was an adulteress, betraying her own husband. So I was as good a friend to Lucrezia as I could be; she came to trust me after a fashion, although I understood now why she could completely trust no one. We danced together at parties, laughed, played chess (Lucrezia was brutally adept and always won) and at times went riding together in the Roman pine forests, attended by guards and our ladies.
Yet our companionship gnawed at me; I could not forget the jealousy she had shown me concerning her father’s affections-nor could I forget the apparently genuine rapture in her voice when I witnessed her coupling with Alexander.
I tried to justify it in my mind, as Alfonso might: Perhaps, after living so many years in a corrupt household, she had found the boundaries between good and evil blurred. Or perhaps her ecstatic moans had been contrived, an effort to protect herself from Alexander’s wrath.
I ate little, lost weight, and wandered the vast, labyrinthine gardens behind the Palazzo Santa Maria like a wraith during the day-and a black ghost on the appointed nights I met Cesare there.
On the 24th January 1497, Juan, glorious Duke of Gandia, celebrated Captain-General of the Church, came riding back into Rome-this time, with even more fanfare and celebration, as if he had come bringing victory and not defeat.
His Holiness had only words of praise for his inept son; all the curses Alexander had hurled at him during the war were now forgotten. At dinner, we listened to the Pope tell Juan how he was the papacy’s great hope: how he would bring glory to the House of Borgia when he was well enough to return to battle. Juan, in turn, answered with his insolent little smile. (When, precisely, Juan might ‘recover’ was never mentioned; and I never saw evidence of the wound that had sent him running from the enemy.)
I knew Cesare to be a man of fierce will-yet his jealousy towards his brother so vexed him, he could not entirely hide it. In his bedchamber one night, after we had made love, Cesare explained in great detail how Bartolommea could easily have been defeated; he went on to describe how the territory of the Papal States could be expanded, as we lay on our backs and stared up at the gilded, domed ceiling.
‘If we could get the backing of a much stronger army,’ Cesare proclaimed, ‘the Romagna could be ours. Here.’ With his forefinger, he traced the outline of a crooked boot-Italy-upon the ceiling, then pointed to its uppermost left corner. ‘There is the western border with France,’ he said, ‘and just to the right, Milan. Almost due east lies Venice’-he lowered his finger diagonally-‘then down to Florence. North of her is the area called the Romagna, far- northwest of Rome, in the very centre.
‘It is a simple matter of forcing loyalty from the barons in the Papal States-but Juan hasn’t the hardness, the cunning, to do it-I do.’ He sat up suddenly, enthused, eyes still focused overhead on imaginary lands to conquer. ‘Once the Papal States are firmly united-and if we got support from Spain, and perhaps’-he shot me a sly sidewise glance-‘Naples, we could take the entire Romagna.’ He spread out his hand, gesturing at the broad area stretching northwest from Rome to the coast. ‘Imola, Faenza, Forli, Cesena…The strongholds would fall before us, all in a row.’
‘What of the D’Estes?’ I interrupted casually. They were an extremely powerful family who had held a duchy in the Romagna for generations. The scion, Ercole, was a pious man, strongly loyal to the Church.
Cesare pondered this. ‘The D’Estes’ army is too powerful to conquer; I would far prefer to ally myself with them, and have them fight on our side.’
I gave a small nod, satisfied. The D’Estes were my cousins on Madonna Trusia’s side.
Cesare continued. ‘Then we take Florence. It has never recovered from the loss of Lorenzo Medici; politically, they are still in chaos. So long as our army is strong enough to defeat the French…’
‘And Venice?’ I asked, amused and curious. I had never seen such fire in him outside of lovemaking, and was surprised by the depth of his ambition. ‘There, you have no family to defeat, no barons. The citizens are used to a great deal of freedom; they will not easily surrender their appointed Council and accept a single ruler.’
‘It will be difficult,’ he admitted, his manner quite serious, ‘but possible, with enough men. Once they see our other successes, they might as well open their gates to us.’
