and dutiful wife; I have tried as best I can. Lord knows he has not made it easy…” She trailed off and drew a shuddering breath. “But I have tried. I promise I have tried; I would swear it before God and Christ Jesus and His Blessed Mother and all the saints…”

  “Shhh, shhh,” I soothed, rubbing circles on her back. “He knows, Madonna. God in His infinite wisdom knows how hard you have tried, and He knows what is in your heart.”

  She gave me a teary smile. “Thank you, Maddalena. You know just what to say.”

  These words reminded me how inappropriate it was that I should be so comforting my mistress, in such a familiar way, about such an intimate topic. “Shall I fetch Donna Giulia for you, Madonna?” I asked. “Or perhaps Donna Sancia? Surely they would like to sit with you and offer you advice.”

  Lucrezia scowled. “Giulia is with Father at the Vatican, Adriana is off visiting some relatives in the city, and Lord only knows where Sancia is. I could not find her.” She impulsively seized my hand. “You will stay with me, won’t you, Maddalena? I do not wish to be alone.”

  I covered her hand with mine, feeling like an older sister must—in that moment, at least. “Of course, Madonna. I shall stay with you as long as you need.”

  She smiled, even as another tear trickled down her cheek. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.” Her face screwed up as she began crying anew. “I do not understand why he would leave without a word…”

  Not sure if she wanted advice or just a friendly ear, I nevertheless ventured, “Perhaps you should write to him, Madonna. No doubt he will reply with an explanation.”

  “I will indeed. But what explanation could there be? What could I have done to drive him away like this?”

  This went on for some time, and I simply murmured my agreement and sympathy every so often. No doubt she only needed a friend, and I could be that for her.

  Suddenly there were voices in the hall outside, and Lucrezia stopped crying to listen. “Your Eminence, you can’t…” I heard, a voice I recognized as Isabella’s.

  “Of course I can,” came Cardinal Borgia’s rich, confident voice. “She is my sister, and I need to see her.” The next thing we knew, he had flung open the door and stood before us.

  Lucrezia rose to her feet. “Cesare! What are you doing here?”

  The cardinal remained in the doorway. “Is it true?” he asked, without greeting. “Is he gone?”

  “Who?” she challenged.

  “You know very well who. Your husband. Giovanni Sforza.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Nothing escapes you, does it, Your Eminence? I see your spies have already informed you.”

  He sighed. “Lucrezia…”

  “Yes! Yes, he is gone, without a word to me, and I’ve no idea why! No idea what I might have done—”

  “It was nothing you did, dearest sister. Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  The cardinal’s eyes flicked to me. “We should discuss this in private.”

  Anger flickered to life in my veins. After all that had passed between Cardinal Borgia and me, was I still someone to be dismissed so thoughtlessly?

  “No.” Lucrezia sat down defiantly beside me and firmly took my hand. “Anything you wish to say to me can be said in front of Maddalena. She has been by my side since I found out.”

  I felt a surge of self-righteous pride at these words and faced the cardinal defiantly.

  He sighed again. “Very well.” He looked at me. “You can hold your tongue about what you might hear, yes?”

  “Of course, Your Eminence,” I bit out indignantly.

  “Good.” He slammed the door shut behind him and came to sit in a chair at Lucrezia’s right. “It does not matter that he left,” he said.

  “It matters to me!” she exclaimed.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the cardinal said again, “and I don’t want you to trouble yourself more over it. We are arranging a divorce for you.”

  There was a shocked silence at this, though I could not tell who was more shocked, Lucrezia or me. Only that her grip on my hand tightened almost painfully.

  “You are … what?” she asked in a whisper.

  “We are arranging a divorce for you,” her brother repeated. “You will soon be rid of him. Do not let it trouble you that he has left.”

  “Who is we?” she spat. “You and Father, of course.”

  “Yes. Who else?”<
br />
  “Who else indeed,” she said scornfully. “And why are you doing such a thing, or need I not ask? I suppose my marriage is no longer politically expedient, is that it?”

  “You know very well that that is why, Lucrezia. You are an intelligent woman. You can see for yourself the state of politics in Italy, and why—”

  “And what of my happiness?” she spat. “Have you considered that?”

