I recoiled from him. As he sneered with sordid intimacy, I said loudly, “Tiles from Seville, like those Papa has in his apartments, and calfskin from Toledo. I would be most grateful.”
“Tiles and leather,” said Juan. “Yes, I think I can manage.” He went to where Papa waited to escort him to his cortège. I caught sight of Djem among the onlookers, coiled with helpless rage. By Papa’s command and the terms of his exile in Rome, he must stay.
Cesare snarled, “What did that fool say to you?”
I kept my voice light, though I longed to wipe the trace of Juan’s lips from my cheek. “You heard me. He asked if I wanted anything from Spain.”
The carved doors of the Apostolic Palace swung open. A roar rose from the piazza, the populace lubricated on free wine piped from the conduits to pour into the fountains.
“Farewell, brother,” I said under my breath. “May we never meet again.”
AUTUMN BROUGHT TEMPESTS and portents. In Siena, a statue of the Virgin wept blood. In Florence, an ascetic Dominican friar named Savonarola clamored from his pulpit that a conqueror would redeem Italy without ever drawing his sword. In our own Eternal City, roiling clouds flung lightning into the streets, imploding steeples and striking the old Vatican basilica, sending part of its decrepit roof crashing in, further souring Papa’s mood. Now he had to seek the necessary funds to repair the roof, further delaying his apartment improvements.
“He has been despondent since Juan’s departure, beset by troubles,” Giulia sighed from where she reclined on a settle in the courtyard, while Adriana and I sat on chairs under the colonnade, sewing linens for the Convent of San Sisto, where I’d been educated. We were perspiring in our gowns. Storms might hurl hailstones and cave in rooftops, but the heat did not abate; the air was stagnant, muggy, rousing fears of plague. “Even the cardinals in the Curia were bold enough to challenge Rodrigo over Cesare’s elevation.”
She paused, to see if we were listening. With an edge in my voice, I said, “I hardly see what they’d have to challenge. Cesare has been cardinal of Valencia for over a year.”
Giulia shoved at her neckline, exposing her throat. “They challenged it,” she said, “because canon law forbids an illegitimate son from being raised to the scarlet. Only old Cardinal Costa seems satisfied by Rodrigo’s decree that Cesare is the son of Vannozza and her first husband, but the others want his elevation annulled. When he heard of their plans, His Holiness threatened to create so many new cardinals in their stead, all Italy would be beholden to him.” She laughed. “We should count ourselves fortunate the cardinals don’t know about Rodrigo’s other secret decree, made at Cesare’s insistence, stating that he is in fact a Borgia.”
I wanted to fling my embroidery at her, call down a fork of lightning to sear her where she lay. Apparently, so did Adriana, for she gave Giulia a withering look.
Giulia did not notice. “And as if that weren’t enough, word has come from Spain that Juan has yet to consummate his marriage. Can you believe it? His new wife has been pining for over a month now, while he spends his nights with his new friends, stoning cats and dogs for sport.”
At the mention of Juan, I clenched my teeth. Evidently he had not confided in Giulia before he left, for she appeared blissfully unaware of what I knew. “He behaves precisely as Cesare feared,” Giulia went on. “Already he has spent every ducat he brought and had to request access to the revenues of his duchy, which Queen Isabella refused. She sent Rodrigo a letter that put in no uncertain terms what she expects of Juan, should he wish to retain his estate.”
My embroidery hoop trembled in my hands as Adriana burst out, “Dio mio, do you ever listen to yourself? This constant pretension and knowledge of His Holiness’s private business—do you think it does us honor? Do you think we take pride in your utter disregard for your married state, let alone whatever remains of your reputation?”
The color drained from Giulia’s cheeks. I resisted a satisfied smile. She and Adriana had been at odds before, but never had Adriana been so forthright. Giulia struggled to find her voice. When she did, she could not curb her outrage. “How—how dare you say such vile things to me?”
“Someone must,” said Adriana. “It is only the truth.”
“It is not!” Giulia came angrily to her feet. Curled in the shade by the fountain, my Arancino stretched out a paw, unsheathing his claws. “I don’t care what anyone says. The rabble knows nothing of my sacred bond with His Holiness.”
