The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  However, even if I was not being laughed at, the same could not be said for Jofre. The entire city knew the cuckold’s horns had been affixed to his head, and by his own brother. Worst of all, Jofre knew. At least I had been discreet about bedding his wife, though this reasoning often proved cold comfort.

  At one family dinner at the Vatican, the tension seemed obvious to all, save for Father. I did not deceive myself that he knew nothing of what was going on; he simply did not wish to acknowledge it. Sancia sat between Juan and Jofre and spent most of the meal speaking quietly to her lover beside her, the two of them giggling like country peasants in love. Jofre would try to win her attention every chance he could, and each time she responded perfunctorily to him and turned back to Juan, he looked as if he’d been slapped. Lucrezia, every so often, would glance at the two of them and purse her lips disapprovingly. She loved them both, but she too could not countenance the pain they were clearly inflicting on Jofre.

  I sat at the table fuming, draining my goblet of wine nearly as fast as the servants could fill it, and for once I did not care if anyone noticed. Let them think I was angry on Jofre’s behalf—strangely enough, that was part of it—or let them guess the whole truth. It no longer mattered to me.

  * * *

  “I’ve two appointments to make in consistory tomorrow,” Father said one evening in early June. He had summoned me to his private apartments before I retired, and I had obeyed, hoping it would be a quick meeting. I had not been sleeping much of late, albeit for pleasurable reasons.

  I had expected something like this. The consistory was to be secret, so no doubt he had something ambitious in mind.

  “I am appointing you papal legate for the coronation of Federigo of Aragon,” he said, eyeing me with a pleased look.

  I blinked in surprise. I had hardly expected this honor, being one of the youngest and newest cardinals in the college. But when had such a thing ever stopped Father?

  Poor Ferrantino had recently died, quite unexpectedly, of an illness, and so his uncle Federigo had succeeded to the throne. Wanting no half measures or ambiguity should the French decide to invade again, Father had announced he would be sending a legate to Naples to crown the new king, making the blessing of the pope—and therefore God—on the new ruler unquestionable.

  I was delighted to learn it would be me, once my surprise had waned. “You honor me, Holy Father,” I said, bowing my head. “I shall endeavor to represent the Holy See with all the honor and dignity it deserves.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said.

  “And the second appointment?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I shall bestow upon your brother Juan the duchy of Benevento.”

  In an instant, I had leapt from my chair. “The duchy of Benevento?” I demanded. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “I have not.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “I hope this is not the ‘honor and dignity’ with which you will be representing the Holy See in Naples, Cesare.”

  But I would not be cowed by his scolding. “Father, believe me when I tell you that I say this not out of jealousy,” I said. Though what, indeed, had Juan done to deserve such an investiture? I wondered bitterly. But that didn’t matter; I needed to convince my father that he was making a grave political error. My initial response should have been a more measured one, but it was too late. “Think about it. Benevento has long been a papal fief, not in the keep of any one man or family. If you gift it to Juan, you will be seen as stealing it for the benefit of your family. No other pope has dared to give away the papal lands like this before. It will be a great scandal.”

  “I am the pope. I can do as I wish with the lands in my keeping.”

  “Not this,” I argued. “You cannot do this. Politically, it will be a disaster. Everyone will say we have reached too far. That we have risen too far.”

  “We have risen far,” he thundered, drawing himself up to look at me eye to eye—as I’d entered my twenties, I had finally become as tall as he. “And shall rise farther. I’ll have none question our power. This is what my ascendency to the papacy has been for, Cesare. To make our family great.”

  “They can question us, and they will,” I asserted. “Have you forgotten the ring of cardinals who allied themselves with the French, with the hope of dethroning you? Do you wish them to try again?”

  “They would set themselves against God’s chosen over a parcel of land in the south of Italy?” Father asked scornfully. “To what end?”

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Had he truly forgotten all the politics and scheming, the money changing hands that had put him on St. Peter’s throne? Not for the first time, I wondered if he had fooled himself into believing it had truly been God who put him there.

  “To protest the overreaching of the papal power,” I said. “The papacy is not dynastic, and they will resist any attempts to make it so.”

  He snorted. “That is precisely what we are doing,” he said. “We shall make of the papacy a Borgia dynasty. First it was my uncle, then me, and someday it shall be you.”

  “Perhaps, but you cannot show your hand,” I said. “There will be outrage, and it can only be harmful to us.”

  “Let there be outrage. Let them try to harm us.”

  I threw up my hands in futility. “Has your foolish adoration of Juan so blinded you?” I exploded. “You would risk your position and the position of our family just to further ennoble him?”

  “I risk no such thing!” he shouted. “You are once again blinded by your malice and petty jealousy.”

  “Not this time, Father,” I shot back. “This time, you know I am right. You just cannot admit it, not to yourself, and especially not to me.”

  I stormed from the papal chambers without waiting to be dismissed. Michelotto had been lounging against the wall outside, and he stumbled to attention as I came bursting out.

  “Send a man to Santa Maria in Portico,” I told him tersely. “Have Maddalena Moretti come to my chambers directly.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence.”

