The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Then what must they think of me?” Jofre demanded, turning to face me.

  “I do not believe they think of anyone save themselves.”

  Jofre laughed mirthlessly and lifted his goblet to his lips. “How nice that must be, to think only of oneself. I find I cannot think of anything or anyone but the two of them.”

  Chapter 57

  MADDALENA

  “Let me help you with that,” I offered when I came into the kitchen, seeing that Pietra, one of Donna Adriana’s maids, was attempting to lift a heavy tray.

  She straightened. “I do not need your help, thank you,” she said shortly.

  I drew back, surprised. “Very well, then,” I said.

  She struggled to lift the tray, and even as she staggered away under its weight, I heard her mutter “Puttana.”

  I froze, staring after her. Had I heard her correctly? Had I just imagined it? No, I was certain. She’d said puttana. Whore.

  She knew.

  And if she knew, who else knew?

  I glanced around the kitchen and saw Lucca, one of the cook’s assistants, watching me. When I caught his eye, his lip curled in a sneer, and he turned back to chopping spinach.

  It was safe to assume my secret was no longer a secret.

  * * *

  I resolved to ask Isabella about it when I saw her. She would never have said anything, so how had I been discovered? Who had seen something?

  I did not see her until later that night, when we’d both been dismissed. She looked puzzled when I mentioned the incident in the kitchen to her. “I have not heard anyone say anything, no,” she said. “Are you sure you did not mishear Pietra? She’s always grumbling about something under her breath.”

  “I suppose I could have,” I said, beginning to doubt myself. I’d been so sure before, especially with the way Lucca had looked at me after …

  “If there was gossip about you, it might be I would not hear it right away,” Isabella offered. “Everyone knows you and I are close friends, so anyone speaking ill of you would no doubt not do it before me.”

  That seemed likely. But perhaps I was simply imagining it all, and I said as much to Isabella.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, but she looked troubled all the same.

  “What is it?”

  “It is just that … you know how everyone talks around here,” she said. “It may be no one knows about you and Valentino yet, but they will. They will eventually, Maddalena, and you know it.”

  I did know it. But there was nothing I could do about it. I could not stop people from talking. I was equally powerless to refuse Cesare. As long as he sent for me, I would go. I could not resist him.

  * * *

  The next day, I received more strange looks from other servants, and that night when Isabella and I went to find something to eat after we’d been dismissed, the cook—who usually teased us and shook his head indulgently when we asked for a taste of the best wine—only slapped a few plates down in front of us with the leftovers from that night’s meal and disappeared without a word, though he did toss a glare in my direction. Isabella and I exchanged uncomfortable looks, but did not speak of it.

  What was there, really, to say?

  * * *

  The following day, Donna Adriana sent me to the market for some thread to mend a gown of hers, and one of her maids, a girl about my age named Nina, went with me to be sure I got the right color. I rolled my eyes at Donna Adriana’s fussing—surely I could be trusted to secure the correct color thread—but knew better than to protest.

  Nina fairly skipped alongside me as we left the palazzo, clearly thrilled to be out and about rather than at Donna Adriana’s beck and call.

  Yet all too soon it became clear that Nina’s excitement was less about being away from Donna Adriana than it was about me.

  The palazzo was just out of sight when I noticed her looking at me out of the corner of her eye, a smile on her lips. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’m glad we’ve been sent out to the market,” she said.

  “Yes. It is a nice day for a walk.”

  “Not that,” she said, waving a hand. “I have been wanting to have a private word with you.”

  “With … me?” I asked, baffled.

  “Of course!” She leaned closer. “You’ve quite a reputation these days, you know.”

  Dear Lord and Mary Virgin, preserve me. My body tensed even as she spoke.

  “So … what is it like?”

  “What is what like?” I asked, determined to feign ignorance for as long as I could.

  Her grin widened. “Oh, you know very well what I mean.” She lowered her voice. “Bedding Cesare Borgia, the not-so-holy cardinal. What is it like?”

  I quickened my stride. “I don’t know where you heard such a thing, but—”

  “Do not deny it, Maddalena Moretti,” she said, catching up with me. “I know it’s true. Everyone does. The entire palazzo is talking about it. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  I quickened my pace still further, as though to outrun her questions. “This is none of your affair,” I said curtly.

  She laughed. “Oh, come, Maddalena. I bear you no will ill. I do not wish to call you a slut or a whore. I admire you. However did you catch his eye? He is the handsomest man I have ever seen, I think. What is it like with him? I imagine it must be quite delicious.” She grinned wickedly.

  “I do not wish to discuss this, Nina.”

  Her smile faded. “You are not better than the rest of us because he fucks you once in a while, Maddalena. Don’t forget that.”

  “Thank you for the lesson in humility,” I snapped, and after that we did not speak the rest of the afternoon.

  * * *

  That night when I arrived back in my room, the story of my walk with the insufferable Nina almost spilled from my lips as soon as I saw Isabella was already within. Yet she held up a hand to stop me. “I have something to tell you.”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Me first,” Isabella said in a tone that booked no argument.

  I sighed and sank down onto my bed. “Very well. What is it?”

