At the doorway, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza sniffed. He was my bridegroom’s cousin, a sleek man in red satin. His slim build and indifferent expression were deceptive; I had the sense he could be brutal and that his mild brown gaze took in more than he cared to reveal.
“And to what do we owe this pleasure?” I heard Giulia ask. She gave Laura back to the wet nurse, all smiles as she rose from the settle to hook her arm in Papa’s. “It’s been so long; I do trust Your Holiness can stay for supper. We’ll dine al fresco on the terrace. Our gardens are finished and so beautiful, aren’t they, Lucrezia?” She did not look at me as she spoke, her entire being focused on Papa. “You should see for yourself what your generosity has sown. And I have fresh melon and black-foot ham, imported especially for you from Spain.”
“Oh?” Papa moistened his lips. “A nice ham would be lovely. Alas,” he said, “I’m here to see Lucrezia. I promised to take a walk with her today.”
He had not promised anything of the sort, and Giulia knew it. She froze as if he’d just announced she was to be evicted. Before Giulia could speak, Cardinal Sforza said, “I’d be honored to accompany Donna Lucrezia. That way, Your Holiness needn’t forgo the ham. Or the lovely lady, of course,” he added, with a suave nod at Giulia.
“That sounds perfect.” Giulia tightened her grip on Papa’s sleeve. “Lucrezia understands. Don’t you, my dear?”
Again, she didn’t look at me. I found myself answering, “Yes, you must stay, Holiness. You haven’t had time to spend with—”
“Then it’s settled.” With a preemptive flip of her wrist, Giulia sent everyone except Perotto and me from the room. Looking bewildered, Papa let me peck his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you later,” he whispered, and Perotto and I followed the others into the corridor.
I said to Cardinal Sforza, “Thank you for your offer, Eminence, but I expect you have more-important business to attend to.”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I must insist. Please change into something fit for a short ride through the city, my lady. Perotto, please accompany Donna Lucrezia and see that she meets us in the courtyard in, shall we say, half an hour?” His smile did not touch his eyes. “His Holiness has prepared a special surprise for you.”
Excited, I ran up to my rooms to change. I knew I must bring Pantalisea with me, as Adriana had insisted that I not venture anywhere outside the palazzo without her. After I hastily dressed in a gown of light silk and a hooded cloak, we hurried into the cortile with Perotto.
The echo of hammering and shouting workmen issued from the proximity of the Apostolic Palace, where Papa had begun his refurbishments. Cardinal Sforza waited on horseback beside a covered litter and armed escort. Pantalisea glanced at Perotto as he assisted us into the litter. He averted his gaze, flushing to the roots of his tousled black hair.
“He likes you,” I teased as we settled on the cushions and the litter jerked forward. “And I think you like him, too. It’s not the first time I’ve seen you make eyes at each other.”
“He is comely.” Pantalisea peeped through the litter curtains. “Is he of good birth?”
“I believe so,” I said absently, though I had no idea. “Part those curtains more.” I too was eager to have a view, but not of Perotto, who rode on horseback beside us. I wanted to see Rome. I rarely had the chance to visit the city on my own, and less so since my father became its ruler.
Leaving the Vatican, we skirted the murky Tiber and took the road abutting the old city wall. Bell towers and church spires punctuated every turn. All of a sudden, cacophony surrounded us, as we entered the narrow stone-paved streets. Overhead, drying laundry and jutting balconies hung like a makeshift web. The lowing of livestock being driven to slaughter was a constant ululation against the chattering of goodwives on their door stoops, shrieking children at play, the imploration of vagabonds in corners, and calls of vendors offering everything from relics to tableware. Clerics and nobles on horseback, surrounded by bravos, cantered past with imperious disregard for whomever they trampled. Packs of feral dogs fought over discarded leavings, while hogs rooted in the gutters. The stench of waste and troughs of slimy water brewed a putrid miasma in the air. Everything was loud, filthy, and dangerous.
I adored it.
Rome was my city. My home.
Veering past the market on the west bank, we penetrated the maze of the Trastevere, where affluent merchants resided in fortified palazzos beside tanneries, wine shops, inns, and brothels. As the litter swayed while our bearers navigated the labyrinthine streets, Pantalisea said, “Why on earth are we coming here? Only Jews and thieves reside in this district.”
