The Borgia Confessions

by Alyssa Palombo

  I spread my hands in a gesture of doubt. “Has it? Several years of marriage, yet my sister has never conceived. It would seem Giovanni is … unable.”

  “Unable?” Ascanio asked incredulously. “His first wife died in childbirth, as you know well. It was the pope himself who decreed my cousin could not consummate the marriage for some months. And may I point out that he and his wife have been apart for a good deal of their marriage, partially because he was … unwelcome in Rome.”

  I chose to ignore the last bit. “Yet they dwelled together in Pesaro for some time,” I pointed out. “My sister is young and healthy, and of fine stock. If he was frequently exercising his husbandly privilege, why did she not fall with child?”

  “Does she say that he did not consummate the marriage?” Ascanio demanded. “I cannot believe it to be true.”

  “She will swear to it.”

  That did not quite answer the question, but it was all Ascanio needed to know.

  “My cousin will not agree to this,” Ascanio said, shaking his head. “This will be the equivalent of declaring himself impotent in front of all of Europe.”

  “I do not expect him to agree to it straight off,” I said equably. “After all, that is why you are here, Your Eminence. You—together with your esteemed brother Duke Ludovico—must persuade him that this course of action is best for all of you. For the House of Sforza.”

  With my last statement, I had summed up everything that was at play here but that neither of us would speak outright. The pope and the Curia were far more useful and valuable allies to the Sforzas than Pesaro. An alliance with us was worth the shame of a cousin who ruled an insignificant principality on the Adriatic coast.

  Cardinal Sforza rose. “Your Eminence has made your meaning plain,” he said. “I will relay this to my brother, and we shall convince our cousin Giovanni to see things our way.”

  I raised my wine glass to him. “Most wise of you. His Holiness will be most grateful and appreciative.”

  * * *

  With the Sforzas in line, things could finally move ahead. All that was needed now was to inform my sister of the happy news and get her out of that blasted convent.

  Chapter 70

  MADDALENA

  The week following Fra Savonarola’s return to the pulpit saw a hectic energy descend upon the city of Florence. I went to the market every morning and took to visiting local shops in different corners of the city—apothecaries, cloth merchants, butchers, any place I could find an excuse to visit—and spoke to shopkeepers and customers alike. I cultivated a few acquaintances that would always stop to speak to me in the street. One woman, Anna Landucci, wife of an apothecary, invited me to her home for lunch one day, and I gladly accepted.

  “What thought you of the friar’s sermon on Sunday?” she asked over the meal, leaning forward as she spoke. There was the fire of a zealot in her eyes. She and her husband were followers of the friar, but I was only beginning to see the true depth of her devotion. “I know you did not have the opportunity to hear him before this.”

  I took a bite of my vegetable soup as I considered how best to answer. “I found it … very moving,” I said honestly. “Very inspiring. I can well see how so many regard him with the highest of esteem.”

  “Indeed we do,” she said, clearly satisfied with my answer. “We are blessed, truly blessed, that he came to Florence to establish the city of God here.”

  My ears pricked up at this. “City of God?” I asked.

  Her eyes shone. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He seeks for the lives of all Florence’s citizens to be reformed, so we might live more in line with simple Christian values, as Christ himself taught. None of this pagan learning so popular here in recent years. He has even been advising the Signoria and Gonfaloniere on their laws, so we might become a more Godly city. And, of course, he seeks to discourage us from such luxury and sinful decadence as the pope and cardinals require.” She made a face of derision. “And once Florence is a true and Godly city again, Fra Savonarola shall reform the Church.” She leaned closer once more. “Did you know that Pope Alexander keeps a mistress?” she asked, in a near whisper. “And he is not the first! He not only has illegitimate children, but allows them to live with him in the Vatican! Can you imagine?”

  My face grew hot and I hoped it wasn’t visible to Anna. Technically only Cesare lived in the Vatican, but I wasn’t about to betray such knowledge. “I … I had heard rumors of such,” I said. “But I did not know how true they were. I got so little news, you see.”

  Anna nodded sagely. “Ah, yes.” She crossed herself quickly. “I must pray for the soul of the wicked pope, for Scripture teaches us that we must love our enemies. Yet I cannot help but hope he gets his just rewards when his time comes. But that is not for me to say; God will deal with him in his own time.”

  “Yes,” I managed to say. “No doubt.”

  As we continued our meal and our talk turned to other things, I was already composing the letter to Cesare in my mind.

  * * *

  Much of what Anna had told me was further verified by others. That the Signoria was consulting with Fra Savonarola on matters of government was proven to be true. Rodolfo had made friends with a young man whose father was a member of the Signoria, and he confirmed as much. This got out to Cesare as soon as I could write it, along with everything else.

  If all this was not plain enough, I soon experienced the little friar’s influence first hand.

  One day as I walked home from the market, I was accosted by a group of four boys, the oldest of whom was perhaps fourteen, while the youngest could not have been more than nine. All were dressed in robes of pure white.

  I had heard of these bands of boys; they were referred to as Savonarola’s “angels” and roamed the streets of Florence, chanting prayers and singing hymns, often knocking on doors and asking those within to give up their worldly vanities, that they might be sold so the money could be donated to the poor.

