his treacherous nature? Surely there must have been signs-a faint coldness in the eyes, perhaps, a fleeting cruelty in the lips…Of all people, I should have seen them, for I had found them before, in my own father’s eyes and lips; and though they were not outwardly visible in Ferrante, I had sensed them in his evil heart.
I left the balcony and stole silently through the bedchamber, where Esmeralda slept, out into the antechamber. There, carefully making my way in the darkness, I poured myself a goblet of wine, and with trembling fingers, struggled to open the glass vial.
An image, as if from a dream, coalesced before me in the shadows: my father’s body, hanging from a great wrought iron sconce, with Messina’s harbour as its backdrop.
My lips tightened; I straightened, and looked down at the vial with disgust. I swore to myself at that moment that nothing, no one-certainly not Cesare Borgia-would ever provoke me to take my own life. I would never become the coward my father had been.
For the rest of the night, I sat on the balcony, and cursed myself for not being able to control my feelings for Cesare. I knew not how long they would persist-but I was determined, for however long I lived, never again to indulge them.
In the morning, at first light, I wrote him a letter stating that, given the rumours surrounding ‘family members’ at the Vatican, it was best that we halt our trysts-at least for the time being, in order not to add to talk of scandal. I had Donna Esmeralda deliver it to one of his attendants.
He did not respond, in person or by letter; if he was wounded by my request, he did not show it in public, but treated me civilly.
For the next two days, I did not appear at the family suppers, and turned down Lucrezia’s invitations to visit her. I could not bear to see her after learning what she knew. I lay abed during the days, though I did not sleep. Nor did I find rest at night; instead, I sat outside in the darkness, staring out at the starlit sky, wishing for an end to my pain.
I continued such self-indulgent behaviour until, in the late hours, Donna Esmeralda emerged onto the balcony in her nightgown.
‘Donna Sancha, you must stop this. You will make yourself ill.’
‘Perhaps I am already ill,’ I said carelessly.
She frowned, but her expression remained one of maternal concern. ‘You worry me,’ she said. ‘You act like your father did, when the times of blackness came over him.’
And she disappeared back into the bedchamber.
I stared after her, thunderstruck. Then I looked back at the sky, as if searching for an answer there. I thought of Jofre, my husband, a person to whom I owed amends. Perhaps he was weak in character, but he remained sweet-natured in the midst of wickedness, and unlike his so-called brothers, wished no one harm. He deserved a good wife.
I thought also of Naples, and of those I loved there.
At last I rose. I did not go to the bed with hopes of sleep, but instead went out to the antechamber and lit a taper, then found quill and parchment.
With regard to Juan, Cesare had been right in saying that it would not take long before he created an opportunity for the family to be rid of him.
Only a few days after I sent Cesare the letter saying we should no longer meet, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza-brother of Ludovico Sforza, ruler of Milan, of relation to the maligned Giovanni Sforza-gave a great reception at the Vice- Chancellor’s Palace in Rome. Many distinguished guests were invited. Lucrezia was still closeted at San Sisto, but Jofre begged me to attend with him. Wanting to be an obedient wife, I agreed-even though the guest list included two men I wanted to avoid-the Duke of Gandia and his brother, the Cardinal of Valencia.
The Vice-Chancellor’s Palace was undeniably grand: the estates were so large that we were obliged to ride up to the entry in carriages, and we entered the Great Hall-larger by thrice than the Castel Nuovo’s-announced in turn. We Borgias arrived together, and were presented in order of our importance to the Pope: Juan first, removing his feathered cap and waving it at the crowd to the sound of cheers for the Captain-General; then Cesare, silent in black; and at last Jofre and me, the Prince and Princess of Squillace.
The surroundings were breath-taking; a large, three-tiered indoor fountain had been created. It was bordered by hundreds of flickering candles, whose light painted each drop of water golden. The floors were festooned with rose petals, perfuming the air; this effect was outdone only by the aroma of the food, borne on golden trays by servants. So vast was the room that even the large white marble statuary-of glorious naked men and women, apparently ancient Romans-seemed small in scale.
I summoned unfelt smiles and greeted those dignitaries I already knew, and let myself be introduced to those I did not. Mainly, I did my best to avoid Juan and Cesare.
As I strolled arm-in-arm with my husband through the assembly, we were met by Giovanni Borgia, the Cardinal of Monreale, who had witnessed our wedding night. The cardinal had grown even portlier, and the fringe of hair beneath his red skullcap had turned almost completely to grey, but his fingers sparkled as always with diamonds.
‘Your Highnesses!’ he cried, with an enthusiasm that reminded me of his cousin Rodrigo. ‘How good to see you both!’ He slyly scanned my bosom, then winked at Jofre and nudged him with an elbow. ‘I see the roses are still blooming.’
Jofre laughed, a bit embarrassed by the reference, but replied, ‘She has become even more beautiful, has she not, Your Holiness?’
The cardinal grinned. ‘She has. And you, Don Jofre, have become a real man…no doubt because you have a real woman for a wife.’
I smiled politely; Jofre chuckled again. We were on the verge of moving on through the group to acknowledge the others when Cesare-much to my dismay-joined us.
‘Don Giovanni,’ he said warmly. ‘You are looking as hale and hearty as ever.’
The Pope’s nephew smiled. ‘Life agrees with me…as I can see it does with both of you brothers. But Jofre’-his tone lowered and grew conspiratorial-‘feed your wife some delicacies. She has grown a bit thin. Are you riding her too hard, my boy?’
Taken aback, Jofre opened his lips to reply; fortunately, the cardinal was at that moment distracted as our host, Ascanio Sforza, called to him.
My husband looked at me; he had been concerned for my health of late, kind and solicitous. ‘I shall do that,’ he declared. ‘Let me find a servant to fetch you some food.’ And he was off, leaving me alone with Cesare.
I tried to wander towards another group, but Cesare blocked my path, forcing me to stand alone with him.
‘Now it is you who are unkind to me, Madonna,’ Cesare said, his tone that of the pining lover. ‘I understood your letter, and appreciate your desire for discretion, given the circumstances with my sister, but-’
I interrupted him. ‘It is more than that. Juan spread rumours about us; we must do what we can to dispel them.’ I tried to keep my expression controlled; I fought to pretend that I was doing this for our good, and not because I despised him.
Yet at the same time, another part of me yearned for him-a fact that filled me with shame and self-loathing. I looked upon him, so handsome, so self-possessed, so elegant and so evil.
He took a step closer; instinctively, I moved back, thinking of him winding his arms about Lucrezia’s waist and proclaiming,
‘If there are already rumours, why should we suffer? Why not go on as we had before? We have had only one night together since our reunion…’ He paused to lower his face, then let go a sigh and lifted it again. ‘I know you are right, Sancha, but it is so difficult. Give me hope, at least. Tell me when I can see you again.’
Blessedly, Jofre was returning; I turned eagerly towards my husband as he proffered me a plate of sugared almonds and sweetbreads. I addressed myself to the food and did my best to avoid Cesare’s gaze.
As I ate, our attention was drawn by a loud, drunken shout from another corner; I recognized the voice as we all turned towards the source of the disturbance.
‘Behold the lounging gluttons!’ Juan slurred. Accompanied by one of his captains-who at the moment, was
