A Borgia Daughter Dies

by Maryann Philip

  “You never told me. . .”

  “Don’t even say it. I never told you not to climb over the wall so you could question a strange man in the graveyard who might be a murderer? Was that your point? Every time we forbid something, you go and do something even stranger!” Vivos’ face got redder as her voice got louder.

  “I am sorry, Suora,” Nicola called down meekly, though she wasn’t. She had indeed been told by the priora and her teachers, among others, to stop asking questions about Sister Annaluisa. This had not stopped her, but she had learned little, anyway.

  “Sister Annaluisa was killed by a cutpurse, Nicola. You will never find the killer,” Mortuos called out. As always, she seemed to grow calmer and more corpse-like as Vivos became redder and more agitated. Tall and pale, with dark circles under her sad eyes, Sister Ignacia glided quietly, moving as if she had no arms or legs at all. She generally stood like sentinel in front of the class, her white clothing resembling a shroud.

  “Why would anyone kill a nun for her purse? Everyone knows nuns take vows of poverty,” Nicola responded.

  “He probably violated her first,” exclaimed Vivos.

  “Violated?”

  “Attacked,” Mortuos amended quickly. She put a calming hand on Vivos’ arm. “Nicola, how did you get up there? And how are you planning to get down?” she added.

  Three alarmed faces looked up at Nicola, who had already considered this problem and was working her way down the tree. Vivos’ enormous bosom stuck out like a shelf, tempting her to use it as a foothold. But of course, she couldn’t.

  “Simple,” Nicola said when she reached the lowest branch. She swung from it and dropped to the ground, promptly falling onto her back. Brushing her skirts, she jumped quickly to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mortuos.

  “I am fine,” she responded.

  “What are we going to do with her, Ignacia?” asked Vivos.

  “We are going to take her to La Greca,” Mortuos responded. “This has nothing to do with her schoolwork. It is La Greca’s problem. Come, girls.”

  Nicola and Pia followed them slowly back to Girls’ House, and watched as the two nuns conferred with La Greca. When the nuns left, La Greca marched out to meet them, stick in hand.

  “I told you to stop asking questions about Sister Annaluisa,” she scolded.

  Nicola bowed her head and hid her hands, hoping that La Greca would not use her stick. “I know, Madonna. But you never said--”

  “Basta. Enough. You have excuses for everything. What about you, Pia. What is your excuse?”

  “She made me do it,” Pia responded.

  “It is true,” Nicola nodded. “It is my fault.”

  “Then, go sweep the dormitory, Pia. Under the beds, too, mind you.” Pia scampered away. “Give me your hands, Nicola.”

  Nicola held out her hands, palms down, to accept the sting of La Greca's stick. Four lashes—not hard ones--not too bad.

  “Nicola, you will help with the after-dinner cleanup in the convent for the next two weeks. And stay out of that tree by the graveyard! People visiting graves want to be left in peace.”

  Nicola did not mind kitchen duty. “Madonna, it looks like Sister Annaluisa had an admirer! The man in the graveyard was not at her funeral—I would remember him, if he were. So I do not think he was family. How can I find out who he was?”

  La Greca's stick stung her shoulder. “You can’t. I already told you, Nicola. Stop asking questions. You are doing no one any good, least of all Sister Annaluisa. Basta.”

  Non basta, Nicola thought rebelliously. But what could she do, if the nuns would not let her ask questions?

  * * *

  Bees buzzed among the lavender plants where Sister Gerolama sat, in the herb garden at the center of the convent cloister. Nicola perched herself quietly at the other end of the bench, savoring the scent of lavender and mint while she waited for the nun to finish her rosary, and open her eyes.

  Sister Gerolama jerked to attention, when she realized Nicola was staring at her.

  “Buon giorno, Suora,” Nicola said. “I am working in the nuns’ dining room. I wanted to ask you about Sister Annaluisa. I want to find her killer. Will you help me?”

  Looking alarmed, Sister Gerolama arose and began shuffling toward the cloister. Nicola trotted ahead of her and began walking backwards, so she could see the nun’s face. Sister Gerolama was a small woman, she realized–not much bigger than Nicola, now. With her beaky nose and downcast eyes, she looked like a white hen, searching for something to peck.