  Until then, I had only seen them at a harmless distance on occasion. They arrayed themselves in my path, and I stopped, smiling pleasantly. “Buon giorno,” I said in greeting.

  “Buon giorno, madam,” the oldest boy, clearly the leader, responded. “What are you doing out on the streets alone?”

  Puzzled—for it was morning, not some dangerous hour of night—I responded, “I have just been to market for my household.” I held up my basket as proof.

  “Women should not be out on the streets without a male escort,” the boy replied, frowning with displeasure.

  I began to feel uncomfortable. “I am a widow,” I said by way of explanation. “And I have no servants to do the marketing for me. I must do it myself.”

  The boy’s gaze fixed on the gold cross I wore at my neck. Cesare had given it to me; it was the sort of adornment a woman of my assumed station might wear. In truth, I had grown very attached to it and planned on keeping it when this was all over—my first and only gift from my lover.

  “If that is all,” I said stiffly, and made to move past them. But one of the other boys stepped into my path, blocking me.

  “That is a fine necklace you wear, madam,” the leader said. “Gold, is it?”

  “Yes,” I said shortly.

  “Surely you know the holy Fra Savonarola has spoken out against such vain adornments.”

  “It is a cross,” I protested. “To show my devotion to our Lord and His Son, Jesus Christ.”

  “The Lord Jesus cares only for your soul, not how you adorn yourself,” one of the other boys interjected. He held out a hand. “Give it to us, and free yourself from sin.”

  My hand reached up and clasped the cross in my palm. “It was a gift,” I said. “I am loathe to part with it.”

  “When you part with such vanities, you part with sin,” the leader said. “But you may yet turn that sin into virtue. Give it to us, and we shall sell it and see that the proceeds go to feed the poor.”

  The boys closed ranks around me, so I could not fl
ee. The oldest boy was taller than me, and the next oldest not much shorter. I swallowed hard.

  I reluctantly reached up and unclasped the gold cross and set it in the boy’s outstretched hand. Just like that, they melted from my path and continued up the street. I walked the rest of the way home on shaky legs.

  Chapter 71

  CESARE

  “He sends children into the streets to rip jewelry from women’s necks?” Father asked incredulously. “How can this be?”

  “It is true,” I said tightly. I had been enraged when reading Maddalena’s most recent report, describing how she had been accosted and essentially robbed by a gang of Savonarola’s minions. I wanted to ride to Florence and give the little monsters the thrashing they deserved, before turning the force of my wrath on their master, but that would not help matters at all, satisfying though it would be.

  No, Maddalena with her eyes and ears and sharp mind would give me all we needed to take down these heretic thugs. Maddalena, my angel of holy vengeance. “They spout nonsense about vanities and giving the money to the poor, and such things,” I added.

  Father snorted. “I wonder where the money really ends up.”

  “Likely not with the friar, or his monastery,” I said reluctantly. “Apparently it is known on the streets of Florence that he lives austerely, often fasting, and encourages his brother monks to do the same. He has removed all fine paintings and furniture from the monastery.”

  Father shook his head. “Whoever your man in Florence is, he is a wealth of information. We must make further use of his talents in the future.”

  I was silent. I had not told Father who I had sent to Florence, that it was a woman and a maid in his daughter’s house. I had simply not disillusioned him when he assumed it was one of Michelotto’s men. Yet Maddalena’s newfound talents reflected well on me in Father’s eyes—he had given me charge of this entire thing, more or less, and thanks to her I was being acquitted well—and that was what mattered.

  “Still,” he went on, “I am more concerned that the Signoria consults him on policy.”

  “As am I,” I said. “But they hold elections often in Florence. And if the Signoria can be advised by him, they can be advised against him, as well.”

  * * *

  A few days after my conversation with Ascanio Sforza, I went to the convent of San Sisto to speak to my sister.

  Seated at the grille in the convent’s visiting parlor, Lucrezia on the other side—apparently even a prince of the Church could not have a face-to-face conversation with a convent resident, even one merely boarding there—I told her what I had discussed with Cardinal Sforza, and how her husband would be convinced to agree to the divorce in short order.

  “You must return to Santa Maria in Portico,” I finished. “You’ll need to appear at a hearing, to swear that the marriage was never consummated, and we’ll be looking for a new husband for you. It is time to rejoin the world.”

  Lucrezia, who had been silent throughout much of my visit, now said quietly, “I can’t.”

  “Certainly you can. We can have some servants come and move your things back before the end of the day.”

  “I can’t,” she repeated. “Not yet.”

  I paused and studied my sister through the wrought iron grate between us. She looked tired, pale and drawn. “I know this has been a very difficult time for you,” I said gently. “You are mourning. Father is, too. It would do him a great deal of good to see you, in fact. But if you need more time alone with your grief, I’m sure another month can be—”

  “Another month will not be enough time.” Her voice was flat, emotionless, so unlike the vibrant, vivacious Lucrezia I knew and loved.

  “Why ever not?” I asked. “I know Juan’s death has affected you greatly, as well it should, but—”

  “This isn’t about Juan,” she cut me off. “I do mourn for him, but…”

  “But what? What is it?”

