Great beauty has its price. Glad though I was that fate had dealt me fine features, I also knew well the jealousy they provoked in other women. Therefore, I took care that day not to outshine my sister-in-law: I wore the simple black dress of a married noblewoman, with the huge sleeves fashionable in the south; my horse was draped in black, and I rode a respectful distance behind my husband.
Jofre, however, was eager to impress Rome and his family with the glories of princehood. He insisted I be accompanied by my full court of twenty women, and a large retinue that even included jesters clad in the brightest shades of yellow, red and purple.
We entered the city from the south. I had never before set foot in Rome; awe overtook me as we rode through the worn city gates and looked upon the rolling hills. ‘Over there,’ Jofre called back to me from his steed, and pointed to his right as we made our way upon the Via del Circo Massimo; there stood the Arch of Constantine, the ancient prototype of my own great-grandfather’s triumphal arch. Further down to our east rested the great Colosseum, the many-tiered stone ellipse where so many Christians had met their end, and the Pantheon, that temple to all gods, with its countless white columns and massive dome, the largest in all Rome-ironically far larger than any Christian church.
The only cities I knew consisted of one or two royal palaces, several smaller palazzi, a few cathedrals, and numerous white- washed buildings crowded together on slopes and coastlines, on narrow streets. Rome possessed a grandeur and a scope beyond my ken. Spread out on land that continued beyond the horizon, the buildings possessed a size, an elegance, an ornateness that left me breathless. The streets were wide, filled with carriages of the wealthy; the palaces of cardinals and noble families were massive, of classic rectangular design, covered with marble statuary and
Only the broad Tiber was a disappointment. When we reached the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge alongside the great fortress of the Castel Sant’Angelo, crowned by a statue of the Archangel Michael, I first saw Rome’s famous river. Its stinking waters were filled with floating refuse and crowded with merchant ships. But I was soon distracted by the sight before me: the sprawling cobblestone Piazza of Saint Peter’s, and beyond it, the great sanctuary itself, older than a millennium, where the first pontiff’s bones rested. Directly adjacent, on its northern side, stood the Vatican.
Just before we arrived at the vast piazza, we were met by scarlet-clad cardinals on horseback, and the papal guards on foot; the Spanish ambassador rode up to Jofre and greeted him. As our procession made its way into the square, I saw her from a distance, and knew her at once: Lucrezia.
She drew closer upon a white horse, while all those in her large entourage were mounted upon steeds of black or brown. Her attendants were clad in red-and-gold brocade, while she wore a gown of shining white satin and a gold brocade stomacher, trimmed with pearls. Upon her head was a golden net studded with diamonds, and round her throat a necklace fashioned of a great ruby surrounded by more diamonds.
She rode up to her brother. We three-I, Jofre, Lucrezia-dismounted, and she gave him a smile and welcoming kiss. Then she turned to me.
She had been chosen to greet us, Jofre had earlier explained, because she held a special place in the hearts of the people of Rome. To them, she was as the Virgin Mary: gentle and pure, imbued with a special love for her subjects. Even her name symbolized chastity and honour: she had been christened after that Lucrezia of ancient Rome who, having been raped by her husband’s foe, chose suicide as the only noble option, for she would not live with shame as her companion.
Behind the pale, upward-curving lips, behind the gentleness emanating from this Lucrezia’s gaze, I saw at once the jealousy hidden there-and the powerful intelligence. And at once I believed every story I had heard of Pope Alexander’s deviousness and cunning, for here it was, reflected in his daughter.
Physically, she belied her reputation: she was no beauty-though her bearing held such pride and confidence as to make her seem attractive from a distance. Her face was as plain as Jofre’s, weak-chinned, with a plump fold of neck beneath it; her eyes were large and a rather colourless shade of grey. Her hair, like her younger brother’s, was pale coppery gold, and for the day’s festivities it had been most carefully arranged into perfect, curling tendrils, which fell freely onto her shoulders and down her back, in the style of an unmarried woman.