  He peeled off to do my bidding—a more menial task than I usually entrusted to him, but he did not complain—and I walked to my rooms, slamming the door behind me when I reached them. I paced angrily in my bedchamber, the blood pounding through my veins, waiting for Maddalena to come to me.

  And sooner than I would have thought possible, as though she had sensed my desperate need, there she was in the doorway. I stopped dead in my pacing and beheld her, her auburn hair tumbling loose about her shoulders, her cloak just barely closed over her thin shift. And I realized how much I had come to depend on her, as other men depended on alcohol or potions to dull their minds. She was the only thing that could take my mind from my troubles.

  We did not speak, merely removed our clothes and fell to the bed together, where I lost myself in her, and enjoyed the losing.

  Chapter 55

  MADDALENA

  “Will there be anything else, Madonna?” I asked Lucrezia, turning to face her where she was tucked up in her large bed.

  She hesitated. “In fact … yes, there is, Maddalena.” She crooked a finger, motioning me to come closer. Glancing furtively over my shoulder, as though expecting Donna Adriana to come in, Lucrezia reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a folded square of parchment. “I need you to deliver this for me,” she said, her voice so low I had to lean in to hear her. “To one Pedro Calderon, one of my father’s chamberlains. He also goes by the name of Perotto.”

  “To … who, Madonna?”

  “He’ll be waiting in the stables at the Vatican,” she said. “He is a few inches taller than me, almost bronze skin, dark curly hair, dark eyes.”

  “Who is he, Madonna? Do you need something from—”

  “Never mind why,” she said impatiently. “Pantasilea usually carries messages to him, but as she is ill, you will need to do it.”

  I took the parchment, deciding it did not matter much. Cesare had wanted me to come to him that night. I wa
s going to the Vatican anyway, though Madonna Lucrezia need not know that. What was an errand for her on my way to my lover’s bed? “Of course, Madonna. I will find him. Am I to wait for a reply?”

  “No,” she said. “No reply. Only see that he gets it.”

  “Very well, Madonna. Consider it done.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Maddalena. You take such good care of me.”

  I curtsied. “I do my best, Madonna. God give you good night.”

  “And you, Maddalena.”

  I shall have a good night, but whether it comes from God or the devil, I do not know, I thought, with a mix of guilt and giddiness. I curtsied and left her bedchamber, proceeding to my own room to fetch my cloak, but thought better of it. It was damnably hot, and I only wore the cloak to better shield me when I went to Cesare’s rooms. Tonight I was on an errand for my mistress, and so had a legitimate purpose for being at the Vatican.

  I removed my apron, tucked the parchment into my bodice, and made to leave. Just then, Isabella came into the room. “Madre di Dio, but Madonna Sancia shall be the death of me,” she declared, flopping onto her bed. “I am starving, Maddalena. Come to the kitchens with me to see what we can find. Or better yet, treat me to something fresh from the market. I know you are paid well, with your embroidery.”

  “I am on my way out,” I said apologetically, “or I would. Some other time, amica mia, I promise you.”

  She sat up and eyed me suspiciously. “Are you going to him?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “But first I have an errand for Madonna Lucrezia.”

  She looked at me carefully. “And … everything is still fine?” she asked. “He treats you well?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged.

  “Why, Isabella? You’ve heard something. Tell me.”

  “They say Valentino nearly beat a man to death in the practice yards not long ago,” she said, staring hard at me. “A soldier, a man from Spain who had long served the Borgia family. He almost killed him, Maddalena.”

  “Yes, I heard that in the market.”

  “And so?” she asked. “That does not give you pause?”

  “It was an accident,” I said. “He trains with the soldiers all the time. All of Rome knows that. I’m sure he did not mean to hurt the man so.”

  “That is not how I heard the tale.”

  “You know how gossip is in this city, Isabella.”

  “You may be right,” she said, unconvinced. “But he has never hurt you, has he? Never harmed you in any way?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “He would never hurt me.”

  She was silent.

  “He would not, Isabella. Truly.” I thought back to two nights ago, when had he made love to me hard and fast, so much so that I almost could not breathe but delighted in the breathlessness. Afterward, he had held me in his arms as he fell asleep. “Maddalena mia,” he had whispered in my ear, a slight Catalan accent I had never heard from him before curling around his words. “Mia bella Maddalena.”

  She sighed. “As long as you are sure, Maddalena. You know him better than I.”

  “I do. And certainly better than any gossipmongers at the market.”

  “I would imagine so. I only want you to be safe, that is all.”

  “I am,” I told her. “I am safe with him.”

  * * *

  With Isabella’s fears assuaged, I set out to find this mysterious Perotto Calderon. I had never heard his name before, but it did not matter. Madonna Lucrezia had given me a task to carry out, and carry it out I would.

  I went directly to the Vatican stables, remembering with a quick pain in my heart the last time I had come to seek Federico here. Yet the pain had dulled, as though it had happened not to me, but to someone I had once been. I supposed that was true.

