The Strega held my gaze fast and turned the card over without looking at it.
It was a heart, pierced by a single sword.
I cringed at the keenness, the deadly length, of the blade.
She smiled faintly. ‘So. You have already fulfilled half your destiny. Only one weapon remains to be wielded now.’
‘No,’ I whispered, stricken. A vivid memory returned: the sensation of my hand upon the stiletto, as it tore into the throat of Ferrandino’s would-be assassin. I recalled the shudder of the handle as the narrow blade bit into bone and gristle, the warmth of the blood that rained down upon my brow and cheeks. If that deed had been the first part of my fate, what second horrific act was required of me?
Kindly, she caught my hands in hers; her grip was strong and warm. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘You possess all that you need to accomplish your task. But you are torn. You must seek clarity of mind and heart.’
I pulled away from her. I rose and slapped a gold ducat on the table, which she stared at as though it were some odd curiosity; she made no move to touch it. Meantime, I swept out of the cottage without another word, and rode home at a furious gallop.
I was a fool that day; or perhaps my mind was simply overwhelmed by fear, but I remained outraged by the Strega’s suggestion that I was anything other than helpless in the hands of the Borgias. I retired to my bed early that night, but I spent hours staring up into the darkness, in the grip of a cold panic that would not ease.
I closed my eyes and saw the image of my own heart, red and beating, skewered now by a single sword. I saw myself stepping forward and hoisting the sword above my head, with a surge of pure hatred: hatred for Cesare Borgia.
‘No…’ I whispered, too softly for the sleeping Esmeralda and my other ladies to hear. ‘I cannot, must not, commit murder, or I will become as Ferrante, as my father…I will go mad. There must be another way.’
I had another reason to be reluctant to commit such a crime. What I had not wanted to admit to myself, even then, was that my heart still belonged to Cesare. I abhorred him fiercely…yet a part of me still cared for him and could do him no harm. Like my mother, I was cursed: I could not altogether stop loving the cruellest of men.
I lulled myself to sleep by telling myself lies: that Cesare had no cause to hurt me or my brother, that the Pope would abide by his agreement.
Autumn–Winter 1499
XXIX
In mid-September, I returned to Rome, and Alfonso rode on northward to Spoleto, where his now very-pregnant Lucrezia awaited him. They spent a full month there, and I cannot blame them; they had a freedom and safety that they could not enjoy in Rome.
As soon as I had freshened up from my long journey, Jofre arrived, beaming, at my chamber. ‘Sancha! Each time I set eyes on you, I realize I have forgotten how beautiful you are!’
I smiled at him, grateful for his warm, loving welcome under such awkward circumstances, and embraced him. ‘I have missed you, husband.’
‘And I you—terribly. There is so much news to speak of, but we will save it for supper. Come, let me take you to Father and Cesare. I know they will be eager to see you.’
I smiled kindly and did not share with him my doubt.
He led me proudly on his arm, oblivious to the strained political situation my very person represented. As I walked with him from the Palazzo Santa Maria through Saint Peter’s Square, I realized I had missed the scope and grandeur of Rome. It was dusk, and the fading sunlight painted the white marble of the papal palace and Saint Peter’s a glowing pink; surrounding the great buildings were the glorious gardens, still in bloom. Even the broad curves of the winding Tiber, gleaming quicksilver, held a certain charm.
I clung tightly to Jofre’s arm as we entered the papal palace and its profusion of gilt and eye-dazzling paintings. This time, when I entered Pope Alexander’s throne room and bent to kiss his satin-slippered foot by way of greeting, I was received with far less enthusiasm than I had been upon my first arrival in Rome. Cesare, standing beside his father dressed in the uniform of the Captain-General, watched the gesture with hawk-like intensity.
‘Welcome, my dear,’ Alexander said, with a forced little smile. ‘I trust your journey was an uneventful one. Forgive us if we cannot sup with you tonight; Cesare and I have much strategy to discuss. Jofre can share with you all the affairs of the family.’
