He made a sudden move, but something in my gaze, perhaps my undisguised contempt, stopped him from stepping over the threshold. Reaching into his jerkin, he removed a paper, folded over and stamped with a lump of wax. He lifted his arm as if to throw it at my feet. Murilla leapt off her stool to intercept it. My dwarf boldly blocked his passage, daring him to come any closer.
His mouth twisted. He handed the paper to her. Turning about, he left my rooms without another word. Murilla brought me his missive. I started to set it aside in disdain when Pantalisea ventured, “Perhaps my lady should read what he has to say.”
“Oh? Why would anything he says interest me?” But I broke the seal, anyway, and unfolded the page. He had written in a brief scrawl: When I summon you, you will come.
Crumpling it, I tossed it into the hearth. “As I supposed. It has no interest.”
HOLY WEEK CAME to an end with all its solemn magnificence, although a series of unexpected storms turned Rome into a quagmire. Together with Papa and the Vatican court, I took part in the release of a hundred white doves to commemorate the Resurrection and then I retired to my palazzo, fatigued by all the endless processions and Masses. I had not seen Giovanni again, to my relief. I was worried about Papa, who had suffered several fainting spells, aggravated no doubt by Juan’s furtive arrival after Easter Sunday, with only a few attendants and a bloody bandage swaddling his face. This time, there was no reception or triumphal arches; my brother was immediately sequestered in his Vatican apartments to be treated by Torella for the slash across his cheek. But I knew how dejected Papa must be, for as soon as his ceremonial obligations were over, he also retreated to his apartments to be examined by his doctors, who ordered him to remain abed until he recovered from his exhaustion.
More than a month passed before he sent me a summons. I felt immense relief as I walked through his doors to find him wrapped in a lynx-trimmed robe and seated on his great chair. He still looked tired but he had sparse color in his cheeks; I also realized our meeting was private, for he had only his trusted Perotto in attendance. The young man gave me a quick smile as I entered, as if to reassure me that my father’s indisposition had not been too serious.
“Come sit by me, farfallina,” Papa said. I hurried to his side, settling on a stool by his knee and reaching for his large, veined hand.
“Papa, are you feeling better?”
He let out a sigh. “In body, I am as well as any man of my years can expect. But my spirit these days is another matter.”
“Yes. I am sorry,” I murmured, knowing that this time he could not avoid the disappointment Juan had caused him, as he had so often avoided it in the past.
“Why should you be?” He cupped my chin. “It is not your fault that I’m obliged to sign a treaty with the Orsini that puts us again at the mercy of their intrigues. Nor is it your fault that Their Majesties of Spain complain of the dishonor caused by Pope Alexander the Sixth, who favors his son above all others, or that Savonarola cites our misfortunes as a sign that God has turned His wrath upon the Borgia.” His fingers trailed down my cheek. “These are my burdens to carry.”
“But you are not to blame for Juan’s failure,” I said, and as soon as I spoke, I regretted it. Though by now everyone in Italy, indeed in all of Europe, must have heard of Juan’s disastrous campaign, I did not want to rub salt into a smarting wound.
Papa’s hand went still on my face. I tensed, thinking he’d reprove me, but instead, he said, “You do not understand. You have no son. Or a husband, either, now that Giovanni has fled.”
“Fled?” I said in surprise. I had grown so used to avoiding contact with Giovanni, and he with me, that I never questioned his disappearances. “Where has he gone?”
Papa’s voice hardened. “It must indeed be a grave matter if the wife is left unawares. According to my informants, he rode for Pesaro shortly after Good Friday, arriving in his city with his horse near-dead under him and crying out foul accusations against us.”
I felt sick, but before I could summon my courage to ask, my father added, “He has shown himself unworthy of every honor I bestowed on him. I’ve written to demand an explanation for his unauthorized departure, but I don’t expect a reply. He’ll cower in Pesaro and seek the support of Milan, as he always has.” Papa paused, staring at me. “It seems your marriage is not a happy one.”
“No,” I admitted, averting my gaze. “It is not. We have nothing between us.”
