De la Vega bowed. “Well said, Your Holiness, if I may say so.”
Hushed voices broke out again among those assembled, and it seemed certain that this rumor, at least, had been put to rest. It had been some time since Ascanio Sforza had been comfortable in the halls of the Vatican, but I had no doubt as to why my father wanted to lure him back: he needed Sforza on our side in the matter of Lucrezia’s divorce.
After the consistory, I followed Father into his personal chambers. “We know for certain it was not the Sforzas?” I asked, careful to avoid any hint that I knew more than he did.
Father snorted. “Hmph. ’Tis a foolish rumor, which is why I put it to rest. They would have nothing to gain from it—quite the opposite. Ascanio Sforza knows his way back to power lies in working at my side once again.”
“And no doubt such a return to Your Holiness’s good graces can be bought at the price of a divorce from Cardinal Sforza’s cousin,” I said.
“Precisely. With the Sforzas looked upon with much suspicion by the rest of Italy after the French debacle, Ascanio and Ludovico cannot afford to lose the support of the Holy See by standing behind their cousin. They will tell him to do whatever we ask and hope that we will thank them for it.”
“Indeed,” I said. Lucrezia would be divorced and remarried before a year was out. “Let us give your verbal olive branch time to reach Ascanio’s ears. Then I shall send him a friendly letter inviting him to meet with me to discuss the matter at hand.”
Father smiled and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “An excellent plan.” He drew back and his face fell slightly, became haggard and a decade older in a mere moment, as though he had forgotten his loss for a few seconds only to have it come crashing back down upon him anew. “This business must proceed apace, but … Christ’s wounds, Cesare, I cannot rest until I know who killed Juan. I shall not.”
* * *
Father sent agents out into the city again, questioning people, scouring for any trace of who may have been behind Juan’s assassination. As the days passed and nothing was found, I grew more and more uneasy. Surely someday soon, someone would trace the murder back to Jofre. Or someone would come forward who had seen me. Then what?
My confession to Maddalena had lifted some of the weight from my soul, but not all of it. Not when my father could never know the truth.
As I was returning to my rooms one night, my father’s chamberlain approached. “Your Eminence,” he said, bowing, “His Holiness has sent for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Let me wash up quickly, and I shall attend him.”
“With respect, Your Eminence, I think you should come now,” the man said. “He is in quite a state, pacing his rooms and muttering. It is like it was in the days … right after,” he finished uncomfortably.
I frowned. “Very well,” I said. “I shall come directly.”
I followed the chamberlain back to Father’s rooms and stepped into his private sitting room, closing the door behind me. He looked up, startled, at the sound of the door closing. “Cesare,” he said. “You are here.”
“Father,” I said, taking a few steps closer. “What is amiss? Your chamberlain told me you were in a right state. It is late. You should get some sleep.”
“I cannot,” he said. “I cannot sleep, damn it. Do you know what happens when I sleep?”
I waited.
“In my dreams, every night, I see Juan,” he said, tears filling his eyes. “I see him standing at the foot of my bed, silent and pale, stab wounds and blood all over his body, his face. He simply stands there and stares. He does not speak, but he does not need to. I know what he means to say, what he would say if he could. He cannot rest until I find his killers. He cannot rest until I have punished those responsible. And because he cannot rest, I cannot rest.”
“Father,” I said, gingerly taking his arm, “these are ravings. Nightmares and evil dreams, nothing more. You need to pray, and sleep, and then you shall not dream such things.”
He wrenched away from me. “No! You do not understand, Cesare.” He began to weep. “My son, my son, they took my son! How could anyone be so filled with malice?”
I said nothing.
“You will help me, Cesare, won’t you?” he demanded, ceasing his crying. “You will help me find those responsible. I know you and your brother were often at odds, but he must be avenged, surely you can see that?”
When I spoke, I spoke softly. “That would depend upon whom would be suffering your vengeance.”
He froze, facing me, a look of almost comical horror and disbelief on his face. “You … no,” he whispered. “You … could not have. Tell me it isn’t true, Cesare. Tell me what they are saying is wrong, is spiteful rumor, nothing more.”
I bowed my head.
“Did you kill your brother?” he suddenly shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“I am responsible for his death,” I said quietly, “but I did not kill him.”
“What … what the devil can that possibly mean?” he demanded, sounding as though the very words were strangling him. “You are responsible … you … who killed him, Cesare? Who? Damn you, tell me!”
“I am responsible,” I said again. “That is all you ever need to know. You wished to know, so you might have peace? Now you do.”
He took a sudden step back, all color draining from his face until it was as gray as ash. “You … you are protecting someone,” he whispered. “Who?”
I said nothing.
“Who was it, Cesare? Who are you protecting?”
Still I did not respond.
He sank wearily into one of his large chairs. “Never mind,” he said. “Never mind. I do not want to know.”
* * *
The next day, Father recalled all his agents who were scouring the streets for any mention of Juan or his killers. I do not know what he thought, who he believed was behind it all, but he never spoke of it again.
