that I avoid, whenever possible, sitting next to His Holiness at festive occasions when there was much wine, that I behave and dress modestly around him, that when I sensed Alexander was becoming drunk, I distance myself from him.
All these things I did. However, I still sat across from Lucrezia, each of us on our velvet cushions on either side of the papal throne, at many of His Holiness’ audiences. I believe Alexander liked the pair of us, one dark, one golden, as fitting feminine adornments to his throne.
Lucrezia was, as Cesare had said, her father’s most respected advisor; often, she would interrupt a petitioner to whisper advice in Alexander’s ear. She had her own little throne where she heard petitions as well. I listened to her a few times, and was impressed by her intelligence. Both she and her father were skilled diplomats; regardless of how Rodrigo Borgia had come to the papacy, he fulfilled its duties admirably.
My affair with Cesare continued, always with our passion consummated in his private chambers. I brimmed with happiness; it was difficult to hide such joy from others, to keep from showing Cesare affection in public. He, meanwhile, kept speaking of how he intended to leave the priesthood.
One night, after we had collapsed, exhausted after lovemaking, he turned towards me and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. ‘I want to marry you, Sancha.’
Such words thrilled me; yet I could not deny the facts. ‘You are a cardinal,’ I said. ‘And I am already married.’
He touched my cheek. ‘I want to give you children. I would let you go to Naples-I know how you miss it. We could live there, if it would make you happy. I would only need to return to Rome a few times a year.’
I was near weeping; Cesare had read my heart and mind. He was right-nothing would make me happier. But such a thing seemed, at the time, quite impossible. And so I silenced him each time he broached the subject, for I did not want to nurse false hopes; nor did I want rumours to hurt Jofre. Cesare soon learned not to press. But it was clear that his frustration with his role as a cardinal was growing.
On the tenth of August, Juan, the Pope’s second eldest son, at last arrived in Rome, leaving behind a pregnant wife and small son in Spain. After the French invasion, Alexander had often spoken of his longing to have all his children live with him, since he claimed to have become increasingly aware of his own mortality, and the fragility of life. It was for this ostensible reason Jofre and I had been summoned to Rome-and now, with Juan’s appearance, Alexander’s wish was finally accomplished. All four of his children were home. It struck me as odd that Juan did not bring his family with him, though none of the Borgias seemed to think this remarkable.
There was another reason for his arrival: Juan, Duke of Gandia, was also Captain-General of the Church, commander of the papal army, and his father had called him home to punish the House of Orsini, who had supported the French during the war. Juan’s army was to attack and subdue every rebellious noble house in Rome, to make of each an example of Borgia vengeance. So long as Alexander was Pope, there would be peace in the Papal States.
Every cardinal in the city came out to greet the young Duke of Gandia as he arrived on horseback-on a steed bedecked with gold and silver bells. Yet Juan was not to be outdone by his mount: his red velvet cap and brown velvet tunic were heavy with gems and pearls; no doubt, beneath all the finery, he was melting in the August sun. I watched from a window in the Palazzo Santa Maria as Cesare met his brother and led him to his new home, the Apostolic Palace.
That night was cause for a great celebration-which required my attendance, along with the rest of the family. I dressed demurely, in black; Esmeralda was quick to mention all the rumours she had heard, that Juan was a scoundrel of the worst sort. Perhaps she feared I would ignore her warning concerning him, just as I had refused to listen to any of her unkind remarks about Cesare.
The feast came first at a private supper, with the papal family and related cardinals. I had learned to seat myself discreetly farther away from the Pope, that I might not summon unwanted attention; that night, he was flanked by Juan and, as always, Lucrezia. As for myself, I sat between Jofre and Cesare.
How shall I best describe Juan? A shooting star with a charm that dazzled, then faded as the man’s true personality revealed itself. He entered the room late-thinking nothing of making His Holiness wait, and Alexander said not a word about the inconvenience, whereas anyone else’s tardiness would be cause for insult.