Papa withdrew his hand, his gaze clouding over. “I am sorry for it. I’d hoped to see you settled as a wife and mother. You cannot know true joy until you hold a child of your own in your arms, seeing it through its first years and watching it grow, planning for its future. Such dreams—” His voice snagged. “Such dreams we have for those who will follow us.”
I knew he was thinking of Juan and watched him blink back tears as he directed his gaze to the marble hearth and the fire crackling in its depths. Then he said, “With matters as they now stand, we cannot delay further. We must decide what to do. I’ll not have you unhappy any longer. But before we decide, I would know if there’s truly nothing between you. You’ve been married nearly four years. Did he never…?”
He knew that Giovanni had not, as he himself had forbidden it. I had the disquieting sense that he was asking something different of me, probing for proof of any misdeeds. Had he heard unsavory gossip about Giovanni? I debated how much to reveal, for Giovanni had ignited a scandal with his departure. By abandoning Rome, he’d laid bare our estrangement for everyone to see. No doubt, there would be questions as to why I had not gone with him, why he’d felt such urgency to escape. I recalled the note he had left me, which now seemed like a threat. Yet he had not called for me, and I’d overheard Papa and Cesare discussing the annulment. Surely, any claim of mistreatment at my husband’s hands would only bolster their case before the Curia. But I also knew about Giovanni and Juan; with my brother recovering from his wound, I didn’t want Papa to be forced to admit that Juan was as guilty of abnormal sin as was my husband. Then I remembered that Sancia had heard me threaten Giovanni with his secret. Had she kept quiet or did Papa already know and was testing my willingness to tell him everything I knew?
“Well?” he said, with a hint of reproach. “Did he or did he not?”
I shook my head. “He never touched me.”
He let out a sigh, but I could not tell if he felt relieved or more troubled. “And would you welcome the chance to end your marriage to him? Speak plainly. I’ll not ask you again.”
“Yes, I would. We…we are incompatible.”
His chuckle was arid. “I understand it’s more complicated than that. Cesare seems to think Giovanni does not love women.” He went silent again, searching my face as if to uncover the very secret I stubbornly concealed. “Have you seen or heard anything of his unnatural desires?”
“He…” I swallowed. Again, I struggled against the admission seething inside me and had to clamp down on the urge to let it erupt. What good would it do to defame Giovanni now that our annulment was a given? He’d only throw back the accusation at Juan, who already was sunk in a mire of calumny, and the last thing Papa needed was another problem to resolve.
“I do not know, Papa. But he was never tender with me as a husband should be.”
“Yes. That, too, I know. I forbade it, and I heard he made quite a scene in your rooms not long ago because of it. A Sforza to his core, with no better manners than a peasant. Shall we see him disposed of?”
His request was so unexpected, it took me a few seconds to grasp its meaning. When I did, a knot filled my throat. “It can be arranged,” he added. “No one will ever know how it happened.”
Giovanni’s fate now rested in my hands, requiring only a word to see him pay for the humiliation he had inflicted. It unsettled me that, in some dark place inside me, I relished it. I relished knowing that I now had the power to bring about his demise.
“No.” Fighting back my impulse to make Giovanni disappear forever
, I took my father’s hand again. “I could not live with such a deed on my conscience.”
“It would not be on your conscience. I did not ask if you wished to dispose of him personally but rather if you want it done. It is not the same thing, as any villain in Rome can tell you.”
“No, I do not want him…” I glanced over my shoulder to the far wall, where I had seen Perotto. The shadows had thickened there. I could barely see him, unmoving in the corner.
“He will not tell.” Papa’s voice brought my gaze back to him. “Servants never tell, if they value their lives.” He lifted his chin. “Am I to understand you are firm in your decision?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, before I had the chance to reconsider. “I want an end to our marriage but no harm brought upon him.”
“I thought he had harmed you. He would only receive what he has given: And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. So ordains Deuteronomy.” My father went quiet, as if he too relished the thought of Giovanni’s death. Just as I thought I might have to plead for the very life of a man I detested, Papa pursed his lips.