He dismissed me with a little flick of his fingers. As I turned from him, Cesare stepped forward, took my hands, and planted a formal kiss upon my cheek. As he did so, he breathed into my ear: ‘You will learn from him that you made a mistake in rejecting my proposal, Madonna. Time will serve to underscore your foolishness.’
I showed no reaction, only smiled cursorily at him, and he back at me.
At supper, which I took with Jofre in his chambers, my husband was brimming with news, and spoke so excitedly and at such length that he scarcely touched his food.
‘Father and Cesare are making plans,’ he announced proudly. ‘It is all secret, of course. Cesare will lead our army into the Romagna. It is a good move not only for the papacy, but for the House of Borgia…’ He leaned forward across the table and whispered conspiratorially, The entire Romagna is to be made a duchy for Cesare. Father has issued a bull to those rulers who have failed to tithe regularly—almost all of them. Either they surrender their lands to the Church…or face its army.’
I set down my goblet, suddenly unable to eat or drink. Memory transported me back to the moment I lay naked on Cesare’s bed and watched him gesture sweepingly at an imaginary map on the ceiling, at the great area that lay northeast of Rome. ‘Imola,’ I said suddenly. ‘Faenza, Forli, Cesena.’
Jofre shot me a curious little glance. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed. ‘And Pesaro—especially since its lord, Giovanna Sforza, made such vile accusations against Lucrezia and Father during the divorce.’
‘They will all fall easily to Cesare and his army, no doubt,’ I said. My eyes narrowed slyly. ‘Especially now that King Louis has supplied him with troops.’
My husband swallowed his wine too suddenly, which provoked a fit of coughing. I watched in silence. I had come to rely on Donna Esmeralda and her network of servant-spies for a great deal of information; from her, I had recently gleaned a most unpleasant truth: Cesare had been planning, ever since his marriage to Charlotte d’Albret, to trade his military services in Milan for French help in achieving his long-dreamed-of conquest of Italy. He had said, on the night he traced the map on the ceiling, that all he needed to fulfil his goal was an army strong enough to defeat France; perhaps he had realized that such an army would never materialize, for he had turned to the enemy itself for help.
‘It is merely a trade,’ Jofre said at last, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Cesare helped them in Milan; now they are helping him in the Romagna. But they have made it clear they no longer have any designs on Naples. Even if they did, Cesare would never permit it.’
‘Of course,’ I replied, not even trying to sound as though I believed a single word.
This dampened Jofre’s enthusiasm; our supper continued quietly, and we took care to speak of things other than politics.
By the time Alfonso and Lucrezia made their way back to Rome in mid-October, the bull had been promulgated—and Cesare moved into the Romagna with his army, which now included almost six thousand men given him by King Louis.
All of us in the household—Lucrezia and Alfonso, Jofre and I—were forced to listen every night at the supper table to Cesare’s most recent exploits. Unlike his predecessor, Juan, Cesare had a keen mind for strategy and was a brilliant commander, and Alexander was unceasingly vocal in his praise of his eldest son. He could scarcely contain his joy on those days when the news from the front was good, and could not contain his irritability and temper on those days when it was bad.
In the beginning, the word was good. The first ruler to fall was Caterina Sforza, a Frenchwoman, regent of Imola and Forli, and niece of the vanquished Ludovico. The c
ity of Imola surrendered immediately without a struggle, overwhelmed by the size of Cesare’s army. Forli, where Caterina ensconced herself in the fortress, held out for three weeks. In the end, Cesare’s soldiers stormed over the walls; Caterina’s attempt at suicide failed, and she was taken prisoner.
His Holiness left out part of the tale of Caterina’s capture, the part that I learned from the lips of Donna Esmeralda.
‘She is a brave woman, the Countess of Forli, even though she is of French blood,’ Esmeralda proclaimed later that evening, when we two were alone in my bedchamber. ‘Braver by far than the bastard who captured her.’ Her lips thinned briefly at the thought of Cesare, then she returned to her tale. ‘Bravest in all the Romagna. When her husband was murdered by rebels, she led her own soldiers on horseback to the killers, and watched as every member of the group was slain.
