I wavered, thinking of myself and Cesare, free to love as we willed, free to bear children together. But Jofre and I were married; my own father and a Borgia cardinal had witnessed the physical consummation. There could be no grounds for annulment.
I pressed my fingers firmly against Cesare’s lips to staunch the flow of his words. ‘The marriage act was witnessed and cannot be undone,’ I said. ‘But now is not the time to speak of the future: now is the time for you to take me to your bed.’
He accepted this. He rose and, facing me, his fingertips beneath mine, led me back into his bedchamber.
The shutters were closed, but the room glowed with the light of twenty candles, placed about the room on gold sconces. There was a half-finished mural on the wall, of a pagan theme, and on the bed, a coverlet of crimson velvet. Fur throws covered the floor, and on a beautifully carved bedside table rested a flagon of wine, and two golden goblets, inlaid with rubies. This was the bedchamber of a prince, not a priest.
I was prepared to throw myself down and hike up my skirts for a fleeting event, as I was accustomed to with Jofre. Yet as I neared the bed, Cesare arrested me with his voice.
‘May I see you, Sancha, as God made you?’
I removed my veil and turned to face him, surprised by this request. I was near trembling with desperation to consummate the affair; I saw the quiver in Cesare’s parted lips. The intensity in his eyes approached madness, yet in his tone, his manner, was delicate.
I lifted my chin, determined. ‘Only if you return the favour.’
In reply, he unfastened his priest’s robe and slipped it off, to reveal beneath a black tunic of alternating bands of black satin and velvet, and a sheathed dagger at his hip, and black leggings—the costume of a Roman gentleman. With swiftness and grace, he removed first slippers, then the tunic, revealing a high, well-muscled chest, with sparse, dark hairs at the hollow; he was lean, and his collarbone, hips and ribs showed prominently as he carefully pulled the leggings down over his sculpted thighs. When he finished, he rose and stood, humbly available for my scrutiny.
I stared in awe. I had never seen a fully naked man before. Even the pleasure-giving Onorato had never removed his tunic, and had only lowered his leggings as far as necessary during our dalliances. Jofre never removed his tunic, save for our wedding night, when custom required us to be naked, and I believe he removed his leggings completely only once. The closest I came to being unclad with Jofre were times such as this evening, when I had already removed my gown and wore only my shift. Even then, our relations took place under cover of clothing.
But here was Cesare, entirely revealed and glorious. I could not avoid staring at the place between his legs, where, emerging from a profusion of jet-black hair, his erect male organ pointed at me with a decidedly upward slant. It was larger than Jofre’s, and I began to move my hand toward it, wanting to touch it.
‘Not yet,’ Cesare whispered. Like a lady-in-waiting, he moved behind me, and with surprising skill, began untying my sleeves. I pulled them off, laughing at the sudden sense of freedom, then waited while he unlaced my bodice.
That done, I pulled my gown down and stepped out of it. Such a heavy weight to bear, clothes. I was in a hurry to pull my chemise over my head, but Cesare spoke again.
‘Stand in front of the candlelight—there.’ He tilted his head, dark eyes shining with admiration. ‘The effect is gossamer; like looking at an angel, through wisps of cloud.’
‘Bah!’ I pulled off the undergarment and flung it to the floor. ‘To the bed!’
‘No,’ he countered, as emphatically as an artist demanding a masterpiece be admired. ‘Look at you,’ he breathed. ‘One cannot question God’s wisdom.’
I smiled at that—in part, at his adoration, in part, out of my own vanity. I was still young then, and had never suckled a child; my breasts had been called perfect by Onorato, neither too large nor too small, with a firm, pleasing shape. I knew, too, that the curve of my hips was womanly, and that I was not too thin.
He stepped up behind me and began to unfasten my hair, done up in a single fat braid to keep it out of my way while sleeping. When it was free, I shook my head and let it fall unhindered to my waist; he drew his fingers through it once, twice, sighing, then moved again to stand in front of me and study me as a painter might assess his own work.