PART FIVE
CITY on FIRE
Rome and Florence, June–August 1497
Chapter 66
CESARE
Rome, June 1497
Though Father’s grief over Juan’s murder had not abated—and likely never would—there was no lack of pressing matters that needed attending to. Lucrezia’s divorce, for one—she had shut herself away in the convent of San Sisto in mourning for Juan, and Father and I had agreed she might be left alone for the time being. What better place, after all, to help establish her as the most virtuous of women as we negotiated an end to her marriage?
But that was not all. Girolamo Savonarola, the doomsday Dominican of Florence, had been a thorn in Father’s side nearly since he’d been elected pope. Father had excommunicated the little friar some months ago, for speaking against the Church and ignoring repeated summons to Rome to explain and defend his prophetic doctrine. Among one of the many prophecies attributed to him, besides the invasion of King Charles of France, whom he’d called “the scourge of God” sent to punish and reform Italy and the Church, was his prediction of the deaths of Lorenzo de’ Medici, King Ferrante of Naples, and Father’s predecessor Pope Innocent VIII. All had indeed died in not too short a span.
“Ridiculous,” Father had scoffed years before, early in his papacy, when word of this so-called prophecy had reached him. “It needed no divine vision to predict the deaths of those three. Ferrante and Innocent were old men, and Lorenzo was known to be in exceedingly poor health. Prophecy, indeed.”
I had refrained from pointing out Father had been older when he was made pope than Innocent had been when he’d died. Nevertheless, his point was well taken; Innocent had been rather sickly and unwell toward the end, so any such “prophecy” had a decent chance of success, divinely inspired or not.
Yet things with the friar had taken an interesting turn of late. Though he had, as far as anyone in the Holy See knew, obeyed the excommunication and ceased preaching his sermons, he was still a source of mighty power and influence in Floren
ce. He had followers at all levels of society, from the most impoverished to those within the circle of intellectuals and artists who had once congregated around the brilliant Lorenzo de’ Medici. Lorenzo’s eldest son, the ousted, dim-witted Piero, had been hanging about Rome, trying to gather support for an invasion to retake his home city and re-install himself as ruler—when he wasn’t drinking himself into a stupor or carousing with whores. Father had taken to implying such support, depending upon what his policies toward and needs of Florence were at any given moment, but thus far the time had not been right for us to back an actual uprising.
Following the expulsion of the Medici, Savonarola had turned Florence into something of a theocracy. Word had reached us in February of a so-called “Bonfire of the Vanities” the friar had held, in which Florentines were encouraged—or extorted, by some accounts—into bringing out their luxury items such as fine clothing, jewelry, artwork (especially that of a sensual nature), cards and dice, lavish furniture, secular books, and so forth, to cast into a massive bonfire in the city’s main piazza. It was said to have been a spectacle, with a large amount of “vanities” burned. Whether Savonarola’s hold on the population was entirely voluntary on the part of all Florentines was almost beside the point, for it was a strong hold either way.
However, he had broken his silence toward the Vatican and written the Holy Father an admittedly lovely letter of condolence upon the death of the Duke of Gandia. Rodrigo Borgia, man and father, was moved by the gesture. Pope Alexander VI, head of Christ’s Church on earth and consummate politician, was suspicious.
“What can he mean by this, truly?” Father said, having shown me the letter on the day it arrived. “He has spent hours’ worth of sermons preaching against me, against my mistresses and children, and he would console me on the death of my son? What does he hope to gain?”
Not for a second did either of us consider Savonarola was in earnest, that he was a true man of God capable of extending Christian sympathy even to those with whom he vehemently disagreed. No doubt this was how he presented himself to his legions of followers, but the stakes of the game he was playing were too high for that. There was power—a great deal of power—in play, and his every move had at least one layer of meaning beyond the obvious.
“Being in accord with you can only be to his benefit,” I said bluntly. “No doubt he means to start preaching again and reject the excommunication. He cannot maintain his power over the people of Florence otherwise.”
Father snorted. “If he hopes to accomplish all that with one simple letter, he is even more deluded than I thought.”
“Or this is just his opening salvo,” I replied. “With him, it is damnably difficult to say which.”
“It is at that. Damn it, but we need better eyes in Florence. We need better information about what he may be planning.” He looked at me speculatively. “I would send you, if I could spare you, but I need you to assist with arranging Lucrezia’s divorce and remarriage. And you would attract far too much attention once it was known that you were there, of a kind not conducive to gathering information.”
“I had already thought of going myself, albeit in disguise,” I said. “But you are right; that won’t do.”
“What of your man, Michelotto?”
I laughed humorlessly. “I need him here no less than you need me in Rome.”
“One of his men, then. I know he has a vast network of spies. Surely he—and you—can spare one.”
“Perhaps. With Florence in the state it’s in, I worry that there would be too much suspicion of a foreign man. Michelotto is trying to find a Florentine to recruit, but has had no luck so far.” In truth, I had been putting my mind to this puzzle for some time and had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. What type of person could appear in Florence, pose as a member of Savonarola’s faithful flock—the Piagnoni, or “wailers,” as they were called—and then disappear just as easily, all without attracting too much notice?
And then it came to me.