‘And she is beautiful, with hair of gold and hands they say are soft as ermine. So courageous was she that, when Cesare and the French came, she stood on the city walls of Forli, undaunted by the smoke and the flames, and directed the defence herself. She tried to take her life before she could be captured—but Cesare’s men were too fast for her. She demanded to be turned over to King Louis…and the French soldiers so admired her, they wanted to set her free. But Don Cesare…’ She grimaced with disgust, and stared hard at me. ‘Did I not try to warn you, Madonna, that he would bring only evil? He is possessed by the Devil, that man.’
‘You did,’ I replied softly. ‘You were right, Esmeralda. Not a day passes that I do not wish I had heeded your words.’
Mollified, she continued her tale. ‘The swine wanted her for himself. She travels with him everywhere, Madonna. During the day, she is held prisoner, then at night, he has her brought to his tent. He treats her like a common whore, coercing her into the most depraved acts, forcing himself upon her whenever it pleases him. And she a woman of noble blood…They say that even King Louis is upset, and personally scolded Cesare for such despicable behaviour towards a female captive.’
I turned my face away, trying to hide from Esmeralda my fury and pain. Cesare had proven himself to be as brutal a soul as the brother he had murdered. I closed my eyes and recalled that horrible moment of helpless rage when Juan thrust himself inside me, and wished suddenly to weep for Caterina. Towards Cesare, I felt unspeakable contempt, and anger towards myself, that I should also feel stirrings of jealousy.
‘Pesaro is next,’ Esmeralda continued. ‘And there is no hope for its people, since that coward Giovanni Sforza abandoned them long ago. Cesare will take the city easily.’ She shook her head. ‘There is nothing to stop him, Donna. He and the French will march through all of Italy, until there is nothing left. I fear for the honour of every woman who lives in the Romagna.’
There was, however, one cause for happiness in our strained household: Lucrezia was due to give birth any moment, and both she and the child—who kicked vigorously in her belly—were robustly healthy. Alfonso and I clung to this solitary source of joy and hope, for a grandchild of both Borgia and Aragonese blood would predispose Alexander more kindly towards Naples.
The time came on the last night of October. I was preparing for bed. My ladies had already removed my gown and headdress, and were brushing out my hair when a call came at the antechamber door. I recognized the voice at once as that of Donna Maria, Lucrezia’s head lady-in-waiting.
‘Donna Sancha! My mistress’s time has come, and she has asked for you!’
Esmeralda at once fetched a tabard for me; I fumbled into it and hurried off with Donna Maria.
In the Duchess of Bisciglie’s bedchamber, an empty cradle had already been filled with a cushion, awaiting the arrival of a new young noble.
In one corner of the room, an old, ornately-carved birthing chair which had been used by Rodrigo Borgia’s own mother had been brought in. There Lucrezia sat, her cheeks flushed, her brow glistening with sweat. A fire roared in the hearth, but she also wore a heavy robe to ward off the cold; it had been pulled up to the level of her hips, above the opening in the seat of the birthing chair, so that her femaleness was exposed for the midwife’s examination. A fur throw rested near her bare legs, so that she could cover herself either for comfort or modesty’s sake.
Beside her knelt the same midwife who had attended her a year earlier, during her miscarriage. The old woman was smiling; at the sight, I felt enormous relief.
As for Lucrezia, her eyes held some of the panic and fear experienced by all young mothers in labour; but there was a joy there, too—for this time, she knew, her suffering would bring about a happy ending.
‘Sancha!’ she gasped. ‘Sancha, you are soon to be an aunt!’
‘Lucrezia,’ I countered gaily, ‘you are soon to be a mother!’
‘Here!’ she called. She let go of her tenacious grip on the arms of the chair and held out her hands to me. Once again, I took them. This time, there was no guilt, no sorrow, only whispers of anticipation, of the wondrous end that was to come.
Her labour lasted well past midnight, into the hours before dawn. The labour pangs were intense, but not brutal; the midwife reported that the babe was well-placed, and that, since Lucrezia had had a successful delivery once before, its entry into this world would be easier.