“And rich people,” I pointed out. We halted before one of the palazzos—a grim, crenellated structure with an imposing tower and brass-studded gates. As Perotto helped us out, Cardinal Sforza dismounted and the stout gates swung open to dislodge a swarm of pages, who took charge of the horses and litter while we proceeded inside.
A wisteria-hung loggia hugged the main cortile, in which pruned trees in ceramic pots held vigil over a fountain. I pushed my hood back, taking in the affluent neglect as well as the band of men loitering in the arcade. Several turned to stare; to my eye, they had the air of hired bravos, like those who surrounded Juan—an observation soon confirmed when one strolled over and bowed.
“Donna Lucrezia, benvingut.” He spoke in Catalan, surprising me. He was wiry, though ostentatiously dressed in typical mercenary fashion—his leather doublet caught at the waist with a looped belt dangling a dagger sheath and purse, the ostentatious lacework of his shirt exposed at wrist and neck, his boots sporting wide scalloped edges designed to conceal small weapons. He had strange eyes, neither blue nor gray but a subtle color in between, like dusk. Dark hair curled around his cap. He wasn’t handsome. The scar of a crude harelip marred him, twisting his mouth, but he had a certain desultory charm about him as he said, “I am Miguel de Corella, newly arrived from Valencia to serve my lord. You may call me Michelotto. I am at my lady’s service.”
He had switched to Italian, prompting Cardinal Sforza to say irritably, “And where is your lord, pray tell? Word of our arrival was sent in advance.”
“He awaits upstairs,” replied Michelotto, but as the cardinal started toward a nearby staircase, he added, “However, he wishes a moment in private with my lady. Refreshments have been readied in the hall, Your Eminence.” With a suavity that rivaled the cardinal’s, Michelotto stepped between Sforza and the stairs, his touch on my arm so light, I almost didn’t feel it.
I gave Pantalisea a reassuring smile, beckoning Perotto. “See that she’s not left alone,” I told him. He flushed; as I had thought, he had a soft spot for my maidservant.
With Michelotto behind me, I climbed to the second floor, where an upper gallery with painted eaves bordered the living quarters. It was evident that whoever resided here had only recently moved in. Packing straw littered the corridors, along with empty coffers and upended crates; it also must be someone of wealth, judging by the tapestries half-rolled over the walls of the sala and woven Turkish carpets on the tables and sideboards.
Michelotto poured claret from a silver flagon. As he handed me the goblet, I said, “May I ask to whom I owe this honor?”
His grimace of a smile tugged his scar. With a slight bow, he backed out of the room.
“Lucia.”
I spun about. I could hardly believe my eyes as Cesare walked toward me.
The rounded neckline of his shirt was low about his throat, his black velvet doublet fitted to his body; I saw at once that he had gained weight. He was also growing out his hair. Short dark-red curls were tousled about his head, like those of a Botticelli cherub.
“You’re back in Rome!” I exclaimed. “Why did you not tell me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.” He motioned about the room. “Do you like my new palazzo?”
“It needs some improvements,” I heard myself say, and I winced. It certainly wasn’t Santa Maria in Portico, as he must realize
. The tile floor was cracked in several places, and there were moisture stains in the corners of the ceiling.
Cesare chuckled. “It does. Are you disappointed?”
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s beautiful. But how long have you been here?”
“Almost a month—” He ducked as I swiped my hand at him. “Now, now.” He smiled. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but Papa insisted I keep it a secret until everything was arranged.”
“Arranged?” I stamped my foot. “Exactly what was so secret that I couldn’t know my own brother had a palazzo in Rome?” I glared at him, but my remonstrance faded when he lowered his head to my eye level and I caught sight of the small shorn circle on his scalp.
“You took your vows….” Inexplicably, sorrow overwhelmed me.
“Oh, none of that. I had to satisfy the requirements for assuming a new archbishopric and Papa’s cardinalship of Valencia. I must appear worthy to don the sacred hat.”
I blinked back tears. “Are you happy?”
