The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I listened, smiling, as I sat alongside my brother and Lucrezia, for it was difficult not to be swayed by the feeling of excitement and anticipation that filled the crowd; but my joy was tempered by worry, my desire to forgive thwarted by hurt. I knew not what the year might bring, because at that very moment, Cesare Borgia fought alongside the French in Milan. I glanced over at Alfonso beside me, and he took my hand and squeezed it by way of understanding and reassurance.

  As for Lucrezia, she did not notice my or Alfonso’s concern. She was listening to her father with an expression of rapt enthusiasm; now that she had both her husband and baby, she had immersed herself in happiness. I do not think she permitted herself to consider the possibility that her brother might interfere; she had so long been denied a normal life that I could not blame her for wanting to remain ignorant. Her contentment showed that night in her appearance: I had never seen her look so beautiful as she did during those days with Alfonso.

  Fortunately, the Pope’s lecture was short, and we soon commenced dining. After we ate and the plates were removed, I did not linger long at the festivities, but stayed only so long as courtesy demanded.

  I returned to my bedchamber to find Donna Esmeralda huddled before her shrine to San Gennaro.

  ‘Esmeralda! What has happened?’

  She looked up at me, her olive-skinned face, framed by grey hair beneath a black veil, streaked with tears. ‘I am begging God not to bring an end to the world.’

  I released a long breath and calmed myself, mildly annoyed by her superstitious attitude. Many country priests had seized upon the notion that 1500—a date created by man—was of such importance to God that He had chosen it for the Apocalypse. I had heard other servants whispering to each other fearfully about the possibility. ‘Why would God do such a thing?’ I demanded. My tone was not sympathetic; I felt I did Esmeralda no kindness by encouraging her unwarranted terror.

  ‘It is a special date. I feel it in my bones, Donna Sancha; God will no longer delay His judgment. Nearly two years ago, the Pope murdered Savonarola…and now the time has come for Alexander to be punished and all of Italy will suffer with him.’

  ‘Italy already suffers,’ I answered softly—but she suffered at Cesare’s hands, not God’s.

  I let Esmeralda be. I undressed myself and went to bed, where I listened to her anguished prayers long into the night.

  I woke on the first day of the new year to find that the world had not been consumed by brimstone, as the priests had predicted. Instead, it was a cool winter’s day, and a sullen Donna Esmeralda dressed me in my best finery, as I was required to appear in public. Alfonso, Jofre, His Holiness and I travelled in a carriage at a respectful distance behind Lucrezia across the Sant’Angelo bridge into the city. She rode on horseback to the cathedral of Saint John Lateran, preceded by an entourage of four dozen riders, who cleared the streets for her.

  Once on the steps of the cathedral, dazzlingly clad in pearl-studded white satin and a long ermine cape, her golden curls streaming down her back, Lucrezia released flocks of albino doves heavenwards. She was a lovely sight, her arms wide in a gesture of supplication, her face flushed from the cold, tilted up toward the clouded sky.

  She prayed briefly, asking God to grant special favour to those pilgrims who made the pilgrimage to Rome.

  Within weeks, footsore travellers began to arrive. The bridge of the Castel Sant’Angelo was filled with a solid mass of moving bodies on their way to and from Saint Peter’s. Those who could not afford the comforts of an inn—or who could find no room, because of the growing crowds—brought their blankets and slept on the steps of Peter’s basilica. Each time we moved through the piazza, or processed to Mass, we encountered them, and soon grew so used to the sight, we no longer noticed them.

  This was but one sign of the Pope’s care to show his daughter special favour—his method, I believe, of distracting Lucrezia so that she believed all was well with her little family. Alexander granted Lucrezia many new properties, including one estate belonging to the Caetani family of Naples—the same family to which my long-ago love, Onorato, belonged.

  If she had any fears on Alfonso’s behalf, she distracted herself from them by conducting a platonic, courtly love affair with the poet Bernardo Accolti of Arezzo, who arrogantly referred to himself as ‘l’Unico’, the ‘unique’.