“Oh?” Adriana eyed her. “I wager there is not a person in this city, highborn or low, who has not heard by now of this alleged sacred bond.”
Giulia swerved to me. I gritted my teeth. It was not yet the time to confront her, and I feared she might sense the change in me. Thus far she had not, but only because she did not think me capable of hiding anything. How long could my ploy last?
“And you—so demure and complacent,” she spat. “Do you condone these aspersions cast on me, after I’ve been like a sister to you? Or do you only pretend to care because your father ordered it, though you despise me because you want him all to yourself?”
I lifted my face to her. For the first time, I could not conceal my hatred. She must have seen it, she must have felt it, but she tossed her head as if it was of no account.
“Rodrigo loves me. I would have a care if I were you, for now that he’s seen Juan to Spain he has no choice but to answer Giovanni Sforza’s request to take you to Pesaro by the year’s end. It is his right as your husband,” she added, “which not even His Holiness can deny.”
I froze. Had Giulia sensed my secret? I had done everything I could think of to hide it. Pantalisea taught me how to stanch the blood using bundles of absorbent cloth, which we later burned in the brazier, and how to douse myself in scent to disguise the subtle odor. The first flow was often the strongest, Pantalisea assured, but it lessened with time. Besides the frightening quantity and stomach pangs, I had not experienced much discomfort, but lately I’d begun to feel a dull ache in my breasts and had seen their subtle growth, which I disguised under a slew of new gowns that sparked Giulia’s envy. She kept asking me why I needed so many new dresses. And now I waited, on my chair in one of those gowns, dreading the accusation that I was lying to everyone, including Papa, by concealing the fact that I had become a woman.
She snorted. “Or did you not know? The terms of your nuptial agreement stipulate your departure after a year of marriage, consummation or not.”
Despite my relief that she’d apparently not seen through my ruse, I was alarmed enough to turn to Adriana. With frigid calm, she said to Giulia, “That is as it should be. A wife must go wherever her husband bids—a fact you seem to have forgotten, seeing as you ignore your own husband, my son, with flagrant impunity.”
“As if that deformed son of yours could ever be a husband to me,” snarled Giulia, and she stomped off, shouting for her women.
Exhaling, I asked, “Is it true? Must Papa send me to Pesaro?”
Adriana grimaced. “How can we believe a word that comes out of her mouth? She might have a care herself, lest her own tongue send her to perdition. Come; let’s return to our task. The prioress expects these linens by tomorrow.”
Threading my needle, I tried to tell myself that Papa would never let Giovanni take me away. I debated, as I had since that terrible night, whether I should tell him what I knew and turn his wrath on Giulia. He would see her banished, if not stoned in the piazza; but much as I relished the temptation, I knew I had to wait. I wanted to be the one who brought about her ruin. I wanted to look into her eyes as she realized that I, Lucrezia Borgia, the girl she had disdained and ridiculed, had destroyed her.
Nevertheless, anxiety overcame me. If anyone knew my father’s mind, it was Giulia, who enjoyed his company daily, entertaining him at night and hearing his private thoughts. I set myself to uncovering the truth, ordering Pantalisea to eavesdrop in the galleries. I even sent a desperate note to Cesare, but he replied he’d not heard anything of the so
rt, escalating my concern that no one, save for Giulia, seemed to know what Papa intended to do with me.
Then word came that Papa wished to see me.
Donning a gown in his favorite shade of green, I went to the Vatican with Pantalisea. As we traversed the corridors, I saw unabashed admiration in the sidelong glances of young clerics bustling past me in their cassocks and even a slithering look from an elderly bishop or two. It was not how they’d regarded me before, with indulgence for a delightful child, but rather a furtive appraisal that warned me my secret was not as safe as I thought. Although they could not possibly know, in their eyes I saw the knowledge that I was indeed now a woman.
At the entrance to the papal apartments, I instructed Pantalisea to wait. The guards uncrossed their halberds, granting me passage into Papa’s private domain, where he lived behind multiple doors with locks that were changed every week, protected by men with sharp blades and by poison-tasters with sharper senses.
