The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I turned and walked away.

  Chapter 59

  MADDALENA

  The summons came after nightfall. I was already in bed, but I rose and dressed quickly, going with the messenger back to the Vatican. I was somewhat puzzled. Of late Cesare arranged ahead of time for me to come to him, rather than wait until such a late hour to summon me from my bed and to his.

  When I arrived, we spoke little. We made love vigorously as ever, but something was troubling him. He seemed distant, even as he moved inside me. Afterward he lay still, holding me tightly, before he withdrew and sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Cesare,” I said softly, sitting up. “Is something wrong?”

  He laughed shortly, a weak, dark sound. “Either everything has gone wrong, or everything has gone right.”

  “What do you mean?” I moved closer to him.

  “It is nothing I would burden you with. It is better if you do not know.”

  His tone was cool, yet underneath it I detected a note of concern. He truly thought I was better off not knowing whatever it was that was troubling him.

  With a creeping sense of confidence, I felt certain I could persuade him to tell me, whatever it was; that I could persuade him to tell me anything. As I had told Isabella, my relationship with Cesare Borgia could never be anything more than this, could never exist beyond the four walls of his sumptuous bedchamber. Yet whatever this was was more than simply sex, more than lust, more than the need for physical release. He enjoyed my company, not just my body. He did not merely fuck me and send me away; I spent the better part of the night in his arms. And that, perhaps far more than anything else, was something I would never have dreamed could come to pass.

  My fingers were nearly touching his skin, close enough to feel the heat of his body, when I stopped myself from touching him.

  I knew the rumors about Cesare Borgia, about what kind of man he was and what he was capable of. I knew what kind of power he wielded, and the ways in which he had influenced the politics of the Italian peninsula and all her nations. But more than that, I knew things beyond the rumors, things that the gossips hadn’t even guessed at.

  So whatever this was, whatever had happened this night that he sought to protect me from … did I truly want to know?

  I lowered my hand to my lap. I did not. I did not want to know.

  As though sensing my withdrawal, he said, “You may go,” his tone even more distant than before. “I shall not be good company this night.”

  I rose from the bed and dressed quickly, donning my cloak even in the summer heat. I moved to the door and looked back at him. He had not moved. “May God give you good night,” I said softly.

  “God or the devil shall see me through this night, and I know not which,” he said. I hesitated for a moment and simply slipped out the door to return to my room.

  Chapter 60

  CESARE

  I thought I would never sleep that night, but after I sent Maddalena away I fell into a sleep from which I did not wake until morning. Once again she had soothed me and calmed my mind when I needed it most.

  As I rose and dressed for the day ahead, I knew it would be much waiting: waiting for someone to ask what had become of Juan; waiting for someone to discover what had happened. I was not concerned anyone would know of my part—or rather, lack thereof. There were only two people who knew I had been there. One was dead and the other would not betray me.

  It was not until evening that I received the summons I had been expecting all day. I went to the pope’s apartments and was admitted immediately.

  “Cesare,” Father said, pacing in his private audience chamber. Burchard was present, as were a few servants. “I have heard something most disturbing.”

  I made sure my face was neutral. “What might that be, Holy Father?”

  “Two of the Duke of Gandia’s servants came to me,” he said. “They have not seen their master since yesterday afternoon. He never returned home last night and is nowhere to be found.”

  “I trust they’ve checked his usual … haunts?”

  “Yes, and he has not been seen at any of those establishments.” He looked questioningly at me. “Did you return to Rome with him from your mother’s villa? When was the last time you saw him?”

  “We did ride back into the city together, and at the Ponte Sant’ Angelo he said he had an appointment to keep and insisted on riding off alone,” I said. It was the truth, after all.

  “And you let him go off alone?”

  I spread my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Michelotto and I both tried to persuade him otherwise, and suggested he at least ride back to the Vatican with us to get a guard to accompany him. But he insisted he was late and must go alone. How was I to stop him?”

  “Hmph,” Father snorted. “At times I think that boy hasn’t any more sense than God gave a common rabbit in a field.”

  Finally, we agreed on something where Juan was concerned. “He will turn up,” I offered. “Likely he is ensconced at the house of some Roman lady and can’t be bothered to stir forth or send word to his household.”

  “Hmph,” Father said again. “No doubt you are right, though my understanding is that he has not needed to stray far from home in order to find such companionship.”

  It was the first time I’d heard him acknowledge the affair between Juan and Sancia. “My understanding is the same,” I allowed.

  “If you hear from him, let me know, won’t you?” he said. “I shall be sure to give him a good dressing-down when he returns, for worrying us so.”

  I wondered whether Father would be quite so unsettled if I disappeared for a day, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. “Of course, Holy Father,” I said, bowing. “Should I hear anything, you will be the first to know.”

  * * *

  When there was still no trace of Juan the next morning, Father sent men to every corner of Rome to search and inquire. Michelotto reported that the city was buzzing with news of the Duke of Gandia’s disappearance. Shops had been closed and the Orsini and Colonna had fortified their palaces in the city, fearing violence would break out.