  There was little unique about Accolti’s poetry, however. He sent reams of it to Lucrezia, in which he proclaimed his undying passion for her, casting Lucrezia as his Laura and himself as the suffering Petrarch.

  Lucrezia showed me the poems herself, rather timidly. When she saw that I could not entirely hide my disdain of them, she laughed at them with me—but I could see she was flattered by them. The event inspired her to set her own hand to writing poetry, which she also shyly handed me.

  I told her—and meant it—that she was a far better poet than Accolti. At least, she was far less given to swooning, tears and sighs in verse.

  While Lucrezia was busy distracting herself, the second battle for Milan took place. Duke Ludovico launched a battle against the French forces and was captured, doomed to imprisonment for the rest of his life; nor did his brother, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza escape.

  With the House of Sforza firmly defeated, the French looked southward to Naples, that glittering ocean gem they had so long coveted.

  His Holiness’ reassurances were drowned out by the voice of every other Italian, which echoed in my ears constantly, a silent shout: The French were going to take Naples. It was only a matter of time.

  I did not doubt that Cesare Borgia would ride with them.

  The following month, Cesare returned home, in a grand display viewed by all Rome. In a stroke of brilliance, he decided not to fuel rumours regarding his arrogance and ambition and took care to avoid staging a pompous, victorious entry.

  I watched from the loggia of our palazzo as the parade passed through the streets. It began with no fewer than a hundred carriages rolling past, the horses and wagons caparisoned in black. It soon became clear that this was a funereal procession, indicative of mourning within the House of Borgia for its most recently lost member, Cardinal Giovanni the Lesser, who had died so swiftly and mysteriously on his way to ‘congratulate’ Cesare.

  No herald announced the Captain-General’s return: the trumpets remained silent. There was no colour, no pageantry; drums did not roll, nor fifes play. The soldiers—hundreds of them, also in black—marched in a stillness broken only by the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves.

  Next in the procession came Jofre, on horseback, and after him, Alfonso, forced to take part in this solemn parody.

  Last to come was Cesare—again, dressed simply but most elegantly in a well-cut suit of black velvet.

  A space followed in the procession, then lesser members of the household and the nobility followed.

  The parade ended at the fortress of Castel Sant’Angelo, where the prisoner Caterina Sforza was already ensconced. There, the muted tone of the parade was suddenly cast off when rockets were fired into the air from the top of the tower.

  The resulting display, mirrored in the nearby River Tiber, was dazzling. The fireworks were so timed that the explosions—if one used one’s imagination—formed the head, trunk, and limbs of a man. (Cesare had intended to represent a warrior, Jofre informed me later that evening.)

  The fireworks continued for some time, with each fresh launch growing more ambitious than the last, and drawing even greater roars of appreciation from the crowd.

  From her chamber in the Castel Sant’Angelo, Caterina must surely have been watching.

  Then came the coup de grace. Some two dozen rockets were fired all at once. The resulting explosions were so loud, I covered my ears at the discomfort; the open shutters rattled so terribly, I feared they would fall to the ground.

  Cesare Borgia was home, and he intended all of Rome to know it.

  A party was thrown that night in the Captain-General’s honour, in the Hall of
the Liberal Arts. Family obligation forced me to attend; fortunately, the number of guests was staggering, and I successfully avoided Cesare for most of the evening. Out of apparent jealousy towards his brother, Jofre succeeded in becoming drunk early, and devoted his attention to one of the women hired to entertain the male revellers. It stung me; I had hoped that over time I would grow used to Jofre’s dalliances—but I felt it unbecoming of a royal wife to show jealousy in such matters, and so I carefully avoided the two.

  Instead, I paid my respects to His Holiness and most of the cardinals in the consistory, as well as all the nobles. Vannozza Cattanei was also there, to my surprise, for I had never before encountered her at any functions in the papal residence. We greeted each other warmly, as if we were old friends.

  When the time was right, I took my leave of Alexander and hurried for the door, grateful that I had managed to make an escape without confronting the guest of honour. I signalled for Donna Esmeralda and my other ladies to attend me, and summon guards to escort us home through the crowded piazza.

