The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “You should have prepared me,” I said. “When I asked you about my wedding night, you didn’t tell me any of this, though you must have known.”

  “I did not. It wasn’t yet decided. His Holiness had to wait until the final hour before inserting the clause. Had you bled before tonight, it would have gone differently. I am surprised by your tone, Lucrezia; I should think you would be pleased by His Holiness’s forethought.”

  “You still should have told me. You had this entire day to do so.” I was deliberately goading her, stung by her insufferable smugness. “What happens when I am declared of age? As you said, I’m thirteen. Surely I will start bleeding soon—”

  She held up a hand to silence me, looking past me to my women in the room. Candles flickered in the sconces; my bedcovers were turned down. Adriana must have been here. She had left the hall at some point during the festivities to prepare my chamber for my return.

  She had known I would not stay with Giovanni. Everyone had known. Except me.

  “When you do bleed, you must tell me at once.” Giulia leaned so close, her features blurred. “Only me and no one else, not even Adriana. Your father commands it.”

  “But what if it happens while Pantalisea attends me or one of my other—”

  “Since when do servants matter? If they talk, they’ll end up with their tongues cut out. Consider yourself fortunate that Rodrigo has such concern for your well-being. Other fathers do not.” She pushed me over the threshold. “It has been a long day. You must be tired.”

  I was exhausted, in fact. I sat in quiet, tension slowly falling away from me and leaving me limp as Murilla brushed out my hair and Pantalisea stored my things, putting the jewels in a casket, setting the sections of my gown on the press to ease the wrinkles, and folding the smaller articles—stockings, shoes, sleeves, and underlinens—into the cassones. Drained, I knelt before my icon of the Virgin to say my prayers, but there seemed to be no point. My most earnest prayer had been answered: For the time being, I’d been spared. I had no experience with which to measure what I’d been denied, but Giovanni must, having been married before. Yet he had not protested. And if he had not, surely I had no reason to.

  But despite my relief at having escaped the nuptial bed, I still resented that Giulia had been privy to the intrigue and not seen fit to inform me. It was yet another reminder to me of how she always seemed to know things she should not, forever meddling in my affairs.

  As Murilla made up her pallet on the floor, Pantalisea tucked me under the bedcovers. “Shall I stay?” she asked, sensing my disquiet; when I nodded, she climbed into bed.

  I cuddled against her breast as she caressed my hair, crooning a lullaby.

  As I drifted into sleep, I realized nothing had changed.

  I was still more the pope’s daughter than anyone’s wife—except that now I was determined to break Giulia’s tenacious hold over me.

  Although Giovanni took up residence in the vacant wing across the inner cortile, we saw each other infrequently. We met most often in the morning, once he emerged from his rooms with his attendants, fully dressed and with his fast broken. After exchanging minor pleasantries, he departed to go hunting or riding, if Papa did not require his presence for an official occasion.

  One such occasion was the arrival of a royal embassy from Spain. In the year of my father’s elevation, a Genovese navigator named Cristofero Colon had secured Queen Isabella’s patronage to sail across the Ocean Sea. He returned in triumph to announce his discovery of a new world. I’d heard about his momentous discovery but had paid it little mind, until Papa had us attend the Spanish embassy’s reception and the long-awaited delivery of Juan’s patent for the duchy of Gandia.

  As always, Spain was in dispute with Portugal, this time over the right to claim this uncharted world, to which the Portuguese king had hastened to send his own explorers. Now the Spanish ambassador conveyed Queen Isabella’s petition for papal compromise. Before everyone present, Papa scored the crude map the ambassador presented, allocating those lands west and south of Colon’s discovery to Spain and the remainder to whoever arrived first. The ambassador was evidently displeased, muttering something urgent to Papa, who cut him short.

  “Much as I esteem Their Catholic Majesties,” Papa declared, “I cannot grant them claim to what is not yet theirs,” and he retreated to his dais to officiate over the subsequent ceremony of Juan’s elevation to the dukedom.