  This gave the cardinal pause. “You are happy with Sforza? Truly?”

  “He is not the husband I would have chosen for myself,” she said, “but have you thought of the shame, the embarrassment I will endure should you and Father proceed? A divorce? You both, who claim to love me, would inflict that upon me?”

  “It is necessary,” he said bluntly. “For the family, and for your happiness, Lucrezia. We shall find you someone better, someone who—”

  “My happiness,” she said irritably. “Do not fool yourself into thinking this has anything to do with my happiness, Cesare.”

  “It is necessary, Lucrezia,” he said again.

  “Ugh!” she cried in frustration. “And on what grounds shall you arrange for this annulment, Cardinal Borgia? Non-consummation?” She laughed sharply. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the marriage has been consummated. Many times. He took me to live in his house in Pesaro; of course he took me to his bed.”

  “It does not matter. It will be our word against his.”

  “And if I refuse to lie?”

  “Lucrezia, you must be rid of him! Why can you not see—”

  I was rising to my feet before I realized it. “Enough,” I said.

  Both Borgias turned to face me, eyes wide with surprise.

  My throat went dry at my own temerity, but I urged myself on, locking eyes with Cardinal Borgia. “Enough,” I repeated. “Your Eminence, your sister has had quite a shock—two shocks now, in one day. I pray you leave her be so she has time to reckon with both.”

  They continued to stare at me, and a small thread of panic stitched itself into my stomach. Would this be when I had finally gone too far?

  Yet the cardinal rose. “You are quite right, Maddalena,” he said, his voice soft and full of chagrin. “Quite right. You have my sister’s best interests at heart, and I should, too. I have forgotten myself.” He moved toward the door. “I shall leave you, Lucrezia, as your stalwart maid has commanded,” he said. “But please, I beg of you, think on what I have said.” With that he opened the door and departed, closing it softly behind him.

  We both stared after him, myself with no doubt the greater share of surprise.

  Lucrezia let out an enormous sigh and rose to her feet, embracing me. “Thank you, Maddalena,” she whispered in my ear. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 47

  CESARE

  Rome, May 1497

  It was a small family dinner, Father and I venturing to Santa Maria in Portico this time. Father enjoyed dining with us this way; for when he hosted his children in the Vatican, he still had to be the pope, and stand upon a certain amount of ceremony. So sometimes he preferred to come through the secret passage into Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, dressed as a nobleman rather than the pope, to dine with us there in ease.

  Neither Sancia nor Giulia Farnese were present, out of respect for Lucrezia’s husband having vanished—it was only Father and his children (though Juan, true to form, snuck out early, saying he had an “appointment” to attend to). We had all been especially attentive to Lucrezia of late, upset as she was by her husband’s departure—and by our plans for her. Father had been somewhat annoyed I had revealed the plan to her before he could, but understood why I had done it.

  I caught a glimpse of Maddalena Moretti flitting past the door, assisting in the service of the meal that evening. I still could not believe I had been cowed by a serving girl more than once now, but mostly I admired her for her kind heart, and her steadfast loyalty to my sister. Maddalena had been right that day, and I wrong. I would have resented anyone else who put me in such a position, but for some reason, unbeknownst even to me, she was exempt.

  As the meal was coming to a close, with Juan already departed and Lucrezia and Jofre still at the table with our father, laughing and recounting old family stories, I excused myself and said I meant to retire early. In truth, I meant to seek out Sancia. It had been some time since we had been able to meet, and I was aching—both in my heart and other parts of my body. I was hoping to ask her to come to my rooms that night.

  I would often wonder, afterward, what would have become of us all had I not gone to find her.

  I first checked the sitting room where Lucrezia, Sancia, and Giulia often spent part of their days, and where they received visitors. She was not there.

  Since I was nearby, I went to her rooms and asked her maid if Sancia was within, but the girl would only say she was not. Where could she be? Perhaps she and Giulia had been invited out somewhere, though no one had mentioned it.

  I went back down to the ground floor, puzzled and frustrated and intending to see myself out. Yet as I passed one of the smaller receiving rooms, I heard noises within. Something I recognized, but that seemed wildly out of context for that moment and place.