  For the first time I pondered: who had arranged Juan’s death? Clearly he had been lured there so he might be assassinated, but who was behind it? The Orsini seemed likely. They had particular reason to hate our family after the military campaign that had been launched against them, and no doubt knew the best way to strike against Pope Alexander would be through his favorite son, who was certainly stupid enough to be led to his death. That the Orsini had the money, connections, and influence necessary to carry out such an assassination was not in doubt.

  His body would be found eventually, I was certain. And my part in the matter would remain unknown. While many would likely suspect me of my brother’s murder, and while they would not perhaps be entirely wrong, I had not sent the hired thugs after him. That culprit would be found, and attention would be turned away from me.

  I was a Borgia, and the pope’s son. What could truly be done to me?

  * * *

  On Friday afternoon, the members of the papal court were hastily summoned to the audience chamber. The pope’s agents had found a man who had seen something the night Juan had disappeared, and they were bringing him to the Vatican to make his report to the Holy Father in person.

  The man looked nervous as he was escorted in before the papal throne, and after he paid the pontiff the proper respects, Father waved a hand eagerly. “They tell us you have news of the Duke of Gandia, good sir. Pray, tell us your name and what you know.”

  “I am Giorgio Schiavi, Your Holiness,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I am a timber dealer, and many a night I keep watch on my wares as they are unloaded from the boats to prevent theft. That is how I came to be out on the Tiber on the night in question.”

  “And what did you see?” Father pressed.

  “At about the hour of two, I saw two men come out of an alley at the point of the river where r
efuse is thrown in. They looked around and retreated back down the alley. Two more men appeared, and when they did not see anyone, either, they signaled to their companions. A rider on a white horse came, with a body slung across the saddle behind him.”

  There were gasps from those assembled, and Father’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of the throne. When he did not speak, the man went on.

  “The horseman turned so the rump of his horse faced the river, and one of the men took the body by its hands, the other by its feet, and they flung it into the river. The man on the horse asked if the body had sunk, and they replied it had. Then saw what appeared to be the man’s cloak floating on the water. He asked what it was, and his companions said, ‘Sir, the cloak,’ and so the man on the horse threw some stones at the cloth to make it sink. Then they all retreated back up the alley the way they had come.”

  Father’s face had gone white as a slab of marble. He was struggling for words. “Good sir,” I asked, “why did you not report this incident to the authorities as soon as you witnessed it?”

  He bowed in my direction. “Your Eminence, in my life I have seen more than a hundred bodies thrown into the Tiber at that same spot, and no one had ever troubled themselves about any of them before.”

  “Thank you for bringing this information forward,” Father managed, his voice sounding slightly strangled. He rose and looked over at his captain of the guard. “Captain. See that the river is searched. I want the fisherman, all the tradespeople with boats to be out searching the Tiber for the Duke of Gandia. Tell them there shall be a reward for whoever may find something.”

  The captain bowed. “Right away, Your Holiness.” He left swiftly to carry out his order.

  “You are all dismissed,” Father said abruptly, and left the chamber with me on his heels.

  “You heard this man Schiavi,” I said, once we were safely in Father’s private rooms. “He sees bodies thrown into the Tiber all the time. We do not know that it was Juan.” Except it must be. Schiavi had seen four men, and one on horseback. I had seen four men setting upon Juan. No doubt the horseman had been waiting at another spot to help them dispose of the body and ensure the task was done. If I was right and the Orsini had ordered Juan’s murder, the man on horseback may well have been a member of that family.

  Father turned to me, haunted and grief-stricken, as though he had seen something he could never forget. “But if Juan is not dead in the river, then where is he, Cesare?” he pleaded. “If he was alive and well, he would surely know by now that I am tearing the city apart trying to find him.” He shuddered. “If this body in the Tiber is not Juan’s, I am afraid it is only a matter of time before his body turns up elsewhere. And I…”

  He trailed off and sank into a chair, burying his head in his hands. I sat beside him, in silence, ready to offer comfort, and all the while wondering if it would be better or worse if I told him the truth. At least then he would no longer need to wonder.

  * * *

  Before long Juan’s body was found. A fisherman pulled him up in his net, fully dressed, and with his purse containing thirty ducats still attached to his belt, making it clear that robbery had not been the motive for his murder. Whoever had hired these men for the deed wanted it known that Juan had not been a random target. A total of nine stab wounds were located on his body, from his head to his legs.

  His body was taken to the Castel Sant’ Angelo to be washed and dressed, and Father locked himself in his rooms and refused to see anyone. Not even me. Maybe especially not me.

  Chapter 61

  MADDALENA

  Madonna Lucrezia paced restlessly in her bedchamber, still dressed in her night things, though it was past noon. She had refused to get dressed, refused to leave her bedchamber, and refused to eat or drink. Early that morning she had received the news of her brother Juan’s death, and she was devastated.

  “Who would have killed him?” she cried as Donna Adriana tried to take her hand to soothe her. “And why? Who would have wanted to kill Juan?”

