The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  “He must be made to eat, Your Eminence,” Burchard said to me at one point, peering owlishly up at me from his small height. “We all understand his grief, but he cannot put his health in jeopardy like this.”

  “I agree, Burchard, but what would you have me do? He will not see even me.”

  “If I may be so bold, Your Eminence must continue to try. If he will not listen to you, I do not know that he will listen to anyone.”

  Despite the circumstances, this pleased me—I had become known throughout the Curia for being the one man whose counsel the Holy Father sought. I had finally become indispensable, as I had always hoped to be.

  And if I were not yet, I soon would be.

  As another day passed and still he did not emerge, I began to wonder in earnest if I should tell him the truth. But I did not know with certainty who had laid the trap. All I would really be able to tell him was that I had watched my own brother be murdered and had done nothing to stop it. And what would be the point of that?

  Still I could not stop thinking about telling him, and I realized that for the first time in my life I felt the urgent need for confession and absolution. Yet this was a sin no one could absolve me of. I had known that when I had weighed my options in the alley and decided to walk away. I did not deserve absolution.

  Juan’s desperate cries—Brother, help me!—would echo in my ears until the day I went to my own grave.

  And yet if I had the choice to make again … God forgive me, I would not have chosen any differently.

  I went to see my sister, who was devastated. As she wept in my arms, I felt the guilt truly eat at me. But I also became angry that someone as useless and cruel as Juan should be mourned so. He had not been worthy of Lucrezia’s love, of our father’s love. Yet they wept for him all the same.

  I stayed with Lucrezia late into the night, wanting to comfort her as much as I was able. One thing was clear: she must never know what I had done.

  As I was leaving, I came upon Jofre returning home. He was drunk, swaying on his feet. He’d taken up with a band of young ruffians of late. Father had been most disapproving—why such behavior had been forgivable in Juan but not in Jofre I did not know—but recent events had distracted Father from the reprimand he’d been planning to deliver to the youngest Borgia. Jofre roamed the streets unchecked, for now.

  “Brother,” I said, steadying him. “You do not look well. Shall I help you to bed?”

  He wrenched away from me, stumbling back. “Don’t need your help,” he said sullenly.

  I shrugged. “Very well,” I said. “I bid you good night, then.”

  I turned to go, but he called out to me. “Wait!” he called. “I have to tell you something, Cesare,” he slurred. “God help me, I must tell someone.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You must promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Very well, I promise,” I said. Surely Jofre’s big confession would be no more than visiting some whores, and he did not wish Sancia to know. As if Sancia cared.

  He glanced around to make sure we were alone and said softly, “I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Juan. I had Juan killed. It was me.”

  I took a step back in surprise. “You … did what?”

  “I hired the assass-assassins,” he said, stumbling over the word. “I sent them after him. It was me.”

  “If this is a jest, it is a poor one.”

  “It is no jest,” he snapped petulantly, and began to giggle. “You all, none of you,” he said through his drunken laughter, “none of you see me as a true Borgia. I am not one of you, not really. You do not believe I could do it, do you? That I could have my own brother killed?”

  I did not believe it, did not want to believe it: that the boy Juan and I had wrestled with and taught to play chess, the boy Lucrezia had read stories to, would order the assassination of his own brother. But there was a hardness in Jofre’s gaze, a coldness I had never seen before. He was telling the truth.

  There had always been a rumor that Jofre was not a Borgia, that he was the perfectly legitimate son of our mother and her husband. But Father had never said so and had seen to it Jofre was raised just as we were. Yet it was plain he thought of Jofre only after Juan, Lucrezia, and me. I knew all too well how it felt to be treated second best, but perhaps not in the same way that Jofre knew it.

  What have we done to you? I wanted to scream at him. What did you let us do to you?

  What had ambition and lust for power done to us all?

  I would have paid and sent out the assassins myself, if only to keep Jofre’s hands clean.

  “But … why?” I asked, afraid I already knew.

  “He was fucking my wife,” Jofre slurred. “I love her, and he took her from me. She went to him willingly. I had to. I could not bear it.”

  Dear God. This, too, was my guilt to bear. For I had done the same as Juan, only I had done it first. Juan was dead for a sin I had committed. The only difference was Jofre had never known of my betrayal.

  I might as well have killed Juan twice over.

  God, but we were like a family of spiders, weaving our webs and entangling one another and devouring each other without a care.

  “So now,” Jofre was saying, not noticing the horror-stricken look on my face, “no one can say I am not a true Borgia. I have taken back what was mine, have I not? Is that not what Borgias do? We take what is ours.” He began to laugh hysterically, until he dissolved into tears. He peered up at me, eyes rimmed in red. “You will not tell, will you, Cesare?” he whispered. “You promised not to tell.”

  “I … I promise,” I said. It was the least I could do, was it not? Keeping Jofre’s secret, no matter how it weighed me down.

  He began to laugh once more. “It does not matter if you tell anyone, come to that,” he said. “Tell the world. Tell them all. Let everyone see that Jofre Borgia is not to be trifled with.”