  I had the sense that had it been in his purview, the ambassador would have denied Juan the patent. But it was not, and he could only watch in glowering disapproval as my brother signed the deed with a flourish of his quill, not even troubling to peruse it. I had to hide my smirk. Since childhood, Juan had avoided reading anything, pronouncing Cesare’s and my love of books “an effeminate foppery.” To my amusement, despite this occasion’s solemnity, he behaved no differently. He was in fact about to proclaim himself aloud as a grandee of Castile when the Spanish ambassador said tersely, “Her Majesty Queen Isabella would be delighted to welcome Don Juan Borgia, Duke of Gandia, to his estate in Castile. She has but one request.”

  Silence fell over the assembly. On his dais, Papa scowled. “Request? Have we not just granted Her Majesty entitlement to lands across the Ocean Sea?”

  “We are most grateful, Holiness,” replied the ambassador, and Cesare, sitting beside me, stiffened at the man’s unctuous tone. “However, Her Majesty has heard a disturbing rumor that Your Holiness intends to grant sanctuary to her exiled Jews. She is concerned, as these people defied her edict and took flight to seek refuge in your domain, though she has offered them restitution if they will only comply with her request.”

  “Which entails renouncing their faith,” growled Papa. “We are aware of Her Majesty’s edict, which proves her glorious veneration for our Holy Church. Yet it seems to me she needs reminding that she does not rule here. What I choose to do with the Jews in my domain is my own affair.”

  “They are heretics, damned for the murder of our Savior!” thundered the ambassador, with a startling passion that echoed throughout the sala. “Your Holiness is Christ’s appointed representative. Surely you cannot intend to allow them entry into the Eternal City.”

  “Have you seen them?” Cesare bolted to his feet in his scarlet robes. Everyone in the sala looked surprised at his unexpected incentive, including Papa, whose countenance darkened further.

  The ambassador sniffed. “Seen them?” he repeated, as if he’d heard wrong.

  “Yes,” said Cesare. “Have you seen them? Are you aware of their circumstances? If you were, you would know that Her Majesty has no cause for complaint. Rather, we are the ones who should complain, for she evicted them from Spain to toss them on our doorstep. I have visited their encampment on the Via Appia, Señor; you’ll not find a more wretched sight. They cluster in the fields like beasts, with barely enough to keep body and soul together. Some have been here nearly a year, trudging to Rome from every port that allowed them to disembark. We only seek to relieve their plight because they now suffer fever and their waste contaminates the waters that flow into Rome. Or does Her Majesty prefer that every Christian here perish of plague?”

  “I do not see how that can be Her Majesty’s concern,” replied the ambassador. “His Holiness has allowed these Jews in. Is he therefore not also responsible for their welfare?”

  Cesare took a furious step forward. “We’ve sent numerous envoys to Her Majesty on that account, as you well know, Señor, requesting that she cease clamoring and cede our right to assume charge of them. But Her Majesty insists that, regardless of her edict, the Jews of Spain remain her subjects and must abide by her dictates.”

  “Her Majesty is right,” replied the ambassador, with a lift of his pointed chin. “However, if you are so concerned, you need only send them back to us. We have a solution; it is called the Inquisition, which His Holiness’s predecessor authorized Her Majesty to implement.”

  Cesare gave a curt laugh. “Would she burn ever
y soul who does not do as she wishes?”

  Papa bellowed, “Enough!” and as Cesare froze, Papa directed his next words to the ambassador: “I fear His Eminence of Valencia is carried away by his compassion. Tell Her Majesty we shall consider her concerns.”

  The ambassador bowed. “Thank you, Your Holiness. In exchange for your consideration, Her Majesty wishes to extend her appreciation and offer the hand in marriage of Doña Maria Enríquez, cousin to her own husband, King Fernando, to His Grace of Gandia.”

  And while Juan’s face lit up at the prospect of gaining both the title and the bride, Cesare stared across the sala at our father, in horrified disbelief.

  —

  FOLLOWING THE CEREMONY, we retired to dine together as a family.

  As the first course was set before us, Cesare said, “We cannot let that worm of an ambassador dictate to us. Queen Isabella banished the Jews by her edict. Those who refused to convert were ordered to leave with whatever they could carry. She kept their wealth and put them to sea on leaking ships. They must now remain under our protection.”