  “A man visited her grave who was not at her funeral,” Nicola said. “Do you know who he might be?”

  “How should I?”

  “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

  Sister Gerolama crossed herself, and muttered something under her breath. “You should not be asking these questions. You should leave this to God. We didn’t mean for her to die.”

  “We? Who is ‘we?’ Who is ‘we?’”

  But Sister Gerolama, dismayed, was looking past her. Flummoxed, Nicola tripped over the step that led to the arcade surrounding the cloister courtyard. Something fell and someone caught her.

  Nicola turned to face Sister Amelia, the convent bursar, who glared at her.

  “I am sorry, Suora. Here, let me help.” Nicola picked up the account books the sister had dropped, dashing to retrieve a page that had fluttered out into the herb garden. At a glance, she memorized its contents: calculations for building something expensive. “Hide from the pope,” underlined. Nicola knew that “bursar” meant “purse,” and that Sister Amelia was the financial manager for the convent. What was she hiding from the pope?

  Sister Amelia had looked surprised when she caught Nicola. Now, she looked angry. Very angry.

  An ingratiating smile on her face, Nicola held out the account books. The sister used them to whack Nicola atop the head. Flinging them down, she seized Nicola’s shoulders and shook her.

  “What are you doing here? And how dare you ask about Annaluisa?”

  “I was working in the nun’s dining room as a punishment and I saw the garden and I–I. . .”

  “We will have to find you a different punishment that keeps you out of the cloister and teaches you obedience,” said a quiet voice. “Let go of her, Amelia.”

  The disturbance had drawn the priora from her office. “If you are going to become a nun, you must learn obedience, Nicola.”

  “I know. But—“

  “No ‘buts.’ Go back to Girls’ House now and see me after class tomorrow. We will teach you to obey.”

  Chapter 7—Lucrezia’s Borgia’s Wedding and Bedding

  Rome, papal apartments,

  July, 1498

  “Lucrezia’s ex-husband is spreading rumors that you and I are having sex with her,” Cesare Borgia announced to his father, Pope Alexander VI. This was old news to Lucrezia, and probably to her father, who showed no reaction.

  Seated on the dais at the pope’s feet, she looked up at Cesare with anxiety. He was her darkest brother, not only in coloring, but also in thoughts and temperament. Though he had held church office since childhood, there was nothing holy about him. His red cardinal’s cassock gave him a bloody, satanic aura because of his pointed black beard, and the look in his eyes.

  “Forcing Giovanni Sforza to swear I was a virgin was like making him stand in St. Peter's Square and shout to the world that he was impotent,” she said. “He has returned slander for slander. What did you expect? Please, Cesare, tomorrow is my wedding day—let’s make it a beautiful day. If I can ignore these insults, so can you. Let it be.”

  “He has dishonored us, and I am going to kill him.” Cesare’s handsome, delicate features bore no signs of emotion.

  “You will ignore him,” the pope responded, just as quietly. Bald as an egg and clad in white cassock and cap, Pope Alexander VI sat on a gilded throne under a portrait depicting him in full jeweled regalia, praying at Christ’s resurrection. The
deep blue walls of the room were frescoed from floor to high, arched ceiling with this and other New Testament scenes, some featuring Borgia faces.

  Hands stretched over his enormous belly, the Pope gazed down his similarly-proportioned nose at his son. “If you are going to be King of Naples you must learn to ignore street talk,” he continued abruptly. “Words are no threat. And no more making threats. For the moment, at least, you are still an official of the Church. ‘Tis unseemly.”

  “You have nine acknowledged children and hold their weddings in the Vatican,” Cesare retorted. “Why is everything I do somehow more scandalous?”

  The pope stared at him for a long moment, face inscrutable. “I have eight acknowledged children now that Juan is dead,” he said quietly, “and I have been good to all of them. As God wills of all fathers. But in your case, I sometimes wonder if I was wise.” Anger flashed across his face. “I hold your future in my hands, Cesare. If you want a kingdom and Juan’s place as head the papal army, you should not disappoint me.”