  He did not resist as I helped him up to bed, giving him over to the care of his servants. He was snoring before I could leave his bedchamber. Who knew if, in the morning, he would even remember what he had told me. That he had confessed all.

  But I would. I would never forget.

  Before I could think better of it, I went downstairs and made my way to the kitchens. I did not know where Maddalena Moretti might be found at this hour, but someone there surely did.

  Yet as though she’d known I would come seek her—that I needed her—I entered the kitchen to find her standing beside a large wooden counter, speaking with another maid in low voices. Judging by the crumbs on the counter, the two women had been eating their evening meal.

  Her companion was facing the door, and as I stepped inside she caught sight of me, and her eyes widened. “Che?” I heard Maddalena ask, and the woman silently pointed toward me. Maddalena whirled around, surprise flitting across her face.

  “I need you,” I said, my voice ragged and cracked. “Come. Please.”

  She gave a quick nod and cast an apologetic glance at her friend. The other woman nodded in return. Maddalena hurriedly crossed the room and took my arm, leading me out of the kitchen and down into the secret tunnel.

  We did not speak a single word all the way back to my rooms. Once inside, I bolted the door and strode to the bed, intending to rip off my clothes and hers as well, so I could bury myself in her as quickly as possible and forget, if only for a while, the horrors I had learned that night. Yet I did not, could not. Instead I kept walking to the window, before turning and pacing as I always did when I was agitated. I could not stay still, not even for pleasurable purposes. I had not brought her there for sex. Not that night.

  Maddalena came farther into the room and stood beside the bed, calmly watching me pace. After a minute or two passed, she finally spoke. “What’s wrong, Cesare?”

  I started slightly at the sound of her lovely, melodious voice, though I had hardly forgotten she was in the room with me. “What’s wrong,” I repeated, con
tinuing my pacing. “What’s wrong.” I could feel her eyes closely watching my every movement. “I have committed a great many sins in my life,” I said at last, stopping and facing her. “Which you either know or can no doubt imagine. Yet never before have I truly felt as though I have imperiled my soul.”

  She considered this. “What is your sin, Cesare?” she asked softly.

  I resumed pacing. “You do not want to know.”

  “Did you kill your brother Juan?”

  The question came out quietly, but quickly, as if before she could think better of it. Yet when I stopped and looked at her, she met my eyes almost placidly, so that I thought once more what a painting of the Madonna she would make. Her gaze held no fear, no judgment. And I realized why I brought her here: that I might confess. For there was no one else on earth to whom I was willing or able to make this confession.

  I crossed the room and knelt before her, taking her hands in mine, and gazing up into her beautiful, serene face. “Yes,” I said. “I as good as killed him. And that is the truth.”

  And I told her all. I told her everything.

  Chapter 63

  MADDALENA

  I did not know what shocked me most: the truth of what had happened to Juan, Duke of Gandia; that Cesare told me all of it and then some; or that he knelt before me when he made his confession.

  He rose to his feet and continued pacing as he told me everything: his lifelong jealousy of and rivalry with his brother; his frustrated ambitions; his affair with Sancia; his discovery of Sancia and Juan’s betrayal; his witnessing Juan’s murder and turning away; and how his younger brother, Jofre, had been behind the deed.

  I do not know for how long he spoke, could not say how long the telling of the entire tale took. I did not move once, merely stayed where I was, holding on to one of the massive carved bedposts for support, watching and listening as he talked and paced. As I heard his confession.

  When he finished speaking, he turned to look out the window into the darkened courtyard below, one forearm braced against the stone wall, almost as though he could not bring himself to face me. He remained there, silent, spent, for a long time.

  I, too, was frozen. I did not know what to say. What was there to say to such a confession? My heart ached, and I could not entirely say why. “Cesare,” I whispered.

  He turned back to me, and his face bore an expression I had never seen upon it before, nor ever would again, and would never forget: as though he was afraid, deathly afraid. “Maddalena,” he said. “Would you … do you condemn me, for all these things I’ve done?”

  I wondered if it was truly me from whom he sought absolution. And yet I could see from the utter wreckage in his eyes that it mattered to him what I thought. It mattered desperately.

  If he sought absolution and forgiveness from me, he would have it. For I knew the truth, and I was still glad Juan Borgia was dead.

  “No,” I said. I drew a deep breath, trembling slightly. “I do not condemn you. I don’t. But it is you who must forgive yourself.” Tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered what Juan had tried to do to me. Justice had been served. My uncle would have reminded me that vengeance belonged to the Lord, but perhaps the Lord had used Cesare Borgia as his instrument. It seemed so to me, a woman who had been assaulted and need not live in fear of that man ever again. “I do not judge you, Cesare. I do not condemn you.”

  He crossed the room to me and took me in his arms, crushing me to him. He buried his face in my hair, and tears slid down my cheeks. I could not be certain that he was not weeping as well.

  I drew him to the bed and lay down beside him. Neither of us removed our clothing. He held me tightly to him, his arms wrapped around me and mine around him, and we did not move the whole night long.

  Chapter 64

  MADDALENA

  “Maddalena, come,” Lucrezia hissed when I stumbled into her room in the early dawn. The sun had scarcely commenced rising. “You must help me.”