He shrugged. “If happiness means an annual income of forty thousand ducats, I can hardly complain. And it bought me this”—he stretched out his arms—“a slightly used but otherwise glorious palazzo in the heart of Rome’s most colorful district, which I am free to do with as I please. She is something, isn’t she? I’m going to make her the pride of the city; every noble will beg for an invitation to Cesare Borgia’s house once I am done with her.”
“So, you’ve accepted it?” I could not help but doubt his indifference. I felt as I had when Juan came upon us in the gardens: I sensed that Cesare hid his true feelings in order to present the expected façade. “You agree to what Papa asks of you?”
“I hardly have a choice.” He moved to the decanter on the table, refilling my goblet and one for himself. “It is my fortune, Lucia. We cannot fight fortuna, only try to anticipate her whims and, if we’re lucky, bend her to our will.” His voice lowered. “I intend to be very lucky.”
That sounded more like him, though I couldn’t imagine how he might escape the Church. Sipping the claret, which went to my head, I watched him move about the semi-furnished room, trailing his fingers over his belongings. He loved beautiful objects; he had an unerring eye for them. I wanted to ask how he planned to endure this crown of thorns Papa had ordained for him, how he’d manage to stem his passion for the world. There was so much life in him, so much youth and vitality—he would not relish a life of toil in the Vatican, bickering and conniving with his fellow cardinals in the Curia. The vows were the least of it; churchmen had mistresses and sired children—our father’s example left no doubt about that—but yoking Cesare into submission was akin to forcing a magnificent stallion to plow a field like an ox.
I kept quiet. What good would it do to say it? He was right; he didn’t have a choice. None of us did. We were Borgias. We must sacrifice our needs for the good of the family.
“I have another surprise,” said Cesare, startling me from my thoughts. He paused at the window. The thick panes admitted dusty light but were otherwise so grimy I couldn’t see past them. I was about to rub the glass with my sleeve when he whispered, “Hush. We don’t want to scare our quarry,” and pressed an ingenious lever on the side of the window frame. The pane swung outward. The scent of damp greenery drifted up to me.
“You’ve a garden, too?” I said in delight. He put a finger to his lips, urging me to turn my attention outward. At first, my gaze was drawn to the Trastevere’s cluttered silhouette, the cloud-cobbled sky pierced by bell towers, turrets, and spires. Then I looked down, into the private garden abutting the outer wall, where unkempt hedgerows circled a birdbath and an armless Venus, her robes carved into stained marble folds.
And there, for the first time, I saw him pacing the pathway—an uncomfortable-looking man in a blue pleated cioppa that hung to mid-thigh, its outer sleeves folded back and tucked into his girdle, displaying the under-slashing of his doublet. His hose was fitted, though not as tightly as my brother’s. Or, rather, his legs were not well formed, his dyed-blue boots flopping about skinny calves. Perched on his brow was a ridiculous conical cap with a wide brim; from where I stood, much as I strained my eyes, I could not see his face, only his chestnut hair, cut bluntly at his shoulders. As he meandered around the birdbath, kicking pebbles, a sparrow flittered down to splash in the water. He jumped back, waving his hand to scare the bird away. A sudden tightness in my chest told me who he was moments before Cesare said in my ear: “Giovanni Sforza is afraid of spoiling his clothes. He had to borrow from his relatives to pay for them, you see. That gold collar about his neck is mine. He needed something gold to offset all that awful blue.”
I reeled back from the window. “Giovanni Sforza, my betrothed?”
Cesare nodded.
Pushing down on my skirts as if he might actually hear them rustle, I braved another glance. Giovanni had paused to stare up at the window. Even as I froze, I noted in relief that, at least from a distance, he did not appear visibly malformed or scarred, though his features remained shadowed by his cap.
He jerked his gaze away, toward the palazzo. Cardinal Sforza strode into view.
Stepping back again, I shut the windowpane.
Cesare regarded me curiously. “Well?”
I swallowed. “Why is he here?”
“To marry you, of course.” He paused. “You don’t like him.” Before I could respond, he struck his fist into his palm. “I knew it. The moment he arrived, I told Papa it was impossible. Not only is he the bastard of a mere condottiere of the Sforza blood—and a rather poor one at that—he doesn’t even reside in Milan. He’s a petty count, overlord of that fisherman city Pesaro, dependent on Milanese sufferance. He’s also too old, a widower already. You needn’t worry. We’ll find you someone else—with better legs and taste in clothes.”