  “I did not kill Juan.” Cesare’s voice was sulky.

  “So you have said. That is not the issue now. The issue is death threats against Lucrezia’s former husband. They embarrass your sister and jeopardize your marriage negotiations. Anyway, Giovanni Sforza has been holed up in his castello since the last time you threatened to kill him. Empty threats are foolish. Now, give me your word. You will ignore this insult.”

  Cesare, visibly angry, stared first at the pope, then at his sister. His soulless eyes frightened Lucrezia, but she stared back.

  “I don’t want Giovanni harmed,” she told him. “Please, Cesare. The best way to deal with slanders is to ignore them.”

  “If you both wish it, then,” he said slowly.

  Relieved, Lucrezia now turned to her father, speaking softly to hide her anger. “Papa, you are forcing me to marry Alfonso so Cesare can be King of Naples, protected from Alfonso’s claim to the throne. Are you saying Cesare's marriage to Princess Carlotta is not certain? How can this be?”

  “It was almost certain, but her father is unhappy with the rumors that Cesare killed his own brother.”

  Cesare threw up his hands. “This from a king whose father killed most of his nobles, and had them stuffed and put in his dining room?”

  “His throne rests in blood, yes—that is why he he worries about being murdered by his successor.” The pope's voice was cutting. “Why do you think he is sending his bastard here to marry Lucrezia? And with these rumors--”

  “Rumors! Why is it my fault there are rumors? There are always rumors.”

  Lucrezia held a hand out to Cesare, who helped her to her feet without dropping his angry glaze at their father. “Please don’t bicker on the eve of my wedding,” she said quietly. “And speaking of rumors--both of you should stay away from my bedding with Alfonso, or you will feed these incest rumors my ex-husband has started.”

  “This time, there should be witnesses,” her father protested.

  “I have already arranged for them, papa.”

  The pope stared at her, then laughed. “You are a good daughter, Lucrezia. But sometimes, I wish you were a son.”

  Lucrezia smiled. She wished she could simply be young, doing what she wished and bedding whom she wished. She would love to have a wedding festa, without the bother of a bridegroom! However, this was not to be.

  * * *

  Nicola ran towards the front gate from Girl’s House, hoping they had not left without her. She had been so excited by Lucrezia Borgia’s wedding invitation that she had slept poorly for the last three nights. Until this morning, when she overslept.

  Emerging from behind the church, she could see the priora’s donkey cart, waiting at the front gate. As she had hoped, Sister Gerolama was sitting in the back, quietly working her rosary. She had been trying to talk to the old nun about Sister Annaluisa, ever since the funeral. Now, God was giving her the chance she needed.

  “No, no Nicola. Not in back. You will ride up front with me,” the priora said. “Help her up, Father. And walk beside her, please.”

  If God wanted her to question Sister Gerolama, He would have to show her how to do it without angering the priora, Nicola decided. Maybe He just hoped she would enjoy this day.

  “I am so excited, priora! I have not been outside these gates since I was three years old. Do we take the Appian Way all the way to the Vatican?”

  “You will see, child.”

  As the sun rose, there was much to see. The road, made of closely-fit, rectangular stones, was miraculously smooth and straight—though built by the ancients a thousand years before, Father Testa told her. The patched walls that surrounded it opened occasionally, to show narrow alleys and crumbling buildings, all very quiet. It smelled old, Nicola decided, a musty-dusty smell without the usual stink of humans and animals. Few lived in this part of the city, said Father Testa, because barbarians destroyed Rome's aqueducts in ancient times, and only a few properties--like San Sisto—had wells.

  Full daylight revealed a skyline bristling with ominous dark stone towers, like the back of an angry cat. Guard towers, built by Rome's great families to protect the parts of the city they controlled, Father Testa explained.

  The Forum, grassy and dotted with grazing cattle, did not interest Nicola, but she was startled by the sheer size of the structure beside it. Tiny, ant-like figures swarmed across the white marble façade. They were men, Nicola realized, prying off pieces of marble to reveal patches of brown brick that looked like open wounds.

  “What is that enormous thing?”