Chapter 67
MADDALENA
“I am sorry for my delay,” I said, breathless, as I arrived in Cesare’s rooms at the Vatican. “I had not expected you to summon me and was finishing some tasks.”
I had been in a secluded corner of the garden, working on a few embroidery designs for my own enjoyment while there was still light. I had not known I was wanted until I’d slipped back into the palazzo and found his messenger waiting.
He waved a hand. “No matter. You are here now.”
I cupped his face in my hands. Smiling, I stood on tiptoe and gave him a long kiss. It seemed I would never tire of the taste of him, of his mouth on mine, of the warmth that spread through me, knowing what was to come …
And now there was the intimacy that had grown between us since he had confessed his part in his brother’s death. I was more than a body to him. And he was more than that to me. Too much more, perhaps.
My face fell as he took a step back. “Not yet, carissima mia,” he said. “There is something I must ask of you first.”
I froze, taken aback by his use of the endearment—dearest one. So surprised was I that I was slow to react to the rest of his sentence. “What is it you must ask?” I said, a bit cautiously.
“There is a task I need you to undertake for me,” he said. “A very important task.” He sat me in a chair near the cold hearth. He sank into a nearby chair in turn and leaned toward me, his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes focused on mine in the dim light of the candles. “I would sooner not ask it of you, but there is no one else who can accomplish this in the way you can, and immediately. And no one whom I trust more.”
Our eyes met, acknowledging all the things between us of which we would never speak again. “Whatever it is, tell me, I pray you.”
He sighed, as if unsure how to begin. “I do not know how much you know of political matters, or of what is going on elsewhere in Italy.”
I laughed again at this. “As I am in the bed of a cardinal and employed in the house of the pope’s mistress, I know more about it than most.”
Such frank speech did not offend him; he merely smiled. “Forgive me; of course, you of all people would be well informed.” His expression grew serious again. “What do you know of Girolamo Savonarola, the Dominican friar of Florence?”
I knew some things of him, one of which was that he had preached on many occasions against Pope Alexander and the corruption of the Church. I needed to be careful in my answer. “He is considered by many to be a holy man, a prophet,” I answered. “He has indeed seemed to foretell several things that have come to pass. He has a great following in Florence, and much power and influence there.”
Cesare nodded. “Good. You know the salient points, then. He is Ferrarese by birth, a brilliant theologian, and currently holds the position of Prior of San Marco, a monastery once closely associated with the Medici family, who were its benefactors for many years.”
“I had heard that as well,” I said. “But I confess, I do not understand what this has to do with the task you have for me.”
A reluctant smile appeared on his sensual lips. “It has everything to do with that task, Maddalena mia. For I must ask you to go to Florence, to pose as a member of Savonarola’s loyal following, and pass on any and all information you learn to me.”
It was so silent for a moment that I fancied I could hear the crackling of flames on the candlewicks.
He watched me carefully, obviously wishing to see my reaction. “You … Your Eminence … Cesare … you cannot be in earnest,” I said once I found my voice.
“I am in deadly earnest.”
“Why … why me?” I asked. “I am no spy. I have no skills in such matters.” I looked hard at him. “Spying is what you are asking of me, is it not?”
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
“Surely there are others in your family’s employ who are much better suited to this task than I.”
“Not in this case,” he said. “A man w
ith a foreign accent appearing in Florence just now would be cause for much suspicion. All of Italy wishes to know what Savonarola may do next; every state, every ruler. Such a man would likely not be allowed to get too close to any of the friar’s followers, or to the friar himself. A woman, on the other hand…”
I shuddered at these words. “Surely you do not mean for me to…”
He rose quickly from his chair. “Good Christ, Maddalena. Of course not. Is that what you think of me? That I am the sort of man who would send his woman to bed another for information?”
His woman. I shook my head slightly to rid myself of the spell of those words. “It was the way you said it,” I said hastily. “Of course I do not think such of you.”
He knelt before my chair, clasping my hands in his. “I would kill any man who dared touch you,” he said, his eyes deadly serious. “I mean that.”
And I well knew that he was capable of murder. Yet I thrilled at his protective words.
“I believe you do,” I said. “What is it you would have me do?”
He rose to his feet and began pacing, all business. “I indeed phrased myself poorly, and I beg your pardon.” He gave a wolfish grin. “Seduction would do us no good in any case; the friar is said to have a horror of women in the carnal sense. What I meant to say is there are many women amongst Savonarola’s loyal following, women of all classes. They go to hear his sermons, and some have sought his private counsel, so I hear. You need only pose as a well-to-do widow from the countryside. If and when he starts preaching again, you will attend his sermons and report back what he is saying. Try to learn what you can of his plans; even if it is only gossip, I wish to hear it. Should you have opportunity for personal conversation with the friar, take it. Take it and suss out what you can of his motives, of what kind of man he truly is.
“Most importantly, I wish to know the mood in Florence. Whether most of the people are truly in Savonarola’s thrall, or secretly hoping for a return of the Medici family. The latter can be arranged easily enough if such is the case. But as of now, we do not have enough information to know how to proceed.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 33