  Seated at Papa’s right side, Juan glared. “Why do you care so much about those Hebrews? They breed like rats. We’ve too many in Rome as it is. If the queen says they must return to Spain, so be it. She has made me a grandee; we have expectations to fulfill. Defending Jews is not one of them.”

  Cesare turned to Papa. “Would you please tell my idiot brother that Rome cannot be held subject to Queen Isabella or any other temporal monarch?”

  Papa sat silent for a tense moment. Then he said, “I do not appreciate the queen’s interference. She’s too high-handed. This upheaval she has created in her realm by expelling her Jews will blacken everything she has achieved. But that worm of an ambassador, as you call him, is correct: My predecessor, Pope Innocent, may he rest in peace, granted her inquisitorial authority. And the Jews defied her. Moreover,” he added, lifting his voice to forestall Cesare, “this marriage she offers with the Enríquez girl will ensure that Juan has a familial connection to Isabella’s consort, King Fernando himself, whose mother was an Enríquez. It is imperative that we accommodate, much as it may grieve me. Isabella has made it a condition for Juan’s departure for Spain and access to his duchy revenues. I’ll not have my son living in Castile like a peasant.”

  “Everyone in Castile lives like a peasant,” retorted Cesare. He stabbed his knife into his smoked ham. “They’re all poor as beggars because of Their Majesties’ ten-year crusade against the Moors. You saw the Spanish ambassador; his shirt cuffs are frayed. Isabella is moved only by the need to replenish her treasury; that is why she makes obstacles to the duchy’s revenues. She’d gladly let us succor every Jew in Europe if it meant she needn’t surrender more than the title to Juan. She commands us against granting sanctuary only to remind us that we are beholden to Spain and that we share a common enemy in France, which conspires with Milan over Naples. She knows should she withdraw her support, we’ll be even more vulnerable to Milanese intrigues.”

  I saw that Cesare had struck a nerve. With a grimace, Papa thrust out his goblet. As Perotto refilled it, anger soured Papa’s expression. Florid veins crisscrossed his cheeks; not even Giulia, who sat at his left, dressed in costly silk and too many jewels, seemed able to curtail his temper, for when she leaned to murmur in his ear, he waved her aside. “You presume to advise me, the Holy Pontiff, on how I should manage my affairs?” he snapped at Cesare.

  “Only when what I advise is worth hearing,” said my brother.

  They stared across the table like combatants, the growing strain between them palpable. I had thought Cesare’s acceptance of his cardinal’s hat and lack of quarrel over Juan’s duchy signified that, for better or worse, he had accepted his lot, but I now realized that in truth he already balked at the tethers that bound him.

  “You should think before you speak,” said Papa. “Accord with Spain must be maintained. Queen Isabella demands it. More important, I demand it.” He quaffed his wine in a gulp, held out his goblet again. The page behind him hastened to pour from his flagon.

  I glanced warily at Giovanni. He was focused on his platter, silently chewing his food as though he heard and saw nothing. I was beginning to think he might be deaf.

  Then Cesare said with cold, deliberate precision, “Do as she demands and we will come to regret it. She’ll never honor her promises. I’d wager my own palazzo that Juan goes to Castile with our riches in his pocket and by month’s end he sends to us for more coin to pay off his debts. Her Majesty won’t allow him a single revenue from that duchy if she can help it.”

  “Oh, yes, brother,” said Juan, his fist closing over his dinner knife. “We are all aware of how little promises mean to you. By your own priestly vows, you promised to heed and obey, and I see no example of it here—though your Church benefices pay for the restorations on your precious palazzo, which I hear are not insignificant. How are your needs different from mine?”

  I could barely draw in a breath, watching Cesare look slowly at Juan and thinking of the chaos that would ensue should they start brawling here, in our father’s private apartments.

  “My needs are different,” said Cesare, “because what I do serves us all. My palazzo bears testament to our family’s prestige. I think of the Borgia first, rather than my own self.”