  “It is the Colosseum, Nicola, where the ancient Romans threw Christians to the lions. Behind those walls are tens of thousands of seats, for the spectators.”

  Nicola imagined shining gold lions with tight curls, leaping from the illuminated manuscripts in the convent library to eat Christians. She then imagined herself as an avenging Christian angel with a flaming sword, forcing the lions back into their cages, under the Colosseum floor.

  “Who owns it?” she asked.

  “It is the Savelli family fortress,” the Priora explained, gesturing upwards towards the stone guard towers that sprouted incongruously around the upper rim. Nicola wondered sleepily what they were guarding with those towers—keeping the lions inside, maybe?

  Then someone was shaking her shoulder. “Wake up, Nicola! You are about to fall out of the wagon,” the priora said. “Look--there is Monte Giordano, the compound of the Orsini family. That is where Pia will live when she is married.”

  Nicola blinked several times, then stared at the enormous crenellated wall and the menagerie of buildings that peeked out from behind it. One side of the compound, Nicola noticed, used an ancient Roman monument as part of the defensive wall. Nicola memorized what she saw, and tried to imagine Pia inside, as a married woman.

  “Why is it all burned?” she asked.

  “The Colonna clan attacked the Orsini about twenty years ago. Fortunately, the Orsini were able to put the fires out.”

  “Are you awake now, Nicola?” Father Testa let go of her arm, “Look, there is the Castel Sant’ Angelo, the Pope’s fortress and prison,” he said, pointing. “It was once the tomb of an ancient emperor.”

  Perched on the edge of the river, it looked exactly like a giant reliquary: a squat brick cylinder, crowned by a smaller cylinder with little windows that looked like rows of jewels, and a roof that looked like a lid. Nicola imagined giant hands--the hands of God--lifting up the roof to place tiny popes and prelates inside, to protect them from French invaders.

  She sensed an opportunity. “Is that the Tiber in front of it?” she asked. “Is this where Sister Annaluisa died?”

  “This is where her body was found, certainly.” The priora's voice was terse.

  “Why did she run away, Priora?”

  The priora snapped her reins angrily, causing the donkey to trot for a few paces. “Didn't I tell you, no more questions about Sister Annaluisa? All those hours you spent on your kne
es were not enough to teach you?”

  “I didn't think you meant yourself, Priora. Or Father Testa. Surely everyone is permitted to ask questions of you and Father Testa?” Nicola responded meekly.

  “You think I would spare everyone but myself, do you?”

  Sister Gerolama intervened. “Forgive her, Priora, per favore. She is just a child, and a sleepy one. And she misses her friend.”

  “She needs to learn obedience, Gerolama. As do you, it seems.”

  “I obey you in all things, and always have, Priora,” the old nun responded patiently. “I have said nothing. Nicola will learn.”

  I am learning, Nicola thought to herself. I am learning that Sister Gerolama is forbidden to talk about the murder, too. God will have to show me a new way to find the murderer.

  They crossed the trash-filled Tiber on an ancient stone bridge, Nicola holding her nose against the stink of sewage and dead fish. Soon, they entered a vast open square, tufted with desiccated weeds and scarred with potholes; shimmering in the midday heat. On one side was a long row of tall columns, supporting a crumbling portico.

  “The basilica of St. Peter is behind those columns,” said Father Testa.

  “It looks terrible,” Nicola pronounced.

  “It is a thousand years old, and falling down. There is talk of replacing it.”

  It needed it, Nicola decided. The holiest church in Christendom was a disappointment. Far more interesting was the stream of carts, litters and horses, carrying sumptuously-dressed men and women towards a crenellated stone gate. Father Testa helped the nuns and Nicola from the cart, promising to return when the festivities were over. They followed the crowd up stone stairs, into the coolness of a vast, high-ceilinged palazzo.

  Used to somber hues, Nicola’s eyes were startled by the brightly-colored clothing and jewels worn by men and women alike. Far more disconcerting were the frescoed figures covering the walls and ceilings. Some were half-naked. Some wore turbans. One of the women looked suspiciously like Lucrezia Borgia. In the center of the ceiling—where God belonged—was the figure of a great bull.