Once again, he surprised me. As I stood there for his regard, he walked up to me, knelt again with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, and kissed the dark mound of Venus between my legs. I started slightly—then started even more when he parted my nether lips with his thumbs and began to massage the region with his tongue.
Embarrassment warred with delight. I twitched, I shifted my weight from leg to leg, I tried, overwhelmed by the sensation at one point, to pull away from him, but he cupped his hands round my backside and held me fast.
‘Stop,’ I begged him, for I was swaying backward, near falling. In response, he half-lifted me and pressed me hard against the nearest wall. ‘Stop,’ I begged again, for the feeling was too intense to bear…
Only when I ceased begging and began moaning did he at last lift his face, wearing a self-satisfied, wicked little smile, and say, ‘Now to the bed.’
He did not, as I had hoped, continue licking; instead, he kissed me full on the lips, his beard and tongue covered with my scent. For the first time, I experienced the warmth of flesh pressed against flesh, from head to breast to sex to legs to toe, and shivered: how could this be sinful, and not divine?
We wrestled. I could not, as I had with Onorato, lie back and let myself be the object of attention, a passive creature to be won: I fought, in the midst of Cesare’s pleasuring me, to do the same for him. I craved to do the same for him. Some never-before tapped force within me rose, something at once bestial and holy. I felt consumed by flame—not bestowed by an external God, but arising from within, internal and intense, filling me and then bursting forth from the crown of my head, like an apostle at Pentecost, like one of the tapers flickering in the wall sconce near Cesare’s bed.
He would not enter me: he made me wait, made me demand, made me plead. Only when I had crossed over into madness did he at last oblige me, and I clung fast to him, legs and arms grasping him so tightly they ached, but I did not care; I had him now, and would permit no escape. He laughed slightly, softly, at the ferocity with which I held him, but there was no detachment in it. I could see reflected in his dark eyes the wildness in my own: we were lost to each other. I was no more an ordinary lover to him than he to me. We were possessed of a passion that not all men and women have the grace to experience in their lifetimes.
He rode me—or I him, I cannot tell, for we moved of a singular accord—with alternating savagery and delicacy. During the latter times, as he moved inside me slowly, his eyes narrowed, his breathing slow and tortured, I tried to thrash, to force him back to more brutal love-making, but he held me fast, pinning my arms above my head, whispering, ‘Patience, Princess…’
Once again, he drove me to begging—something I would do for no other man. I ached to be spent, to be done away with; but Cesare was determined to take me to the precipice of the greatest desperation I had ever known.
How much time passed since I had entered his chamber, I could not say. It might have been hours.
When I could bear no more, he tore himself away. This provoked the worst horror in me—such a thing could not be allowed. Yet he was stronger than I, and with that strength, gently applied, and calm words one might use to soothe an anxious beast, he coaxed me to lie back, and applied tongue and fingers to the delta between my legs.
I thought I had experienced pleasure before; I thought I had experienced passionate heat. But the sensation Cesare induced in me that night began slowly, building like an ember coaxed into raging flames. It seemed to begin outside myself, somewhere in the heavens above my head, and I felt it descend on me, an unspeakable, sacred force, inescapable, all-consuming. The room before me: the bed, my own naked ski
n, the walls and ceiling, the flickering light—even Cesare’s face over mine, his eyes wide, burning with anticipation—disappeared.
I shall certainly go to Hell for saying it, but there seemed nothing in all the world but God, but bliss, whatever one must call the extreme sensation where all boundaries between self and the world disappear. Even I was gone…
Yet despite my absence from reality, I sensed union with Cesare again. He had mounted me in the midst of my ecstasy, merging with it, riding it until our voices joined.
I was quite used to repressing my moans of delight in the past, to reducing them to whispers, lest others hear. This experience tore from me a scream, one I was quite helpless to control. But it was not only my voice; Cesare joined in. Yet I could not have differentiated one of us from the other; the two of us made one sound—which surely was heard in every corner of the papal apartments.