She might as well have been. Jofre had shared with me the family gossip: that Lucrezia’s husband, Count Giovanni Sforza of Milan, had taken every possible opportunity since their marriage to avoid his bride. At the moment, he was entrenched at his estate in Pesaro, refusing every summons from the Pope to return to his wife, much to Lucrezia’s embarrassment. This astounded me; and when I asked Jofre, ‘Why will he not come to her?’ my husband-usually naively straightforward in other matters-would only answer, ‘He is afraid.’
Afraid of Pope Alexander’s wrath, I had assumed. Milan, which housed Sforza’s duchy, had struck a deal with the French to protect itself; the region’s rulers were no friends to Naples. Sforza’s fear must have been that of political retribution.
Yet, when I considered it at length, I recalled that Sforza had absented himself from Lucrezia long before King Charles ever dreamed of setting foot in Italy. Did he so despise his wife?
In the piazza that morning, Lucrezia’s expression, so cautious, so self-consciously pleasant and appropriate to the occasion, held no clue. ‘Sister,’ she said, just loudly enough to be heard by the crowds, just softly enough to be considered demure. ‘Welcome to your home.’
We embraced solemnly, each kissing the other’s cheeks. She grasped my arms in a manner that held me firmly in place, kept me from pressing too close against her; and in the instant that she pulled away, I caught the flicker of pure hatred in her eyes.
Lucrezia, beloved mistress of Rome, led us through the piazza and into the Vatican, and the magnificent chamber where Pope Alexander sat upon his golden throne, surrounded by the most powerful cardinals in Italy. The resemblance Lucrezia shared with him was striking: he had the weak chin, with many folds beneath it (for he had entered his sixth decade of life), and eyes of the same shape and size, though their colour was brown. His nose was more prominent, and his iron-grey hair was shaved in the monk’s tonsure; the bald area of his scalp was covered with a white skullcap. A great gold cross, glittering with diamonds, hung from his neck and rested just above his belly; on his finger he wore the ruby ring of Peter. He projected an aura of physical strength, for his chest and shoulders were broad and muscular, his face bright with life.
As we entered, he beamed like a lovesick bridegroom. ‘Jofre, my son! And Sancha, my daughter! So it is true- you are every bit the beauty Jofre’s letters claimed! Indeed, you are more magnificent than poor words could ever convey! Look!’ He gestured to the assembly. ‘Her eyes are green as emeralds!’
I did not hesitate. I was used to heads of state, uncowed by protocol. I strode forward without waiting for my husband and ascended the stairs to the throne, where I knelt and kissed the pontiff’s satin-slippered foot, as ritual demanded. Some seconds later, I was aware of Jofre kneeling beside me.
Alexander was pleased by my forthright show of reverence, my lack of timidity. He placed a large, cool hand upon my head in blessing, then pointed to a red velvet cushion placed on the marble step just to the left of his throne. ‘Here, my dear!’ Take your seat beside me. I have reserved a special place for you.’
Jofre embraced his father, then went to stand with the cardinals, while I sat on the velvet pillow, keenly aware that, on the opposite side of the throne, rested another matching cushion.
My ladies-in-waiting filed through, each paying their respects to the Pope as I had. When all formalities were done, Lucrezia ascended the steps to the throne and took her place upon the red cushion opposite mine.
I did my best to catch her gaze, and was rewarded again with the most subtle and fleeting look of sheer loathing. A daughter’s jealousy, I decided then; only later would I learn the true depth and cause of it.
‘God is truly good to me,’ Alexander exclaimed heartily, lifting his arms to gesture at me and Lucrezia, flanking him, ‘to surround me with such beautiful women!’
The gathered company laughed. Smiling with feigned shyness at the compliment, I looked to my husband to ensure that he was pleased with my performance.
He was. But beside him stood another who was equally pleased-if not more. One of the cardinals, a man my own age, lean and bearded, dark-eyed, with hair blue-black as my own, met my gaze boldly. I felt my cheeks flush hot; I looked away, my smile grown tremulous.
But I could not help stealing another glance at the handsome young cardinal-only to see him still regarding me with unapologetic interest.