  Papa gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Indeed. We forget your altruism—while I myself have had to order temporary halt to my refurbishments in the Vatican to provide for your brother’s trip to Castile.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You seem to have forgotten who is pope or that the palazzo upon which you lavish so much of my money is not yours, should I have a mind to take it away.”

  Cesare clenched his jaw. “I meant no offense, but surely given the situation, all this effort expended on Juan would be better spent shoring up our defenses.” His voice rose; I could tell he was losing his control, as he had earlier in the sala with the ambassador, and I wanted to yank his sleeve in warning. To try to persuade Papa to reason would only enrage our father more, but Cesare was now beyond reason himself. “While we haggle with Isabella and this enterprise of Juan’s sucks up every last ducat in our treasury, our enemies conspire to overthrow us.”

  “Oh?” said Papa. His voice was dead calm. “Do enlighten us, my lord cardinal.”

  Again, Cesare failed to heed the fury simmering under Papa’s deceptive tone. “You know that since he lost the Holy See to you, Cardinal della Rovere has not ceased to plot. He says you are a usurper who stole the throne that rightfully belongs to him. At this very moment, he is on his way to Milan to persuade Il Moro to join his vendetta against us; my spy in the Milanese court sent urgent word that King Charles of France will also be invited. France and Spain are at odds over Naples; I’d not be surprised that as soon as Charles hears that we’ve conceded to Isabella, he’ll launch an invasion, abetted by Milan, aimed at seeing you deposed and the rest of us imprisoned or killed.” Cesare paused. “Is that enough enlightenment? Or shall I go on?”

  At the mention of Il Moro—his kin—Giovanni suddenly looked up. He had gone white. But before Giovanni could utter a word, Papa banged his hand hard on the table, rattling the cutlery.

  “Basta! How dare you lecture me? By God, haven’t I enough to contend with, without my own son questioning my judgment? You do indeed think too much of yourself, Cesare Borgia. You are not my better and I suggest you remember it. Remove yourself at once.”

  Juan gloated as Cesare shoved back from the table in disgust and strode from the chamber. I wanted to go after him. I even slid aside my half-finished plate to beg leave of my father, but then I saw he was trembling with rage and I did not dare.

  We finished our meal in silence. As soon as the servitors cleared our plates, Giovanni and Juan left together, having some inexplicable affinity for each other. Before Giulia could rise to escort me back to my palazzo, I excused myself and raced out into the gardens.

  I found Cesare pacing there, the citrus-scented firebrands cast
ing wavering light over his robes. He had his skullcap in his fist, his thicket of curls jumbled about his long, pale face.

  “It’s as though he’s lost his mind,” he said as I came up beside him, breathless from running through the corridors. “Queen Isabella demands it? That woman demands everything—and gives nothing in return. She is not our friend. She would rather see Juan anywhere than in her realm, and Papa knows it. She detests him for openly favoring his bastards, as she calls us, though she doesn’t dare say it aloud.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Not that Juan cares. Did you know he actually requested a retinue for Djem? He plans to bring that Turk with him to Castile. Imagine the look on the queen’s face when our brother steps off the boat with his infidel in tow.”

  “What about the Jews? Why do you care so much about them?” I was curious as to his response, for his fervor over them had taken me aback. He’d never mentioned any interest in Jews to me, though I knew they lived among us, segregated for the most part in their own districts, and that Papa’s personal physician was a Spanish converso. But ever since we’d been old enough to learn our catechism, we’d been told that we must shun the Jews, an unbaptized and heretic people who crucified our Savior and practiced pagan rituals.

  “I don’t care about the Jews,” Cesare said impatiently. “Did you hear anything I said at dinner? I only care about not acquiescing to Isabella. She exiled them. She cannot now dictate what happens to them. Before we know it, she’ll be telling us how to rule Rome, as well. She’ll make terms for everything and squeeze us dry in the process to gain benefices for her clergy.”

  “So, what will happen to them?” Despite myself, I was stirred by his description of the Jews’ plight. I did not like the thought of them huddled outside our city walls or the threat of disease they posed.