  “Everyone knows about you and Cardinal Valentino,” she said.

  “Everyone? Do you think … Madonna Lucrezia knows?” I could not bear her disappointment in me.

  Isabella shook her head impatiently. “I mean all of the servants,” she said. “The high and mighty pay no attention to our gossip. I doubt they have heard anything.”

  “How did they find out?”

  Isabella sat down beside me on my bed. “Apparently Anita saw you. That maid of Donna Sancia’s she brought from Naples?”

  “Saw me where? What did she see?”

  Isabella gave me an impatient look. “She was at the banquet at the Vatican last week with her mistress, the one honoring the Duke of Gandia. She saw Cardinal Valentino take you off into another room, and she followed, and … she saw.”

  I groaned, putting my head in my hands. I had been present at the banquet attending Lucrezia. Cesare had been upset—I still did not know why. While the dancing was going on he had stormed out of the room where the festivities were taking place and had come upon me in the hallway. “Maddalena,” he had said, sighing my name as though it were a prayer and answer all in one. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” I asked, but he had simply grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a nearby room. He had pushed me up against a wall at the back of the room, some drapery and hangings shielding us somewhat from the doorway, and kissed me, hard, pinning me to the wall with his body.

  When his hands began lifting my skirts, I had pulled away from the kiss. “Here, my lord?” I gasped. “What if…”

  “Do not call me ‘my lord,’” he breathed against my mouth. “Call me Cesare.”

  “Cesare,” I murmured, and he kissed my neck, even as his hands continued their exploration beneath my skirts. “Cesare…”

  Suddenly, he’d drawn away, releasing me. “I am despicabl
e,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I am no better than my brother, trying to take you against a wall…”

  I struggled to catch my breath. “No, Cesare,” I said, my voice low. “You are not your brother. I have chosen to give myself to you, remember.”

  He looked up at those words, and I drew him to me and kissed him. He needed no further convincing; he hiked up my skirts and had me there against the wall. It was over quickly but pleasurable in its rough haste all the same, and I had to return to the banquet on weak legs and trying to hide my silly smile.

  Now I wished I had let him walk away; that I had not seduced him. For apparently Anita had seen it all—or enough to leave her in no doubt as to what I was to the Cardinal of Valencia. His whore.

  “That was stupid of us. Of me,” I whispered.

  “Yes, it was,” Isabella said. “For now everyone knows. And they think you either an irredeemable slut or that you are Valentino’s spy. A few are jealous. None of which wins you any friends among the rest of the servants. Quite the opposite.”

  “And you?” I asked, raising my head to look at her. “Into which group do you fall?”

  She slid an arm around my shoulders. “I am your friend,” she said. “As ever. I know you do not spy for him, and you mean no one else ill will. What then should I hold against you?”

  I returned her embrace, and when we drew apart she added, “I only wish he had never looked twice at you, Maddalena. Truly I do.”

  “You should not.”

  “Why? Is being in his bed truly worth all the rest?”

  What had I truly lost but the good opinion of people I did not know well? Many of whom I did not much care for anyway. How much could that actually change my life? Was I not better off with Cesare than without him? “Yes,” I answered. “It is.”

  Chapter 58

  CESARE

  I could not avoid Juan, much as I wanted to. Our mother invited us—along with several other Roman nobles and churchmen—to dinner one June night at her villa in the country. Despite Juan’s loud and largely false stories bragging of his exploits in battle, it was a pleasant enough night. I had not seen much of my mother of late, and it was a joy to speak to her at length, though she was much occupied by her guests.

  “You are not working too hard, are you, Cesare?” she asked after the meal had ended. “I know you wish to be a help to your father, but you are making time to enjoy life as well, yes?”

  I smiled, thinking of Maddalena. “I am, Mama. I promise.”

  “Good.” She kissed my cheek, sighing. “I worry about you and your brothers, Cesare. And Lucrezia. Is she much upset about the divorce?”

  “She is … coming around to the idea,” I said. Lucrezia had grown weary of trying to resist, and had ceased arguing. She was still not happy, but she would be once she had a new husband who could truly appreciate her—and his connection to the Borgia family. “You must come and visit her soon.”

  “I shall. It has been too long.” She paused. “And what of you and Juan? Word in Rome is you are quite at each other’s throats.”

  “They gossip about this?” Michelotto had either omitted this deliberately, or simply thought it beneath my notice.

  “You know how Romans are, Cesare. And the two of you hardly make any secret of the enmity between you.” She sighed again. “It wounds me, my son. I am sure your father feels the same.”

  “He does,” I said tightly. “But we are grown men, and Juan continues to make decisions I cannot help but despise. We are too different, Mother. I am sorry this pains you.”

  “I can only pray someday you will both feel differently.”

  “If God wills it,” I said, wanting to placate her.

  She smiled. “My son, the cardinal. Who could have believed it?”

  I laughed. “You doubted it? When it was what Father planned all along?”

  “I suppose I should have long ago ceased to be surprised at the force of Rodrigo’s will,” she said. “But what is most important to me, my son, is this: are you happy?”

  Happy. What was happiness?