  For once, Lucrezia’s innocence grated on me instead of charming me. He was her brother and she loved him, I understood that, but did she truly not know what kind of man he was? He had no shortage of enemies in Rome, from political opponents of the Borgia family to men he had personally offended or had quarrel with. The only ones likely to miss the Duke of Gandia, aside from His Holiness, were in this palazzo.

  The door burst open to reveal Sancia of Aragon. Her eyes were red, and tears streaked down her face, but unlike Lucrezia she was at least dressed in a day gown. “Have you heard?” she wailed. “Oh, it is so awful!”

  Lucrezia nodded, her tears starting anew, and she opened her arms for her sister-in-law, who rushed into them. The two young women held each other, sobbing.

  Lucrezia did not approve of Juan and Sancia’s romance and worried over the harm it was causing to her brother Jofre. Yet in this moment of grief, she had put aside her judgment and was happy to comfort and be comforted by someone else who had loved him—however unworthy I thought him of that love.

  I would never say so aloud—not even to my confessor—but the Duke of Gandia had gotten what he deserved. God had finally seen fit to punish him for his sins, his evil, and though it might cause pain to a few, justice had been served. I had no doubt of that.

  My mother’s voice piped up: And what will you say when God decides to punish you for your sins? Lust, fornication, seducing a man of the Church …

  The difference between Juan Borgia and me is I have not sinned with evil in my heart, I argued. I have not hurt anyone, nor have I sought to. I had repeated this to myself so many times I was at last starting to believe it.

  Something more pressing was troubling me: who had been the hand to wield God’s justice unto the Duke of Gandia? Would any of us ever know? And what if the day came when I found that what I suspected was correct?

  I was no fool. By now everyone knew precisely upon what night he had been slain. And so a possible explanation for Cesare Borgia’s strange behavior on that night had been presented to me.

  Isabella sidled into the room after her mistress. She caught my eye and gave me a look, full of weight. She had something to tell me. Fortunately, Donna Adriana noticed the two of us. “Maddalena, Isabella, please go fetch some bread and broth. These ladies must eat something.”

  We curtsied and departed. Making toward the kitchens, Isabella pulled me down an empty hallway, looking around to make sure no one was near. “What is it?” I asked her.

  “I know you’ve been with Madonna Lucrezia all morning, but there is much talk in the streets, and among the servants, about the Duke of Gandia’s murder,” she said.

  “As I would expect,” I said. “Perhaps now they can stop gossiping about me.”

  Isabella gave me an exasperated look. “You do not know what they are saying.”

  “I can guess.”

  “Can you?” She arched an eyebrow. “I will tell you anyway. The opinion of many is that the Duke of Gandia was murdered on the order of his brother, Cardinal Valentino. That their hatred for each other, and the cardinal’s jealousy, drove him to have the duke killed, so the duke would no longer stand in the way of his ambitions.”

  “That … does not surprise me,” I admitted.

  “And?” she demanded. “Is it true?”

  “How would you expect me to know?” I asked. “Do you think that, if he indeed sent assassins after his brother, he would tell me?”

  “But you…” She drew back. “You believe that he did.”

  It was what I had been trying to avoid thinking all morning. Yet I could not do so any longer, not when Isabella was forcing me to confront the question.

  The fact remained that I was glad Juan Borgia was dead. I was glad I did not need to attend him when he came to visit his sister, that I need no longer become so rigid with tension in his presence that I felt I would crack into a thousand pieces. That I would never again need to look at his hands and remember them hold
ing me so I could not escape, feeling violated all over again as I remembered how he had touched me.

  God and His Son taught us we must forgive, but I was no divine being; far from it. I had never forgiven Juan Borgia and never would. Given the depth of my other sins, this one troubled me not at all.

  “And what if he did?” I replied, finally. Isabella’s jaw dropped open in horror. “I do not know if he had his brother killed or not, but it makes no difference to me.”

  “Maddalena,” Isabella said, her voice hushed with horror. “You cannot mean that.”

  “Can’t I? Did I never tell you, Isa, how I came to work at Santa Maria in Portico?”

  I told her the whole sorry tale, and this time when she looked on me with horror and shock, it was mixed with sympathy. “Oh, Maddalena,” she said. “I didn’t know. Why did you never tell me?”

  “I was afraid,” I confessed. “I knew you would not speak of it if I asked you not to, but I did not want word getting back to the duke that I was talking about him. I did not even want him to know I was here. So I said nothing. But now he is dead, and it matters not.” I wanted to spit on the marble floor. “And good riddance.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said, hugging me quickly. “Yes, I am glad that he is dead, too, after hearing this. But…” She looked at me pensively. “To kill one’s own brother is no small thing, even so. Does that not … scare you, if it is true?”

  Why did Isabella have such a knack for asking the questions I did not want to ask myself? “Cesare would never hurt me,” I said. “And however it happened, I am glad the Duke of Gandia is dead.”

  Chapter 62

  CESARE

  Even after Juan’s funeral procession, Father stayed locked away, refusing to eat or drink or see anyone. I had tried multiple times to gain admittance to his chambers and was turned away every time.