I laughed, not to mock him, but in amazement at his determination. He had clearly given these things much thought; he spoke as if they were already accomplished. ‘I suppose you intend to walk up to France’s back gate and snatch Milan away from the Sforzas,’ I said. ‘You are a supremely confident man.’
He looked down at me and smiled broadly. ‘Madonna, you have no idea.’
‘If you are busy fighting wars,’ I asked-only half in jest, for I had never forgotten Cesare’s words that had so touched my heart, ‘when shall you find the time to take me to Naples, and give me children?’
The fierceness in his eyes and expression softened; his tone grew tender. ‘For you, Sancha, I would find the time.’
But Alexander had decided: Cesare was to succeed him as pope, while Juan would ensure the House of Borgia’s secular might. No matter that the former had no taste for his father’s choices, and the latter had no aptitude. Alexander’s decision was final.
On a chilly afternoon, I had wandered far into the garden, and found myself in a maze of boxwood hedges and rose thickets.
That day, my mind was once again on children-or rather, my lack of them. When I had first arrived in Rome, Alexander had constantly teased Jofre and me about when we would have children-but, after a time, when none appeared, his comments ceased. It did not seem to trouble Jofre overmuch, but I think we each secretly eyed the other, wondering: Was I barren? Or was the cause Jofre’s left testicle, which had never fully descended?
The truth of the matter was that, for our first two years of marriage, I had not wanted children and so had made constant use of water and lemon juice. Over the past several months, however, it occurred to me that a child would bring me not only status in the eyes of His Holiness, but perhaps also some degree of physical security.
While it was common knowledge amongst those in the House of Borgia that Jofre was not Alexander’s get, he had been acknowledged as an heir in a papal bull-and so his children would be regarded as Rodrigo’s grandchildren, and accorded all rights. Besides, to the Borgias, appearance was more highly regarded than fact.
And I adored Cesare so desperately that the thought of bearing his child was magical; love transformed the notion of motherhood from duty to privilege.
I turned a corner of the maze and found myself in a
I found also that I was not alone. There stood Juan, dressed in a scarlet satin tunic and saffron leggings; for once he was without a cap or turban. He had begun to grow a moustache since the beginning of his dismal campaign but, like Jofre, his facial hair grew in scantily.
He regarded me, arms akimbo, legs spread and planted firmly, wearing his customary smirk. ‘So,’ he said, his tone faintly gloating. ‘A lovely, sunny day. A bit cool…All the better for romance.’
‘Then you had best go elsewhere,’ I answered. My right hand moved instinctively to my hidden stiletto. ‘You won’t find it with me.’
Something in his expression shifted, hardened. ‘I am a determined man,’ he said, in a tone that made me glance about to see whether help was within earshot. ‘Tell me, Donna Sancha’-he took a step closer, which caused me to retreat a step-‘how is it that you are so attracted to Cesare, yet have nothing but disdain for me?’
‘Cesare is a man.’ I put special emphasis on the last word.
‘And I am not?’ He spread his hands, questioning. ‘Cesare is nothing but a bookworm. He dreams of battle, but all he knows is canon law. Let him speak of strategy all he wants-but he is good for nothing but spouting Latin. He has never been tested in battle as I have.’
‘True,’ I replied. ‘You have been tested, and found wanting. The instant a sword bit into your flesh, you ran squalling like an infant.’
The corners of his mouth turned downward; he moved more swiftly than I expected, and hit my jaw full force with his fist, knocking me backwards into the thicket. ‘Bitch,’ he said. ‘I’ll teach you respect for your betters. What I want, I shall have-and neither you nor Cesare can keep it from me.’
I flailed; the woody thorns cut into my flesh and tore my gown. Before I could regain my balance, Juan was upon me; he seized me by both arms, pulled me from the thicket, and hurled me down onto the gravel path.
In the instant before he could throw himself atop me, I grasped my stiletto, and slashed out in a broad swath, from his left breast upward to his right shoulder. It ripped through the fine satin easily, and I sensed that it caught