Before the sun rose on the first day of November, Lucrezia let go a mighty shriek and bore down with all her might—and my brother’s only child came forth squalling, caught by the strong, weathered arms of the grinning midwife.
‘Lucrezia!’ I cried, as she gasped and bore down again, for the afterbirth was coming. ‘The child is here! It is here!’
Her head lolled back against the chair with exhaustion; she gave a deep sigh, then smiled, while Donna Maria sent for the wet nurse.
And then the midwife, who was already bathing the child, corrected me. ‘He is here,’ the older woman announced proudly, as if she were somehow responsible for the fact herself. ‘You have a son, Madonna.’
Lucrezia and I looked at each other and laughed aloud with delight.
‘Alfonso will be so proud,’ I said. In truth, I was as proud and filled with adoration for the child as if it had been my own, perhaps because I had long ago realized that I would never have one.
Once the infant was washed, the midwife swaddled it tightly in a soft woollen blanket. She lifted it, ready to present it to its mother, but I jealously intervened, snatching the child from her and cradling it in my arms.
Its features were still flattened from the trauma of birth, its little eyes squeezed tightly shut; on its scalp was a damp fringe of golden down. It certainly could have resembled no one so early in its life, but I looked down at its curled fists, laughed softly as it opened its tiny mouth in a yawn, and saw nothing but Alfonso. I had already convinced myself that the little heart beating within its chest would be just as kind and good.
A love washed over me, of an intensity I would have thought impossible—for at that instant, I realized I loved that infant more fiercely than my own life, more than even my own dear brother. For its sake, I would gladly have committed any act.
Alfonso, I thought fondly, little Alfonso. It was the custom to name sons after their fathers, and I carefully delivered the child into Lucrezia’s arms and waited for the pronouncement that would bring me such pride and delight.
Lucrezia gazed down at her new son with beatific love and joy; there was no question that she would be the world’s most affectionate mother. With infinite contentment, she looked up at those of us surrounding her expectantly, and stated: ‘His name is Rodrigo, for his grandfather.’
And she immediately directed her full attention back to her child.
I was glad she did so, so that she could not see my indignant expression: she might as well have slapped my face. So it was that I learned my darling nephew’s own mother considered him more a member of the House of Borgia than of Aragon.
My brother was overjoyed, and took the news of the child’s name with a great deal more aplomb than I did.
‘Sancha,’ he told me privately, ‘it is not the case for every child that his grandfather is the Pope.’
The child’s birth seemed to restore Alfonso’s and my status completely: baby Rodrigo’s arrival was celebrated in a manner befitting a prince. Alexander doted on the infant completely, and described him to all visitors with the same enthusiasm and pride he had formerly reserved for Cesare’s exploits; he visited the child often, and cuddled him in his arms like an experienced father. There could be no doubt his affection was utterly genuine, and so he, Alfonso and I suddenly enjoyed lengthy conversations about the wonders of little Rodrigo. I began to feel safe in Rome again.
Only ten days after the baby’s birth the baptism was held, with great pomp and ceremony: Lucrezia was ensconced in the Palazzo Santa Maria, in a bed with red satin appointments, trimmed in gold, and greeted scores of prominent guests who filed past her bed to give their regards.
Afterwards, little Rodrigo—wrapped in gold brocade trimmed with ermine—was carried in the strong, dedicated arms of Captain Juan de Cervillon into the Sistine Chapel. I realized how deeply my brother had suffered in Naples: no doubt he had feared he would never be able to set his eyes upon his own child.
Now, thanks to de Cervillon, we were both able to witness the baptism, a beautiful and solemn ceremony. Following the captain in the procession were the Governor of Rome, the Imperial Governor, and the ambassadors from Spain and Naples; Alexander could have put on no greater show of support for the House of Aragon.
Baby Rodrigo behaved himself perfectly, remaining somnolent during the entire ceremony. The omens were all good: Alfonso and I were joyful, once again relaxed, and deeply relieved.
Relieved, that is, until the day Cesare Borgia left his army outside Pesaro’s walls and chose to return to Rome incognito, with the Borgia men’s favourite attendant, Don Morades, as his sole companion.
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