  I suppose I thought—if indeed I had any conscious thoughts about it at all—I would open the door and surprise a pair of servants, who thought they might take their pleasure in one of the finer rooms while the household was distracted. What I never imagined was the scene that greeted me as I opened the door to the room.

  A man’s back, clothed in a crimson velvet doublet that looked awfully familiar, faced me. His hose had been lowered so I could see his pale buttocks, heaving as he thrust into the woman who was seated on a daybed and had her legs wrapped around his lower back.

  I could see the woman’s face over the man’s shoulder, her eyes closed in ecstasy, her breath coming in sharp, short little pants that she was trying to keep quiet. Sancia.

  And Juan.

  Juan must have heard the door open, for he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, all without ceasing his thrusting. Upon seeing it was me, he merely grinned and turned away, back to the task at hand.

  My hands clenched into fists, and had I been possessed of my dagger or sword, I would have dragged him off her and killed him, cutting off his manhood for good measure. I had half a mind to pull him off anyway and beat him to a bloody pulp. Yet then Sancia opened her eyes, and when the haze of her passion faded and she saw me standing there, she gasped aloud in consternation, even as Juan kept pumping away between her thighs. “Juan,” she gasped, pulling on his sleeve. “Juan, we must…”

  I did not stay to hear more. I turned and left the room, letting the door bang shut behind me, and left the palazzo by the main entrance and began to walk back to the Vatican. I walked as quickly as I could, my body so rigid with fury I felt as if I might shatter into a thousand pieces. I walked away from Santa Maria in Portico as fast as my legs could carry me, so I did not return to that awful, hellish room and do something I would regret.

  PART FOUR

  CAIN and ABEL

  Rome, May–June 1497

  Chapter 48

  CESARE

  I did not sleep that night. I could only keep replaying the moment in my head, a scene I knew would haunt me all the way to my grave. The woman I loved more than life, more than my very soul, more than all my ambition, fucking my brother Juan, the person I hated most. He had to have known what Sancia was to me—that mocking grin on his face as he met my eyes while he was inside her told me as much. Did he even love her? Care for her at all? Or did he only want to take what was mine, and watch me suffer?

  And yet that Sancia was willing had been perfectly plain. Juan’s behavior, as singularly horrible as it was, was no better than I expected from him. He lost no opportunity to remind me he was the favored son and had everything I coveted—including my lover. But Sancia had professed to love me.

  She was the traitor.

  How could she? Aft
er all the words of love we had spoken, after all the things we had done in my bed? Could it be possible Juan was a better lover than I? No. No, it could not be. I could not believe Juan worshipped her body in the same way I did, that he had the patience and devotion and stamina necessary to …

  No. God’s teeth, no. I could not picture it. And so my mind returned to the scene I had witnessed, both more and less torturous than my imaginings of what else might take place between them. Of what else they might be doing to each other, even now.

  How could she? And after I had so recently spoken to her of marriage, and she had said yes. Though not, I recalled, as enthusiastically as I might have expected. Not without reservations. Could it be … oh, God, how long had she and Juan been fucking one another? Since his return? I could not have been bedding her at the same time as him and not known it. Could I?

  I had been thinking of how I might convince Father to annul Sancia and Jofre’s marriage, and finally allow me to leave the Church. A new Neapolitan marriage for Lucrezia, and one for me, to Sancia, to strengthen our ties to Naples and send a strong message to Milan and France alike. He would have come around to it. Eventually. And Sancia would have been my wife, borne my children, and I would have had her in my bed every night.

  And she had betrayed me. And betrayed me with the one person she knew I could never forgive her for.

  I got very drunk that night. I could not bring myself to care about the gossip in the kitchens as His Eminence the Cardinal of Valencia called for more and more wine. Around dawn I finally fell into more of a stupor than a sleep and did not care whether God or the devil took my soul—or what was left of it—before I woke.

  * * *

  I woke around noon with a splitting headache and had my secretary cancel all my appointments. There was nothing on my schedule that could not be taken up another day. I forced myself into breeches, a shirt, and a leather doublet, and went out to the barracks where the papal guard was housed, and where they had a practice arena right outside.