We lay for a time on the bed. Neither of us spoke; I certainly could not, for my throat was rendered quite hoarse, and I was exhausted, my long hair stuck to my arms, my back, my breasts, with perspiration. At long last, Cesare turned to me and smoothed tendrils back from my forehead and cheek.
‘I have never had such an incredible experience with a woman. I think I have never known love before now, Sancha.’
I coughed, then managed to whisper, ‘My heart is yours, Cesare. And we are both damned for it.’
He rose to fetch me wine. A sudden playfulness overtook me—the same sort of silliness that had come over me in Saint Peter’s—perhaps because of the sense of freedom provoked by ecstatic release. I would not, I told myself merrily, be deprived of the finest lover I had ever known, at least not so soon after being conquered by him. As he attempted to rise from the bed, I wrapped both my arms about his thigh.
He laughed—dignified Cesare, always in control, snickered in helpless surprise at the unexpectedness of the act. Nonetheless, he continued onward, struggling toward the carafe of wine, certainly thinking that I would not persist in such childlike behaviour.
Chuckling, I strengthened my grasp; he, in turn, would not be dissuaded from his task.
I held on even as he rose, clinging to his leg despite the fact that doing so pulled me from the bed onto the fur-carpeted floor. He gasped with hilarity and astonishment at the fact, and took one step, two; all the while, I held on firmly, forcing him to drag me along.
At last, he yielded, collapsing on top of me, and the two of us giggled on the floor like children.
When I returned to my own bed, I lay for a time listening to Esmeralda’s soft wheezing breath, and stared up at the darkness. At first I dwelled in drowsy euphoria, reliving the moments of bliss with Cesare…and then guilt returned once more, bringing me to full, agitated consciousness.
I was, like my forebears, far too capable of cruelty and deception—especially when away from my brother’s good and gentle influence. Only two days among the Borgias, and I was already an adulteress. What was to become of me, if I spent the rest of my life in Rome?
Summer 1496
XV
As pleasant as the month of May was in Rome, June turned warm, and July even warmer; August was intolerably hot compared to the temperate coastal cities I had lived in. It was the custom for His Holiness and his family, as well as everyone else of wealth, to retreat to cooler climes for the month. But this particular August marked the return of the Pope’s son, Juan, from the court of Spain—and so, despite the heat, the occasion was marked grandly, with feasting and parties.
Despite my fears, I suffered no further advances from Alexander; I could not help thinking that Cesare had somehow convinced his father to let me be. But Cesare would say nothing to me of the situation; he only advised that I avoid, whenever possible, sitting next to His Holiness at festive occasions when there was much wine, that I behave and dress modestly around him, that when I sensed Alexander was becoming drunk, I distance myself from him.
All these things I did. However, I still sat across from Lucrezia, each of us on our velvet cushions on either side of the papal throne, at many of His Holiness’ audiences. I believe Alexander liked the pair of us, one dark, one golden, as fitting feminine adornments to his throne.
Lucrezia was, as Cesare had said, her father’s most respected advisor; often, she would interrupt a petitioner to whisper advice in Alexander’s ear. She had her own little throne where she heard petitions as well. I listened to her a few times, and was impressed by her intelligence. Both she and her father were skilled diplomats; regardless of how Rodrigo Borgia had come to the papacy, he fulfilled its duties admirably.
My affair with Cesare continued, always with our passion consummated in his private chambers. I brimmed with happiness; it was difficult to hide such joy from others, to keep from showing Cesare affection in public. He, meanwhile, kept speaking of how he intended to leave the priesthood.
One night, after we had collapsed, exhausted after lovemaking, he turned towards me and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. ‘I want to marry you, Sancha.’
Such words thrilled me; yet I could not deny the facts. ‘You are a cardinal,’ I said. ‘And I am already married.’
He touched my cheek. ‘I want to give you children. I would let you go to Naples—I know how you miss it. We could live there, if it would make you happy. I would only need to return to Rome a few times a year.’
I was near weeping; Cesare had read my heart and mind. He was right—nothing would make me happier. But such a thing seemed, at the time, quite impossible. And so I silenced him each time he broached the subject, for I did not want to nurse false hopes; nor did I want rumours to hurt Jofre. Cesare soon learned not to press. But it was clear that his frustration with his role as a cardinal was growing.