  But once I stepped out into the corridor, my wrist was grasped, gently but insistently. I glanced up to see Cesare, just as he gestured for Esmeralda and the others to give us a moment alone.

  My heartbeat quickened. No longer did I thrill to the touch of his flesh against my own; now I felt only loathing—and concern that my overwhelmed emotions might cause me to lash out harshly, which would further imperil Alfonso and Naples.

  Cesare led me further down the corridor, away from the noise and the guests. When he was certain we could not be heard, he said in his customary self-possessed tone, ‘Perhaps you realize now the life you have rejected.’ He eyed me carefully. ‘It is not too late for that to be changed.’

  I gasped aloud; the sound ended in a short laugh of disbelief. ‘Are you propositioning me?’

  Immediately, his voice and expression grew even more guarded. ‘And if I am…?’

  I pulled my hand free from his grasp; my lips twisted so that I could give no reply. There might have been a time, before he murdered Juan, when I would have been overjoyed to know that he still possessed affection for me. Now I felt only disgust.

  He made note of my reaction; when he spoke again, his tone was mocking. ‘But of course, you are still loyal to Jofre. I see that, like a good wife, you have ignored the fact that he has already left in the arms of a courtesan.’

  I smiled coldly, refusing to respond to his barbs. ‘I hear you have come, more and more, to take after your brother Juan. No woman in the Romagna is safe from your unwanted affections—least of all Caterina Sforza.’

  He gave a small, cruel grin. ‘Are you jealous, Madonna?’

  A part of me was, indeed—yet the greater part of me knew only revulsion. I could not hold my tongue. ‘Jealous, Captain-General? Of the pox you have tried to hide beneath your beard? Of the souvenir the French whores have bestowed on you? I am sure your new wife will be delighted when she learns you have brought her a gift from your travels.’

  For I was close enough to notice the scars and fresh red sores upon his cheeks. We Neapolitans called it ‘the French curse’ the French tried, naturally, to blame it on the prostitutes they had encountered in Naples. I took small comfort in knowing the disease would shorten his life; in later years, it might well drive him to madness.

  Anger sparked in his eyes; I had managed to land a successful blow. I turned away, satisfied, and headed back towards my ladies.

  From behind me came soft, but in no way tender, words: ‘I had to try one last time, Madonna. Now I know where I stand; now I know what course to take.’

  I did not bother to respond.

  Miraculously, we moved safely from spring into summer without incident; King Louis made no move towards Naples, and life within the Borgia household was uneventful.

  Using the pressing concerns of the army and political affairs as his excuse, Cesare absented himself from all our suppers with the Pope. I did not speak to him again after that first evening he returned, and scarcely saw him, save in passing; the looks we exchanged were cold. Donna Esmeralda relayed that when he was not with his father or French representatives, hatching plots, Cesare spent his nights with courtesans or the much-abused Caterina Sforza, smuggling her from her cell at the Castel Sant’Angelo to his quarters. Her guards said that she was beautiful, Esmeralda whispered, with hair paler than straw, and skin so milky it glowed at night like opals. She had been plump before her capture, but Cesare’s abuse had left her drawn and thin.

  I never saw the woman myself, but there were times when I thought I sensed her sorrowful, outraged presence in the same corridors I had once wandered on my way to Cesare’s private chambers. I felt some jealousy towards her, true; but my overriding emotion was one of kinship. I knew what it was to be violated, helpless, bitter.

  Nor did Cesare make any pretence, in public or private, of showing Alfonso or the baby any regard. Yet for all of Cesare’s contempt for the House of Aragon, His Holiness continued to show us great warmth personally, and took care to give Alfonso a prominent place in all ceremonies. I believed that Alexander, in his heart, truly supported Naples and Spain, and detested the French, despite his apparent joy at his eldest son’s marriage to Charlotte d’Albret. But I remembered too, how Lucrezia, pregnant with her brother’s child, had wept with horror as she confessed how even the Pope feared Cesare. The question was whether His Holiness had the strength of will to continue in his averred role as Naples’ champion.