Juan entered blazing: eyes bright with mirth (yet sly), smile wide (yet arrogant), laughter ringing through the halls. His lips were thick and crude, like his father’s, his hair neither light nor truly dark; he was clean-shaven, and neither as handsome as Cesare nor as plain as Lucrezia. He had with him a friend-a tall, dark-skinned Moor (I later learned this was Djem, the Turk, a royal hostage in the papal court)-and the two of them were similarly dressed in silk turbans, and bright red-and-yellow striped satin robes. Around his neck he wore gold necklaces, so many of such weight that I did not see how he held himself upright.
In the centre of Juan’s turban was a ruby twice the size of an eye, from which sprang a peacock feather.
Alexander trembled with delight, as though he had just been given a new virgin to deflower. ‘My child!’ he sighed. ‘My dearest, dearest son! Oh, how dark the days have been without you!’ And he clasped Juan to him, overwhelmed by happiness.
Juan pressed his cheek to the old man’s-eclipsing the Pope’s face, but allowing himself to study the reaction of his siblings from beneath half-lowered lids. All of us had risen when Juan entered, and I could not help noting the sudden tautness in Lucrezia’s expression, the fact that her smile was small and insincere.
I caught, too, the glance that passed between Juan and Cesare-saw the gloating look of triumph on Juan’s face, the look of calculated indifference on Cesare’s. But beside me, my lover closed one hand into a fist.
We sat. Dinner passed with His Holiness speaking not a single word to any person other than Juan, and Juan was quick to regale us all with humorous tales of life in Spain, and why he was glad to be back in Rome. Questions about his wife, Maria Henriques, cousin to the King of Spain, were answered with a shrug and the bored reply, ‘Pregnant. Always sick, that woman.’
‘I hope you are treating her well,’ Alexander said, in a tone of reproach mixed with indulgence. Juan’s escapades with courtesans were legend-and twice he had kidnapped and violated two young virgins of noble birth shortly before their weddings. Only the Borgia coffers saved him from death at the hands of the women’s male relatives.
‘
If any sarcasm dwelled in those words, His Holiness chose not to hear them. He smiled, the indulgent father.
Throughout dinner, Juan held court; he addressed himself to each of us, in turn, inquiring as to the state of our lives. Of Jofre, he asked, ‘What now, brother? What did you do to win yourself such a magnificent bride?’
Before Jofre, blushing, could seize on a witty reply, Juan answered his own question.
‘Of course. It is because you are a Borgia, and therefore fortunate; just as all we Borgia children are fortunate.’
Jofre fell silent, and his expression darkened slightly; I remembered how Cesare had once let slip that my husband was not considered the Pope’s true son, which made Juan’s comment a veiled barb.
Juan laughed heartily at it-he was already quite drunk, being even more predisposed to wine than his father. Alexander chuckled, taking the comment as a compliment to himself, but Lucrezia, Cesare and I did not so much as smile. Beneath the table, I put my hand upon my husband’s thigh in support.
Lucrezia’s conversation with Juan was more pleasant and animated; Cesare’s discussion with his brother was curt but civil. Then the Duke of Gandia turned his attention to me.
‘How do you find Rome?’ he asked, eyes gleaming, his expression warm and enthusiastic. It was easy, at that moment, to see his father’s outgoing nature in him.
I answered honestly. ‘I miss the sea. But Rome has an allure of its own. The buildings are magnificent, the gardens beautiful, and the sun…’ I hesitated, searching for the right words to capture the essence of the light, which painted everything golden so that it seemed to glow from within.
‘…is beastly hot in August,’ Juan finished, with a short laugh.
I gave a small smile. ‘It
This pleased everyone at the table, especially Alexander.
‘Are you homesick?’ Juan asked pointedly.
I wound my arm around Jofre’s. ‘Where my husband dwells, that is my home: and he is here, so how can I be