  I blinked, trying to banish sleep from my eyes. Pantasilea had shaken me awake moments ago, saying Madonna Lucrezia needed my help at once. “And keep quiet, whatever you do,” she admonished in a whisper, casting her eyes to where Isabella slumbered on.

  Pantasilea had disappeared as I dressed and went to present myself to my mistress. “What do you need, Madonna Lucrezia?” I asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

  Lucrezia was pulling linens and gowns out of her wardrobe and out of drawers, tossing them onto the bed. “Help me pack these,” she said, gesturing to three trunks at the side of the room. Pantasilea was already packing some of Lucrezia’s jewels and placing them in one of the trunks.

  I rushed to obey, taking up the things she had flung onto the bed, and began folding them as neatly as I could. “Where are you going, Madonna? Do I need to send to the stables to—”

  “No,” she cut me off. “You are not to say a word. Pantasilea has already made arrangements for a litter. No one is to know I have gone until after I’ve left.”

  I looked up at her, my hands ceasing their folding. She was agitated, pacing the room—much like her brother did when he was distressed—opening and closing drawers without seeing what she was looking at. I was overstepping, but still I softly asked, “What is wrong, Madonna? Are you quite well?”

  She crossed the room to me, taking my hands in hers. “I am with child,” she whispered.

  I gasped. “No! You are? But…” I thought back; it had been over three months since her husband had fled. “Surely … is it your husband’s?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “How could it be? I have only just found out.”

  “Who…” I began, before realizing how inappropriate such a question was.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Honestly, Maddalena. I am surprised you do not know. In any case, I am taking myself off to the convent at San Sisto. I will remain there until the child is born.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I have to. I have no choice. If I can keep Father from finding out, all the better.”

  I did not think she was likely to keep a secret like this from her father—to say nothing of her brother—but I did not say so. “Where will you say you have gone, Madonna? What should I—and the other servants—say if we are asked?”

  “You may tell anyone who asks where I have gone. I will not be able to keep that a secret. Only say I am deep in mourning for Juan and I wished to seek solitude and seclusion.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “It is not untrue, at that.”

  “Did you wish me to accompany you, Madonna?” I asked, returning to folding her garments. Much as I loved Lucrezia, I prayed she would say no, for how was I to go to Cesare if I was shut away in a convent with her?

  “Thank you, but no. Only Pantasilea will accompany me,” she said. “The fewer people who know, the better.” She took my arm, forcing me to look at her. “You must not tell anyone what I have told you, Maddalena. For my sake and your own. It can be … dangerous in Rome to know too much.”

  This chilled me. Did she truly think I would betray her? Or someone might harm me, for knowing what I should not? Oh, if only she knew all the things that I knew and should not. “I will keep your secret, Madonna.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Good.” She released my arm and resumed her pacing. “Pantasilea, if you are done with the jewelry, come help me dress,” she said. “I shall not need too many jewels where I am going, after all.”

  Pantasilea did as she was told. I continued folding and packing the clothes Madonna Lucrezia had chosen, as well as some personal effects. The three trunks quickly filled up, and soon they were shut and ready for transport to the convent.

  Not two hours after Pantasilea had roused me from my bed, Lucrezia was gone.

  Chapter 65

  CESARE

  Father rose from the throne, his hands trembling as he took in those assembled in consistory. His face was pale and gaunt, and he had clearly lost weight in the few days he’d been shut up in
his rooms. Still, he stood as tall as ever, and his voice, as always, commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  “The Duke of Gandia is dead,” he announced, “and nothing could have given us greater sorrow, for we loved him above all things. Had we seven papacies, we would give them all to have the Duke alive once more.”

  He paused after this pronouncement. Shocked silence filled the room. “God has done this,” he continued, “perhaps to punish us for some sin, not because the duke deserved to be so cruelly killed. We do not know who murdered him and tossed him in the Tiber like so much trash. But we will find out. Rest assured, we will find out.”

  After that, he seated himself, and the business of the consistory continued on as usual, with petitions and audiences and other church business.

  Toward the end, the Spanish ambassador, Garcilaso de la Vega, approached the papal throne and bowed. “Your Holiness,” he asked, his voice ringing throughout the room, “can you put paid to the rumors that you blame the Sforza family for the murder of the Duke of Gandia? Specifically Giovanni Sforza and his cousin, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza?”

  There were whispers throughout the room at this question, but not any true surprise. I had heard murmurings that the Sforzas were suspected of the murder; certainly they had no more cause to love Juan than anyone else, and what with Lucrezia’s impending divorce—now fairly common knowledge—it was not altogether out of the question that they might want to strike at us.

  But according to the gossip Michelotto had brought me, the favored suspect in the streets and fine houses of Rome alike was me.

  “I would assure Your Excellency that we know the Sforza family to be innocent of such a crime, whatever the gossip might say,” Father responded without missing a beat. “Lord Sforza is not in Rome at present and has not been for some time. And God and all the saints together forbid that we should ever entertain such horrible suspicions of Cardinal Sforza. We have always looked upon him as a brother, and he shall always be welcome in our presence whenever he sees fit to come.”