“Very well. When I return from Ostia, I will petition the Curia for an annulment based on non-consummation. It won’t be easy. He is stubborn; he’ll fight to keep you and his honor. He will not explain himself but rather demand that I send you to him forthwith. Naturally, I shall refuse. If that Sforza wishes to make demands, he can come here to me and do so—on his knees.”
“He won’t,” I said, and I knew then that I had truly seen the last of Giovanni. If nothing else, the shame of the secret I harbored would guarantee it. “Honor means more to him. If you grant him dignity and do not drag his name into spectacle, he’ll do as you ask.”
Papa snorted. “An annulment based on impotency is a spectacle. And I thought you said you were incompatible. How can you be so certain of what he’ll do?”
“Because I know he has his pride. Proceed with discretion and he’ll oblige.”
To my relief, he grunted his agreement. My fears about Sancia were unfounded; she had kept my confidence. If my father had known everything, he would not have been so accommodating.
His expression turned distant, his mind already moving on to other matters. “I will see you upon my return,” he said, as I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I’ll only be gone a week. Cesare has already gone to prepare my arrival; Juan insists on accompanying me, though he is not yet fully healed. Should you need anything, my staff can send a courier. Unless you’d care to join us, too?”
“No, Papa.” I forced out a smile. “I have plenty to do, now that the rains are over. All that damp has ruined my garden, and there is a leak in the palazzo’s east wing.”
I left him in his chair, gazing into the fire. As I slipped out, Perotto eased from his post at the sideboard to prepare my father’s nightly ablutions. He smiled at me again. I nodded in return. I had no sense of foreboding, no inclination of impending disaster.
There was no warning that everything I trusted was about to shatter.
—
THE CORRIDORS WERE empty save for the ubiquitous papal guard standing vigil at doors and stray menials fulfilling tasks for their masters. Leaving Papa’s private quarters, I moved into the echoing Sala Reale, making my way to the Sistine, where the passageway to my palazzo was located. I had come alone to the Apostolic Palace, not knowing how long my father would wish to see me and not wishing to have Pantalisea or other women tarrying in the Vatican at night. Now I regretted it. My skirts swished over the cold marble floors, like disembodied whispers in this vast hall yawning before me, its vaulted ceiling and thick pillars submerged in darkness. The scent of old incense and mustiness tickled my nostrils; when I paused to sneeze, the sound ricocheted about the ancient hall like a fall of crumbling rock, startling me.
As the echoes subsided and I gathered my composure, I caught sight of movement by the archway leading into the Sistine. I paused. A large figure began to walk toward me, his cloak billowing. At first I felt no alarm, thinking him a guard or other servant, but as he neared, his bulk so imposing that he seemed to have dislodged from one of the columns, I started to back away. A cowl veiled his features; as a scream welled in my throat, he lifted a gloved hand to push back his cowl. I stared at the large reddish wound marring his right cheek, puckering the side of his mouth and distorting his once-handsome face. My brother had not only been injured; he was disfigured.
Trying to hide my shudder, I said, “Juan, what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.” His sardonic smile became a grimace on his scarred face. “I see that I have scared you. You look pale.”
“You caught me by surprise, is all. I was visiting with Papa. I thought you were…”
He tilted his head. “What? An assassin, come to kill you?”
“Don’t be a fool,” I retorted, and his smile vanished, his eyes taking on a harsh glitter. I realized that, after his recent fiasco, ridiculing him was the last thing I should do. “I only meant that I didn’t know you were already up from your sickbed. Papa said you were not yet healed.”
“I am not.” He motioned to his face. “And you have kept so far from me, you haven’t yet had the opportunity to behold my new visage.”
“That is hardly fair—” I began to say, but he was right. Circumstances had been such that we’d had no opportunity for contact, and I had done nothing to initiate it. Still, my own remorse that I’d not even inquired after him made me say, “How can I be faulted when you came back from Spain only to go to war shortly thereafter?”
“I suppose you can’t.”
As he spoke, a sudden shift in his expression, an unexpected vulnerability, made me ask, “Does it hurt?”
“It did. I thought I might go mad from the pain at first, but not as much now. It will leave this scar, I’m told, though Torella insists that if I apply his poultices every night as instructed, the mark may lessen in time. Perhaps I should grow a beard, like an old Jew.”