  The stables were quiet this time of the night, with only two grooms currying horses. My eyes probed the warm darkness as I looked for the man I sought. I soon made him out at the rear of the long room, standing near some hay bales, arms crossed over his chest. I moved toward him hesitantly; he fit the description Madonna Lucrezia had given me, but what if it was not him? “Perotto?” I asked uncertainly.

  He straightened and peered at me through the dim. “Who asks?” he said suspiciously.

  Relieved that I clearly had the right man, I removed the letter from my bodice. “Madonna Lucrezia sent me.” I extended the parchment to him.

  He did not take it immediately. “You are not Pantasilea,” he said.

  “No. She is ill. Madonna Lucrezia sent me instead.”

  “Hmmm.” He did not sound convinced, but he took the letter and unfolded it. His face relaxed as he beheld the words on the page. He was in truth quite handsome. “This is indeed her hand.” He glanced at me. “Thank you.”

  “Always happy to serve my lady. God give you good night, Master Perotto.”

  “And you,” he said distractedly, already turning away from me, absorbed in the message.

  My duty done, I could now turn my thoughts to more enjoyable pursuits. Moving quickly, I entered the Vatican Palace via the servants’ entrance and made my way to the apartments of my lover.

  * * *

  It was only after the rush and spark and burn of lovemaking that I finally wondered what Madonna Lucrezia’s message had been to this Perotto. He had seemed suspicious of me, as though he had something to hide. Indeed Madonna Lucrezia had made it clear that the message was a discreet matter, usually entrusted to only one person. Was … was he her lover?

  For shame, Maddalena, I scolded myself, even as my eyelids drifted closed. To think one such as Madonna Lucrezia would take a lover while still married.

  If she had, I was hardly in a position to judge. And it was none of my affair in any case.

  Chapter 56

  CESARE

  Father’s announcement of Juan’s and my appointments was met mostly with silence. Michelotto brought word from his spies that many of the College of Cardinals were upset at my own appointment as papal legate over the older, more experienced cardinals, but the true outrage was at the gifting to Juan of the duchy of Benevento, as predicted. The general feeling was that the pope had largely overstepped the bounds of his secular authority. Yet no one knew quite what might be done about that. So the grumbling remained just that. I instructed Michelotto in no uncertain terms to bring me word if he got wind of anything changing in that regard.

  In the meantime, Father threw a grand banquet to celebrate Juan’s investiture, and even those who complained mightily about the matter did not see fit to abstain from the Holy Father’s sumptuous table. Hypocrites, all, I thought contemptuously that night, watching two of the cardinals in question working their way through large plates and leering appreciatively down the bodices of the serving girls who poured them more wine. I had caught sight of Maddalena at one point—no doubt there attending Lucrezia—but she was not serving, thank heavens. If any of these men had looked at her like that I likely could not have stopped myself from plucking out their eyes.

  Meanwhile, Juan and Sancia behaved more shamelessly than ever. She was seated beside him at the table, and no one could have failed to notice his hand on her leg, or the way she often whispered in his ear, placing a hand possessively on his chest or shoulder. When the feasting was over and the dancing had begun, they were the first couple to take to the floor, their bodies pressing almost obscenely close as they danced together.

  I had danced a few turns with Lucrezia, but soon lost the stomach for it. Instead I was back at my seat, drinking more wine as I furiously watched Juan and Sancia make fools of themselves, and of me. I was incapable of looking away; as though this was hell and watching them was the punishment God had devised for me, that I might pay for my sins in the most excruciating way possible.

  As I stewed and drank, Jofre came to sit in a chair beside me. He, it was plain, had had more than his share of the wine as well.

  He did not
speak at first, but his eyes were fixed on the same sight as mine. I remained silent; he would say what he wished when he was ready.

  “I used to think myself the luckiest man in the world, to have such a wife,” Jofre said eventually, his words slurring.

  “And so you are,” I said, knowing what was coming but wishing to forestall it if I could.

  “No. I am not. Anyone would think that to have such a wife would be enough, but it is not. I have learned that the hard way, brother.” He took another drink and said morosely, “My wife does not love me.”

  “Surely she—”

  “I love her, but she does not love me. Our marriage is torture for me,” he said, as though I had not spoken. “And Juan…” His voice broke, yet I saw only rage in his eyes. There was a resemblance to me, and perhaps to Juan as well, in his face, but his features were softer, more blurred, as if in his case water had been mixed in with the Borgia blood. “He is my brother,” Jofre went on, teeth clenched. “I thought he loved me, as I always loved him. How could he do this to me? How?”

  He did not know, then. He did not know I had bedded his wife before Juan. Yet his question felt like an accusation all the same.

  “They must hate me,” Jofre said. “They must hate me fiercely, to so shame me before all.”

  “I am sure that is not true,” I said, the first honest words I felt I could speak. I had nothing but enmity for both Juan and Sancia, but I was certain they did not mean to hurt Jofre, nor bore him any ill will. They were both simply too selfish to see the harm they were causing him. Or to care.

  Just as I had been too filled with mad love and desire for Sancia to care.