Bejeweled imagery glimmered under the cressets. Maestro Pinturicchio had resumed his work here, despite the lack of funds, or perhaps with the money Papa had obtained from taxing our Roman Jews to rescue their Spanish brethren and bring them into the ghetto, just as Cesare had foretold. Some of the maestro’s sketches were not yet finished, charcoal-drawn tableaux awaiting his paint. Yet as I moved farther into the papal sanctum, I saw that those walls and ceilings had been transformed with swirling color. I beheld the Christ swathed in crimson-lashed torment while his apostles grieved against a crushed lapis-lazuli sky and the black-clad Virgin and penitent-blue Magdalene held vigil before his stony tomb, their hands so lifelike, I might have reached out and grasped hold of them.
I slowed my pace. In the Sala dei Santi, I discovered myself as St. Catherine of Alexandria, golden fetters between my hands. Under a scarlet palanquin sat the Emperor Maximus, wearing Cesare’s face. Looking outward, in flowing a la Turca robes, was Juan. We were only three among a multitude, nearly lost amid disputing merchants, men on horseback, and frolicking cherubs, yet our trinity was all I saw. For a moment, our images seemed more real than our true selves, like reflections in a luminescent mirror.
Then I sensed someone come up behind me.
“So much for doing us honor,” Cesare said, motioning to Juan’s portrait. “We could have sent my Michelotto to Castile in his stead, and my rogue would have made a better showing.”
“Is that why we’ve been summoned?” I asked. “Because of Juan?”
“It is certainly why I was.” He pulled a slim leather cylinder from his sleeve. “Papa ordered me to write this letter, advising Juan to behave according to his rank.”
I smiled. “I should think Juan would rather hear advice from anyone but you.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I told Papa, but he’ll not be seen wagging his finger in Juan’s face. Still, it is not as if our brother needs to do much, providing he gets his wife with child and does not squander the duchy. Besides, he is gone now and Papa needs me. That is all I require.” He paused, sensing as he invariably did my unvoiced apprehension. “I have urged Papa to seek accord with Naples,” he added.
I felt a surge of panic. Was the clause in my nuptial treaty about to be used? Cesare had said non-consummation was grounds for an annulment. Had Papa chosen another husband for me? I found myself torn, fervently wanting to see the last of Giovanni, whose despicable acts with Juan and Giulia had erased any hope I might have had for harmony with him. After what I’d seen, I did not want him near me. But I did not want anyone else, either, especially not a prince of Naples.
“Do not worry,” Cesare said, reading my silence. “This is not about you. King Ferrante is dying. The moment he does, his heir, Prince Alfonso, will assume the throne—if he has our blessing. Naples is a papal fief; Alfonso needs our investiture. So does Charles of France, who has threatened that if we favor Alfonso’s claim over his, he will retaliate. I have suggested we marry Gioffre to Alfonso’s natural daughter, Princess Sancia. If we do, it may force Milan and France to reconsider their current stance against us.”
“Gioffre! But he is not yet twelve years old.”
“And you were thirteen,” said Cesare. “Papa should have married him first, rather than bind us to the Sforza.” He leaned to me. “I have another secret to share: I believe your husband spies on us for Milan. Oh, do not look so alarmed. He will have cause to regret it, have no fear, but for now he must not suspect we know. I need your help, Lucia.”
“My help?” I said warily. I did not like the sound of this. I had enough intrigue in my life, between holding my tongue over the scene in my husband’s bedchamber and my own secret.
He cupped my elbow, bringing me toward Papa’s room. “Giovanni is desperate to return to Pesaro. He claims the expense of living in Rome is ruining him, and he must attend to his court. Papa refuses to grant him leave. I want you to persuade Papa.”
“To let Giovanni go?” I said. “Gladly.”
“Not just Giovanni. I want you to persuade Papa to let you go with your husband. And I want you to request that la Farnese accompany you.” He held up a finger, curbing my immediate protest. “It will only be for a short while. With Giulia gone, Papa will no longer be distracted by her, and I can impress upon him my concerns. And Giovanni will feel more at liberty to betray us once he’s in Pesaro with you. He’ll have his Borgia wife at his side; he’ll think we trust him. Nothing Il Moro tells him must escape our notice. If Milan reaches an agreement with King Charles to bring in a French army, we need to know. Il Moro will no doubt call upon Giovanni to visit him, perhaps even exchange correspondence. You can be our eyes and ears there.”