I absorbed his tirade in silence before I ventured, “How old is he?”
“Twenty-eight. His first wife was sister to the marquis of Mantua; she died in childbed, as did his newborn brat. Even his seed is weak.”
I wondered what Giovanni Sforza, Count of Pesaro, might say about me. Surely, he too must question my suitability—an adolescent girl just out of the convent, who was not a Gonzaga, d’Este, or Medici, though my father did sit on the papal throne. I remembered what Papa had told me in my childhood, about how in Italy we’d always be viewed as Spanish-born foreigners.
“How much does he stand to gain?”
Cesare laughed coldly. “A fortune for him. But you needn’t worry,” he repeated. “Nothing has been promised that can’t be undone. I’ll tell Papa you found him unsuitable and—”
“Didn’t Cardinal Sforza cast the vote that won Papa the throne?” I glanced back to the window. “I don’t think he’ll want to hear that I found his cousin unsuitable.”
“Who cares what he wants? We’ve already given that viper more than enough. He has our former palazzo on the Corso and the vice-chancellorship, not to mention enough benefices and boys to populate a city-state. A pox on these Sforza.”
I met my brother’s ardent gaze, then reached for my goblet and drank down the rest of my wine. “Still,” I said. “Perhaps I ought to meet him first. That is why I was brought here, yes?”
Cesare’s eyes narrowed. “You are under no obligation. Papa asked only that you be allowed to see him. You may return to your palazzo without offending.”
“Oh? Has everyone gone blind?” I managed to laugh. “The cardinal knows I’m here, and I believe Giovanni himself just saw me. Come, Cesare.” I held out my hand. “I want you to be the first to present me to my future husband.”
—
THE CARDINAL AND Giovanni Sforza were standing by the Venus, talking in low voices. I couldn’t hear what they said but it must have been important, for they looked startled when Cesare and I emerged from the downstairs gallery.
The cardinal’s malleable face rearranged itself into its habitual mask. He glided forward. “Donna Lucrezia, enchanting of you to join us.�
�� He glanced at Cesare. “And you, my lord,” he said, his gaze slipping to my brother’s hand, which cupped my elbow. In a deft move, I unhooked myself, summoning a smile as the cardinal added, “Allow me to present my cousin Giovanni Sforza, Signore of Pesaro. He has been most eager to greet you.”
The cardinal motioned. Giovanni sidled forth, his narrow shoulders tense, as if to enhance the narrow breadth of his chest under the pleating of his outer garment.
“My lord, I am honored.” I lowered my eyes as I’d seen Giulia do sometimes with my father, particularly when she sought a favor. When he finally spoke, his voice quavered: “I too am honored to make your—I mean, my lady’s—acquaintance.”
Cesare snorted.
I looked up to see a flush creep over Giovanni’s face. He was rather ordinary-looking, but he had a cleft in his chin that offset his large nose and close-set brown eyes and seemed younger than I had expected, his earnest gaze reminding me a little of my brother Gioffre. With words now exchanged, albeit stilted ones, his tension seemed to ease. Still, he fidgeted with my brother’s gold necklace as if he was ill accustomed to its weight.
I was relieved. He did not appear to be anything like his manicured relative, Cardinal Sforza.
“Shall we walk?” I suggested. It was forward of me to ask, but I wanted to speak with him alone, without Cesare and the cardinal watching us like falcons.
Giovanni darted an inquiring look at the cardinal, who nodded and withdrew with Cesare to the gallery. My brother looked darkly over his shoulder as Giovanni and I started down the well-trodden path around the birdbath.
The crunching of pebbles under our heels was loud in my ears. At first, I thought he’d taken my suggestion literally and would bring me in a circle around the bath without uttering a word. But when I glanced at him, he appeared to be chewing at his lip. His reticence reassured me. After all, it wasn’t as if he had any more choice than I did over this match. Indeed, he had considerably less, as I doubted his family would allow him to declare me unsuitable.
“My lord did not expect to meet me today,” I finally said.
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