On the tenth of August, Juan, the Pope’s second eldest son, at last arrived in Rome, leaving behind a pregnant wife and small son in Spain. After the French invasion, Alexander had often spoken of his longing to have all his children live with him, since he claimed to have become increasingly aware of his own mortality, and the fragility of life. It was for this ostensible reason Jofre and I had been summoned to Rome—and now, with Juan’s appearance, Alexander’s wish was finally accomplished. All four of his children were home. It struck me as odd that Juan did not bring his family with him, though none of the Borgias seemed to think this remarkable.
There was another reason for his arrival: Juan, Duke of Gandia, was also Captain-General of the Church, commander of the papal army, and his father had called him home to punish the House of Orsini, who had supported the French during the war. Juan’s army was to attack and subdue every rebellious noble house in Rome, to make of each an example of Borgia vengeance. So long as Alexander was Pope, there would be peace in the Papal States.
Every cardinal in the city came out to greet the young Duke of Gandia as he arrived on horseback—on a steed bedecked with gold and silver bells. Yet Juan was not to be outdone by his mount: his red velvet cap and brown velvet tunic were heavy with gems and pearls; no doubt, beneath all the finery, he was melting in the August sun. I watched from a window in the Palazzo Santa Maria as Cesare met his brother and led him to his new home, the Apostolic Palace.
That night was cause for a great celebration—which required my attendance, along with the rest of the family. I dressed demurely, in black; Esmeralda was quick to mention all the rumours she had heard, that Juan was a scoundrel of the worst sort. Perhaps she feared I would ignore her warning concerning him, just as I had refused to listen to any of her unkind remarks about Cesare.
The feast came first at a private supper, with the papal family and related cardinals. I had learned to seat myself discreetly farther away from the Pope, that I might not summon unwanted attention; that night, he was flanked by Juan and, as always, Lucrezia. As for myself, I sat between Jofre and Cesare.
How shall I best describe Juan? A shooting star with a charm that dazzled, then faded as the man’s true personality revealed itself. He entered the room lat
e—thinking nothing of making His Holiness wait, and Alexander said not a word about the inconvenience, whereas anyone else’s tardiness would be cause for insult.
Juan entered blazing: eyes bright with mirth (yet sly), smile wide (yet arrogant), laughter ringing through the halls. His lips were thick and crude, like his father’s, his hair neither light nor truly dark; he was clean-shaven, and neither as handsome as Cesare nor as plain as Lucrezia. He had with him a friend—a tall, dark-skinned Moor (I later learned this was Djem, the Turk, a royal hostage in the papal court)—and the two of them were similarly dressed in silk turbans, and bright red-and-yellow striped satin robes. Around his neck he wore gold necklaces, so many of such weight that I did not see how he held himself upright.
In the centre of Juan’s turban was a ruby twice the size of an eye, from which sprang a peacock feather.
Alexander trembled with delight, as though he had just been given a new virgin to deflower. ‘My child!’ he sighed. ‘My dearest, dearest son! Oh, how dark the days have been without you!’ And he clasped Juan to him, overwhelmed by happiness.
Juan pressed his cheek to the old man’s—eclipsing the Pope’s face, but allowing himself to study the reaction of his siblings from beneath half-lowered lids. All of us had risen when Juan entered, and I could not help noting the sudden tautness in Lucrezia’s expression, the fact that her smile was small and insincere.
I caught, too, the glance that passed between Juan and Cesare—saw the gloating look of triumph on Juan’s face, the look of calculated indifference on Cesare’s. But beside me, my lover closed one hand into a fist.
We sat. Dinner passed with His Holiness speaking not a single word to any person other than Juan, and Juan was quick to regale us all with humorous tales of life in Spain, and why he was glad to be back in Rome. Questions about his wife, Maria Henriques, cousin to the King of Spain, were answered with a shrug and the bored reply, ‘Pregnant. Always sick, that woman.’
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