“You mean your eyes and ears,” I said, even as my mouth went dry at the thought of leaving my home, my city, my family, to live in a strange place with a husband I detested almost as much as I did Giulia. Without fully realizing what I was about to do, I breathlessly told Cesare what I had seen. Once I was done, my urgent whispers echoing around us, I searched his expression for the reaction I expected, for the fury and revulsion that I had felt.
Instead, he said pensively, as if I’d just informed him of a brawl between cats, “Are you certain? The room was dark, was it not? Our imagination has ways of playing tricks on us.”
“Of course I am sure. Why would I make up such a horror?”
“Then it’s all the more reason to ask Papa to send Giulia with you.”
“But I just told you why I don’t want to go to Pesaro. They’ll be there together! They will humiliate me right under my nose.”
“We can only hope,” he said aridly. “Listen to me, Lucia. You mustn’t let emotion overcome your reason. This situation could serve us well. I assume you want your marriage annulled, yes? Well, so do I; I’ve never liked Giovanni, and now I like him even less. But we also must separate Papa from la Farnese, to deal with her as she deserves. If they are lovers and you bring her to Pesaro with you, she may fall into her own trap. She’ll drag Giovanni into it with her. Imagine the uproar when you inform Papa that not only did you find your husband spying against us for Milan but also bedding his beloved Farnese.”
I shuddered. “It’s disgusting. Why can’t we simply tell Papa? I saw them together; Djem knows, too, that vile Turk. Why must I travel all the way to Pesaro to prove it?”
“You could tell him. But I warn you, he may not believe you.” He met my eyes. “You know how much he loves her. He will hate to hear of her infidelity from you, his beloved farfallina. She will naturally deny it and may even make him think you’re being spiteful.”
“Spiteful! She would not dare. It is the truth! I will swear it before the Curia, if I must.”
“Calm yourself.” He increased his pressure on my elbow, drawing me close. “Yes, you saw them. Yes, Djem knows. But he, Giovanni, and Giulia will deny it. It will be your word against theirs. Are you so confident Papa will believe you? Think carefully,” he added, as I gnawed the inside of my lip. “Men are blind when it comes to love. Papa is no exception. He m
ust have time away from her, to regain his reason. Perhaps if we leave her and Giovanni to their own devices in Pesaro, they will do it again. If you can also secure proof that Giovanni is Il Moro’s spy, that alone will convince Papa. He’ll be so enraged by such a betrayal that he’ll believe anything else you tell him. You can destroy them both.”
While the very idea made my skin crawl, the subterfuge appealed. Perhaps Cesare was right. Perhaps this was my opportunity to assist my family and wreak vengeance on Giulia.
“How am I supposed to find this proof? I only happened upon them one time. I don’t think they’ve done it again, at least not since Juan left. And if I do catch them in Pesaro but have no proof of Giovanni’s spying, what then? How will Papa believe me?”
Cesare replied, “You must have another witness, such as Adriana. She too must go to Pesaro; if Giulia attends you, nothing could stop her from going. She’ll want to be the one overseeing your household; she will not trust such a task to Giulia. As to how you manage it, you needn’t pretend with me. I know you have your wiles. You are a woman now, are you not, despite what everyone thinks?”
My heart stopped for a moment. “You—you know?”
“For some time. You are clever, but no one sees you as I do. All these pretty new frocks and the way you carry yourself…” His smile deepened. “You hide it well, and you must keep hiding it, for it too serves our purpose. Let Giovanni continue to think you’re too young for the marriage bed. Let him turn all his attention to la Farnese. Bait the trap and you will snare them.”
I hesitated. He was now asking me to set in motion my own exodus, the very thing I feared. “I don’t think Papa will agree even if I ask,” I said. “Pesaro is too far away.”
“With a fast horse, I can be there in a day. Say whatever you must to convince him. Tell him the rumors of a French invasion frighten you. I know he’s not as oblivious as he feigns; he also fears an impending conflict. He’ll want you and Giulia out of harm’s way.” He reached to stroke my face. “He cannot refuse you. None of us can.”
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