But as I entered the Hall of the Saints, my eyes were as dazzled as if I had stared directly into the sun. Never had I seen such intense colour, such profusion of decoration. The vaulted ceiling was covered with countless paintings, each separated by gilded mouldings, some contained within lunettes; the background colour was the deepest blue I had ever seen, from pure crushed lapis lazuli, against which were rich reds, yellows, greens, and more pure gold. Each wall bore a different fresco, representing a different saint: I noted Saint Susanna, haloed in a draping blue gown, accosted in front of a fountain by two lecherous old men; in the foreground were rabbits, symbols of lust.
‘We paid Pinturicchio a pretty sum for the work. Beautiful, is it not?’ my host asked quietly; then, with a leer, added, ‘Though not so beautiful as you, my darling.’
I pulled away from him, and walked across flecked pastel marble toward a rendering of Catherine, disputing with pagan philosophers before the Emperor Maximilian; in the background, the Arch of Constantine was visible. The young saint, dressed like a Roman noblewoman in red and black, her golden hair flowing down to her waist, was unmistakably familiar.
‘Why, it is Lucrezia,’ I remarked.
The Pope chuckled, pleased. ‘It is indeed.’ There was naught of piety to him, only an earthy love of life. Appropriate, that he had taken the papal name of Alexander-not the name of a Christian, but of the Macedonian conqueror.
I gazed up at the ceiling. There were other tableaux-the martyred Saint Sebastian, Saint Anthony visiting the hermit, Paul-but the dominant painting was that of a pagan man and woman gesturing at a great bull. I noticed then that smaller pictures of the bull were repeated everywhere, interspersed with the symbol of the papacy, the tiara atop the crossed Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.
‘The Apis bull,’ Alexander explained. ‘In ancient Egypt, it was worshipped as an incarnation of the god Osiris. The bull appears on our family crest.’ Before I could react, he once again moved close to me and wrapped an arm about my waist. ‘It is a symbol of masculine strength and virility, you know.’ Abruptly, he pressed a hand to my breast and attempted to kiss me; I slipped from his grasp and once again, walked quickly away. I understood why the pious Savonarola had called Alexander the Antichrist…for in the Pope’s apartments, pagan symbolism took precedence over Christian.
The Pope let me go with a little laugh. ‘You are a coy one, my dear. No matter; I enjoy the chase.’
‘Your Holiness, please,’ I said candidly. ‘I wish only to be a faithful wife to your son. I do not desire to be a favourite; and you have your choice of so many women…’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but of none so lovely.’
‘I am flattered,’ I countered. ‘But please, let me remain simply your loyal daughter-in-law.’
He smiled smugly and nodded, but did not appear to change his plans for me. He gestured broadly. ‘As you wish. Let us continue with the tour.’
We walked through different chambers, each as glorious as the first, each with a different theme: the Room of the Creed, the Room of the Faith, with a large mural showing the Adoration of the Magi, the Hall of the Sibyls, with paintings of Old Testament prophets announcing God’s wrath, accompanied by stern-faced sibyls, pagan seeresses. I had never seen such a display of magnificence and wealth; I was in fact glad that I had visited the other chambers before we went to dine, so that I could avoid gaping at my surroundings like an awestruck peasant.
His Holiness made no further attempt to seduce me, and we at last joined the others for dinner in the Room of the Liberal Arts. Beneath a painting of The Arithmetic-a blond woman draped in green velvet, holding a golden tome-the Pope gestured to me. ‘You will sit beside me.’
As he led me to the long dining table, covered with sconces and a great feast-roast fowl, venison, and lamb, wine and grapes, cheeses and breads-I passed by several cardinals, all of them Borgias, all of them clad in the traditional scarlet robes. I scanned their faces and failed to find my handsome man among them.
At the head of the table was the Pope’s chair, taller and more ornate than the others; to his right sat Lucrezia. I curtsied; she gave me a prim little nod, her fine, small lips pressed tightly together, her eyes narrowed and managing, cleverly, to convey only to me the intensity of her contempt. Jofre noticed none of this subtlety, but kissed his sister and sat beside her.
My empty chair waited directly to the Pope’s left; once again, I had been cast as Lucrezia’s direct opposition. I moved to take it-and was stopped at once by the Pope’s hand, firm yet affectionate, upon my shoulder.
‘But wait! Our darling Donna Sancha has not yet met her new brother!’
My gaze followed the Pope’s gesture to the chair beside mine. The young man sitting in it had already risen: a man my age. A strikingly handsome man, with a fine, straight nose and a strong chin, covered by a full beard.
‘Cesare! Cesare, kiss your new sister, Sancha!’
He had his mother’s features, and hair dark as jet, so I had not recognized him as a Borgia. Unlike the other cardinals, he had changed into the black frock of a priest-one of plain but elegant design. The gaze we exchanged was no less powerful than it had been earlier that morning, when I had looked down at him from my seat beside the papal throne.
I had known that Jofre had an older brother, Cesare, the Cardinal of Valencia, called by some Valentino. Yet I had not made the connection that morning at the papal audience, when Jofre had gone to stand beside him.
We turned to each other and performed a courteous but familial embrace, each clasping the other’s arms above the elbows. I turned my cheek upwards towards him, and was startled when he bent down to plant a firm, single kiss upon my brow. His beard was full, thick, a man’s, and I trembled as it brushed against my skin.
‘You must hear my confession, Holiness,’ he said, without taking his gaze from me. ‘I envy my brother; he has captured a truly beautiful woman.’ Everyone laughed politely.
‘You are too kind,’ I murmured.
Alexander took his seat-which allowed everyone to resume theirs-and smiling, gestured at Cesare. ‘Is he not witty?’ he said, with honest love and pride. ‘I am blessed with the most beautiful and intelligent children in all Christendom; I thank God each one of you is now here with me, and safe.’
I had been repelled by the Pope’s inability to control his lust-but now I noticed how his sons and his daughter bloomed beneath his heartfelt praise. Obviously, Alexander was a man of generous emotion, despite his flaws, and I wondered wistfully what it must be like to have a father so affectionate and kind.
I said and ate little during dinner, though the others laughed and spoke freely; I spent the time listening to Cesare. I remember little that he said, but his voice, his manner, were like velvet.
The feast was limited to family-an extended one, with many names to be committed to memory. I already knew Cardinal Borgia of Monreale, who had witnessed the consummation of my marriage to Jofre.
Long after the moon had risen, the Pope set his massive hands upon the table, and pushed himself up-which prompted everyone else at the table to stand.
‘On to the reception,’ he announced, his voice thick with wine.
Out we went, into the largest room in the apartments, where a small crowd waited. At the sight of us, musicians began to play their lutes and reeds. Though I had not been introduced, I recognized at once she whom Rome called
With her was her husband, Orsino Orsini-he with a distracting monocular gaze, for he had lost an eye some years ago. Orsino was short, stocky of build, morose of expression and resigned in manner. He and his wife were closely watched by his mother, the Pope’s niece, Adriana Mila, a stout matron with a shrewd, assessing glance and constant furrows of worry upon her brow. Adriana was a skilled tactician; she had earned a great deal of the Pope’s favour not only by procuring Giulia for him, but also by raising Lucrezia in the Pope’s household. Surely, no one brought up in this woman’s care could learn the art of trust.
There were others there as well-nobles and their wives, attendants of the papal court, more cardinals, and suspiciously unattended women to whom I was not introduced. The event was supremely informal, not at all what I was accustomed to in Naples or Squillace, where Jofre and I took our thrones and nobles and family were carefully