  She was silent.

  “Lucrezia? When do you think you will be able to return to Santa Maria in Portico?”

  “By my count, I can emerge no sooner than March. Perhaps a bit later.”

  “March?” I exploded. “But why? What nonsense is this, Crezia? What could possibly require you to spend the better part of a year locked away…” I trailed off in shock as I calculated how many months that was. “No,” I said under my breath. Then, louder, “No. Christ Almighty, Lucrezia, tell me it isn’t so.”

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said in that same lifeless voice. “And yes, it is true. You and Father needed to know at some point. It may as well be now.”

  I leapt up from my chair with such force that it toppled over, crashing to the stone floor and making Lucrezia jump on the other side of the grille. “God in Heaven, tell me that is not Giovanni Sforza’s child.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” she spat. “He ran away from me and fled back to Pesaro long before this child was conceived.”

  That was somewhat better, but still nothing short of a disaster. “Then whose?” I demanded. “Whose is it? Who dared defile you?”

  “No one defiled me,” she shot back. “I gave myself to him in love. And I—”

  “Unless he comes with a kingdom, he cannot marry you, whoever he is,” I told her.

  “I know that. Do you think I do not know that? He is not someone who can marry me. We loved each other, that is all. I do not expect you to understand. I know how you are with women, Cesare.”

  First Sancia, then Maddalena flashed through my head. I shook my head slightly. “I understand better than you could possibly know, Crezia.”

  She did not reply.

  “But that is neither here nor there,” I said. I kicked aside the chair and began pacing in front of the grille. “How could you be so foolish? You know we are trying to get your marriage annulled on the grounds of non-consummation, yes? I told you this long ago. And yet you have gotten yourself with child. So now you will have to go before a council of churchmen and swear yourself to be a virgin while you are carrying some bastard.” I laughed mirthlessly. “We shall be a laughingstock.”

  “You have no idea what it was like,” Lucrezia burst out, rage simmering in her voice. “Father married me off to a man twice my age, without giving me any say in the matter. I did not expect any. I did as I was bid; did as my family expected. I never loved Giovanni Sforza, never particularly even liked him, but I tried my best to be a good wife to him. I knew my duty, and I did it as best I could. Even so he despised me. He despised me without ever getting to know me. I went to his bed and endured the marriage act—I did, Cesare, and I will not let you erase that, even if I only ever speak it aloud to you—and hoped to please him, even though I hated doing it. But still he did not care for me. Then he abandoned me, shaming me before all of Italy, as if the rest was not enough. All I ever wanted was to know love and passion, so I found a man who gave me both. A man who enjoyed my company and loved me for who I am, not for my family name or for what I could do for him. And he showed me the marriage act could indeed be an act of love, and very pleasurable—something men need no one’s permission to discover for themselves, I notice. So no, Cesare. I will not allow you to shame me further for finding what little joy I could while you and Father prepare to shame me before all of Italy—again—and use me as a pawn in your political games—again. I am not sorry, and I do not regret any of it.”

  I am not often struck speechless, but my sister’s passionate monologue reduced me to just that. I touched the grate between us and, startled, she placed her fingers against mine.

  “I am sorry, little sister,” I said softly, the words conveying so much more than I could ever say. Yet I knew she heard all the apologies I could not make in so many words. “I am sorry. I love you. I will speak to Father.”

  Her face softened; her eyes were filling with tears. “Thank you, Cesare. I love you, too.”

  I drew away from the grille. “Stay here as long as you need. All will be well. I promis
e.”

  * * *

  To say Father was not best pleased when I brought him the news was an understatement. He ranted and raved and threw things, all while I stood calmly and endured his wrath, so that it might not be directed at my sister.

  “Lucrezia seemed unhappy, when I saw her,” I said, once he had calmed. “This whole mess—plus Juan’s death—has taken a great toll on her.”

  This caught Father’s attention. “She is not ill, is she?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I do not believe so, other than whatever ailments come with her … condition. It would do her good, and ease her anxiety, to hear from you.”

  “Hmph,” he said. “Hear from me she shall! A letter with a searing reprimand, I should think.”

  “What did you expect?” I asked him. “What did either of us expect? She is a young girl, head full of ideas of romance, and she was bound in marriage to that ogre Sforza. Of course she took some pleasure and happiness where she could find it. She is a Borgia, after all.”

  Father paused. “I suppose you are right,” he said grudgingly. “Damn it if this whole divorce mess has not gotten infinitely more complicated, but I suppose I cannot fault her for doing as we’ve all done at one time or another.”

  And so Lucrezia was forgiven. Father had never been able to be truly angry with her, and neither had I.

  Chapter 72

  MADDALENA

  As July wore on, two things happened.

  The first was elections were held in Florence, and a new Signoria and Gonfaloniere were elected. As I soon learned, the men who were newly taking office were of the faction that opposed Savonarola and his supporters. They were sick of being at odds with Rome and the pope over the mad friar and his prophecies. All of which I reported to Cesare.

  The second thing I reported was that plague had appeared in Florence.