  Could I ever be truly happy watching Juan receive every accolade and honor—including our father’s highest regard—I had ever craved for myself? Could I ever be happy knowing the one woman I had ever loved had left me for him? Had betrayed me with him?

  Could I ever be happy knowing I would never lead armies to victory in battle, as I was certain I’d been born to do?

  I thought of Lucrezia’s smile when I came to visit her, the way she called me her favorite brother in the words of our native Catalan. Of the power I wielded with cardinals and statesmen and ambassadors. Of Maddalena and the pleasure she gave me, the way her touch could rouse me, and the satisfaction I got from pleasing her in return. And how, with her, I found more than simple physical release—there was an emotional one, too, a clarity when I was with her that I could not find anywhere else.

  “I am happy enough,” I answered.

  * * *

  As dusk was falling, Juan and I rode back to Rome together, Michelotto a few paces behind us. “It was lovely to see Mother,” Juan said. “She is looking well.”

  I was somewhat surprised at this overture of civil conversation from him, but mindful of my conversation with our mother, I decided to reverse my previous decision to ignore him all night. “She is indeed,” I said. “Country life suits her, though I miss when she was closer to us.”

  “Who could blame her for escaping the stench of Rome in summer?” Juan asked.

  “True,” I agreed. “She spoke of coming to visit Lucrezia soon.”

  “Ah,” Juan said fondly, and I was reminded that, for all his faults, he did truly love our sister. “She will be pleased. I visited her yesterday, and she has been missing Mother.”

  We rode through the streets of Rome, and when we reached the Ponte Sant’ Angelo—the Castel Sant’ Angelo looming above us in the growing darkness—Juan pulled up his horse. “This is where I leave you, Cesare.”

  “What, here?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve an appointment to keep.”

  “Michelotto and I can ride with you, if you like.”

  He laughed. “I am a man grown. I do not need my elder brother’s protection. And this is an appointment I must keep alone.”

  “Do you truly think it wise to roam the streets of Rome alone at this hour? A man in your position, richly dressed, who clearly has coin on his person?” And given the number of enemies you’ve accumulated, I thought.

  “I will be fine.”

  “His Eminence is right, Your Grace,” Michelotto said, pulling up next to us. “At least return to the Vatican with us and fetch one of your men to go with you.”

  “Gentlemen, I thank you for your concern, but I am late. I must be off.” Juan tipped his cap to us and rode off in the direction of the Jewish Ghetto.

  Michelotto and I exchanged uneasy glances. “Does his foolishness know no bounds?” I asked.

  “It would seem not.”

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  “Of course, my lord. Where do you suppose he is going?”

  “To meet some woman, no doubt.” Suddenly I was struck with inspiration. I should follow and catch him in the act. It would be amusing, at least, to throw in Sancia’s face. “I’m going to follow him.”

  “Is that wise, my lord?”

  “Why not? I want to know what he is doing.” I turned my horse in the direction Juan had just gone. “Follow me at a distance. If he looks back he might get suspicious to see two men behind him. He may not look too closely at one.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  I set off after Juan at a distance. He led me through narrow, twisting streets, until we were in the depths of the Ghetto, no place for a young nobleman after dark.

  I soon lost sight of him, cursing myself for a fool. Michelotto caught up to me. “My lord?”

  “Here,” I said, dismounting and handing him the reins of my horse. “Wait here.
I will try to follow on foot.”

  “My lord, I don’t know if—”

  “Just wait here!” I called over my shoulder, walking off toward where I thought Juan might have gone.

  I had walked perhaps two minutes when I heard a scuffle in an alley up ahead. I quickened my pace and turned down the alley toward the sounds.

  I squinted against the darkness, barely making out the shadowy shapes of a few men. A struggle was ensuing.

  I drew near cautiously, aware of the danger. This may have nothing to do with Juan. Yet as I got closer, the scene before me resolved itself. My body tensed.

  A group of men, wearing dark cloaks and masks, had fallen upon Juan. They had pulled him from his horse—the beast had panicked and run off—and had borne him to the ground, where they were struggling to subdue him even as he shouted and fought to get away. But there were too many of them.

  I saw a flash in the dim light as one of the men drew a dagger and I heard Juan’s scream as it was plunged into his flesh. The other men—I counted four total—had drawn their daggers and were stabbing them into whatever part of him they could reach.

  One of the men shifted, and I saw Juan’s face, twisted with screams and crumpled in agony. He opened his eyes and saw me standing there, watching the horrific scene before me. “Brother, help me!” he called. “Please!”

  I started toward him but stopped. I saw my mother’s face, pleading with me to end my feuding with Juan.

  I also saw Juan mocking me, insulting me; Juan failing at every task set before him and being honored anyway. I saw our father beaming with pride at everything Juan said and did. I saw Juan trying to rape Maddalena. I saw Juan making love to Sancia, the woman I had thought I would love forever.

  I saw Juan taking everything I had ever wanted for himself, as though it were his right. I thought about what it might be like if he no longer stood in my way.

  Juan’s eyes, locked on mine, widened in shock and despair, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Brother! Cesare! Help me!” His cries were weak, and blood bubbled from his mouth, muddling his words. He began to choke on it.