  In early summer, Alexander fell victim to a mild attack of apoplexy, which left him weak and abed for several days.

  For the first time, I considered the fates of those of us who remained after Rodrigo Borgia perished. All depended on whether Cesare had the chance to establish himself firmly as Italy’s secular ruler first. If he did, then Alfonso and I would be banished at the least, murdered at worst; if not, then all depended on who emerged from the consistory of cardinals as the new pope. If he was sympathetic to Naples and Spain—and all indications were that he would be—then Alfonso could retire with Lucrezia to Naples without fear, while Jofre and I could return to the principality of Squillace. This latter scenario seemed far more desirable than our current circumstances.

  And Cesare would find himself persona non grata in Italy. He would have to rely on King Louis’ graciousness in allowing him to return to his long-suffering bride.

  I confess, I found myself addressing God for the first time in years during the week of the Pope’s illness; my prayers that week were dark and tainted.

  Please, if this will save Alfonso and the baby, then take His Holiness now.

  Alexander, of course, recovered quite handily.

  God had disappointed me once again; but He soon spoke out vehemently, in an unexpected fashion.

  On the next-to-last day of June—Saint Peter’s day, commemorating the Church’s first pope—Alexander invited all of us, including his little namesake Rodrigo, to visit him in his apartments.

  It was an unusually warm day, and the sky had filled with fast-sailing black clouds that swiftly blotted out all trace of blue. The wind began to gust. As we—Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre and I—walked with our attendants from the palazzo toward the Vatican, a sudden cool rush of air caused the skin on my arms and neck to prick; with it came a loud clap of thunder.

  Little Rodrigo—then eight months old, of good size and strength—wailed in terror at the sound, and struggled so vigorously in his nurse’s arms that Alfonso took him. We hurried our pace, but did not manage to escape the downpour; a cold, sharp rain, complete with stinging hailstones, began to pelt us as we hastened up the Vatican steps. Alfonso tucked the baby’s head beneath his arms and crouched, protecting his son as best he could.

  Wet and dishevelled, we passed the guards and made it through the great doors into the shelter of the entrance hall. As Alfonso held his whimpering child, Lucrezia and I both fussed over the baby, using our sleeves and hems of our gowns to dry him.

  As we stood n
ear the entrance, a loud boom rattled the heavy doors and the very floor beneath our feet; all of us were startled, and the baby shrieked with abandon.

  Alfonso and I looked at each other in alarm, remembering the horrors we had witnessed in Naples, and simultaneously whispered: ‘Cannon.’

  For an instant, I entertained the wild notion that the French were attacking the city; but that was madness. We would have had warning; there would have been reports of their army marching.

  Then, from deeper inside the building, we heard the frenzied shouts of men. I could not make out their words, but their hysteria was clear enough.

  Lucrezia turned towards the sound; her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Father!’ she screamed, then picked up her skirts and ran.

  I followed, as did Jofre and Alfonso, who first handed his child to the nurse. We ran up the stairs full tilt—the men quickly passing us, as they were unencumbered by long gowns.

  On the corridor leading to the Borgia apartments, we were greeted by a dark haze that stung eyes and lungs; as I followed behind Alfonso and Jofre, I, too, stopped in horrified amazement at the archway that led into the Hall of the Faith, where His Holiness supposedly sat on his throne, expecting us.

  The place where the throne had rested was now a great dust-clouded pile of wooden beams, shattered stone, and masonry: the ceiling above had collapsed, bringing down with it the carpeting and furniture housed on the floor above.

  The carpeting and furniture I recognized, for I had seen them many a night in Cesare’s chamber. I felt a pang of wicked hope: if both Cesare and the Pope were dead, my fears for my family and Naples could be laid to rest with them.

  ‘Holy Father!’ ‘Your Holiness!’ The Pope’s two attendants, the chamberlain Gasparre and the Bishop of Cadua, cried out desperately for him as they bent over the rubble and tried to peer beneath it for signs of life. It had been their shouts we had heard—and now Lucrezia and Jofre added their voices as well.