“Dr. Torella is skilled. You should heed his advice.”
He laughed. “What difference can a poultice make? Look at me: I am ruined.”
I did not know what to say. I could not tell if he referred to his physical appearance or his reputation; either way, he spoke the truth. With an awkward nod, I said, “It is getting late. My women are waiting for me. Perhaps we can visit when you return with Papa from Ostia?”
Juan nodded, stepping aside. As I began to move past him, I felt his touch, a tentative pressure on my arm. “Lucrezia.”
I glanced at him. Up close, I could see that his wound had been deep; it was healing, yes, but he must have taken the brunt of the blade and was correct in thinking no poultice would restore his beauty. Our virile Juan, apple of our father’s eye, would bear that visible mark of his humiliation for the rest of his days. I could only think that Cesare would find some justice in it.
“Those tiles and leather you requested,” he said. “I brought samples with me from Spain.”
“Oh.” I had completely forgotten. “I shall look at them when we next visit.”
He did not take his hand from my sleeve. “No.”
“No?” I echoed.
“I mean, yes, you can.” His smile was timid, almost nervous—something I had never seen in him before. “But as I must send for some belongings of mine from Castile this week—or rather my secretary will, for I’ll reside here longer than anticipated, because of this wound, and…Perhaps you could look at what I’ve brought now? If you like them, my secretary will place a full order for you. My wife will send whatever you need with my things.”
I felt a ripple of concern. “Now?”
“Why not? We could sup together in my rooms.” He removed his hand. “I’ll have my servants bring us cheese, bread, and ham. And wine—I brought Papa the best vintage from Jerez.”
Something made me hesitate. He no longer seemed like the brother I had known: the prodigal son protected by our father; the
privileged youth who overshadowed Cesare; the arrogant man who swooped me out of the piazza on the day Papa won the papacy and hacked a hireling to pieces outside Adriana’s palazzo. I had heard that war could change a man. Had it changed Juan? I thought it unlikely, yet all of a sudden I felt that refusing him would be cruel. Changed or not, he would never again be the man he had been. He could not erase his own blunders, and spending a few hours with him now was surely a small kindness I could afford to give him as his sister.
Still, I was uncomfortable and demurred. “As I said, it is late. My women will worry.”
“Then no supper,” he said. “Just come see the samples. It will only take a moment.” The imploring note in his voice had to be unintentional, but as I took in that hideous scar that would forever remind him he was not infallible, not only on his skin but also in his soul, something I had never felt for him stirred in me.
Pity. I pitied him. Juan had not been allowed to fail or triumph on his own terms. Everything he suffered was because too much had been expected of him. Unlike Cesare, he hadn’t been given a cross to bear, save for our father’s unrealistic belief that he could do no wrong.
“Very well,” I said, “but only to look at the samples. I cannot tarry any longer.”
“I understand.” He took me by the hand—like a brother should but he never had before—and brought me through the palace, up a back staircase into the levels above Papa’s apartments, where Cesare also kept a suite. Lanterns hung from braces on the walls, the exposed beams of the ceiling blackened by their smoke, for the roof was lower here. Coming before a door, Juan fumbled in his doublet.
“You keep it locked?” I asked in surprise.
“I have the samples and other things from Castile in here, as well as my armor and weapons.” He fitted the key in the lock. I was about to remark that surely he did not worry about thievery here, in our father’s own palace, when the door swung open onto his large chamber.
The room smelled of sour linen and soiled chamber pots, of burnt wax and embers in the hearth. Discarded clothing was scattered about the floor; my gaze fell at random upon crumpled hose, mismatched muddied boots, various sleeves with their points tangled, and cloaks flung on chairs. I had to smile. Even as a child, Juan had acted as if his possessions would store themselves, never picking up a single thing that fell from his person. When our mother rebuked him for his sloth, he always replied, “Isn’t that what servants are for?” Yet he evidently had not allowed a servant inside here in days. Was he so ashamed of his appearance, he didn’t even want a groom or page to see him?
The Vatican Princess Page 25