trying to quiet him-he gestured extravagantly at one of the guests: the corpulent Antonio Orsini, a relative of Giulia’s husband and also of Cardinal Sforza. Orsini sat at a table beside his plump wife and two sons-both bishops-and was, at that instant, stuffing as much as he could of a roast duckling into his mouth. He was exceedingly rotund-so much so his hands could scarce clasp each other atop his huge belly; his face, puffed and fleshy, possessed no fewer than three folds beneath his chin, which even his dark beard could not hide.
‘Perhaps, Don Antonio,’ Juan called, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the entire assembly, ‘if you did not linger over-long at the tables of your wealthier relatives, you would not be so fat!’
Some snickered.
Don Antonio set down the remaining piece of cooked flesh and waved his thick, grease-coated fingers dismissively. ‘Perhaps, Don Juan, if you did not run so swiftly from your enemies, you would not be so lean.’
Many in the crowd
Juan drew his sword and staggered towards his mocker. ‘You shall pay dearly for your insult, sir. I would challenge you to a duel-but, being a gentleman, I cannot take advantage of one so grotesquely incapable of physical exertion.’
Don Antonio rose and stepped forward; even this slight effort left him short of breath. ‘I am perfectly capable of responding to your challenge, sir-but you are no gentleman. You are nothing more than a coward and a common bastard.’
Juan’s eyes narrowed with rage-the same uncontrolled fury that had once been directed at me. I expected him to lash out; instead, white-faced and speechless, he whirled on his heel and strode from the palace.
Orsini laughed loudly. ‘As always, a coward. See? He runs again.’
Ascanio Sforza, eager as a host to ease any unpleasantness, signalled for the musicians to play. Dancing commenced; I received several invitations, but refused them all. Soon I whispered to Jofre that I was tired and wished to return home. He sought Cardinal Sforza, that we might make our farewells.
But we were interrupted by a loud commotion at the chamber entrance: to the assembly’s amazement, a contingent of a dozen armed papal guards marched inside, swords drawn, their expressions menacing.
‘We seek Don Antonio Orsini,’ the commander announced.
Cardinal Sforza rushed forward. ‘Please, please,’ he told the commander. ‘This is a private residence, and a private dispute between two guests-and a minor one at that, provoked by wine. There is no call for such an extreme response.’
‘I am here at the pleasure of His Holiness, Pope Alexander,’ the officer replied. ‘Both the Captain-General and His Holiness have been slandered. Such a crime cannot be overlooked.’
He led his troops past the astonished cardinal; as the rest of us watched, they seized the hapless Don Antonio. ‘This is an outrage!’ he cried, as his wife wailed and wrung her hands. ‘An outrage! I have done nothing for which I can be imprisoned.’
But taking a prisoner was not the soldiers’ intent. Instead, they dragged their victim outside onto the estate grounds, where a pair of their fellows had already secured a length of rope to an ancient olive tree. Two large torches burned on either side: this event was intended to be witnessed. We guests followed, stunned.
At the sight of the noose that awaited him, Don Antonio fell to his knees and let go a shriek. ‘I apologize! Please, enough! Tell the Captain-General I beg his forgiveness, that I shall make whatever public apology he wishes!’
Even to the last instant, I did not believe it would happen; I think none of us did. I clutched Jofre’s arm, Cesare at my other side. We three stared, transfixed.
The noose had to be loosened to slip around Don Antonio’s thick neck; he sobbed shamelessly as it was retightened.
Abruptly, the commander gave the signal for the stool to be kicked aside.
The crowd gasped, disbelieving. Only Cesare made no sound.
Don Antonio swung before us in the cool night air, his eyes wide, bulging, lifeless. So silent did our gathering become that for a time, the only sound was the creaking of the branch as the heavy body swayed back and forth.
I looked away-at Jofre first, whose gentle features were frozen in an expression of pure horror. And then I glanced at Cesare.
The cardinal’s gaze was intent, pensive, that of an ambitious mind at work. He was staring directly at Don Antonio’s body-yet he saw right through it, at an opportunity that lay beyond.
A week after, in mid-June, when Lucrezia had been at San Sisto scarcely a fortnight, Vannozza Cattanei threw a family party in honour of her sons. Jofre and I attended, along with Cesare and Juan in all his arrogant glory, as well as Cardinal Borgia of Monreale.
The setting was outdoors, to take advantage of the lovely weather, in a vineyard Vannozza owned. A great table had been set up to accommodate us and our courtiers; it was adorned with flowers and golden candelabra, flanked by many torches-though the celebration began in the afternoon, it was intended to continue past nightfall.
I held Jofre’s arm as we were escorted onto the property. While he still indulged in courtesans and much wine, I turned a blind eye to such behaviour; instead, I focused on his goodness, and had decided to devote myself to pleasing him as best I could, for I knew not how else to give life meaning.
Once we had arrived at the party site, I was introduced to his mother for the first time. Vannozza was a handsome woman, auburn-haired and serenely confident; child-bearing had left her a bit thick-waisted, but she still possessed an attractive shape, with a full bosom and long, delicate arms and hands; her eyes were as pale as Lucrezia’s. Her face was Cesare’s-strong-jawed, with sculpted cheeks and a straight, prominent nose. On this day, she was dressed in dove grey silk, which accentuated her eyes and fiery hair.
I let go of Jofre’s arm and took Vannozza’s proffered hands; she studied me with a manner that was both calculating and warm. ‘Your Highness. Donna Sancha.’ We embraced, then she drew back to study me and waited until Jofre had moved out of earshot to say, ‘My son loves you very dearly. I trust you are being a good wife to him.’
I returned her gaze openly, sincerely. ‘I am doing my best, Donna Vannozza.’
She smiled with proud satisfaction at her three sons, as Jofre met Juan and Cesare and received a goblet of wine from a servant. ‘They have done well for themselves, have they not?’
‘They have, Donna.’
‘Let us join them.’
We did so. I noticed at once that Cesare was dressed, not in his habitual black priest’s frock, but in a magnificent scarlet tunic embroidered with gold thread; Juan was, as usual, dressed gaudily, in rubies, gold brocade and bright blue velvet, yet the Cardinal of Valencia looked far more striking.
I moved next to Jofre, and directed the requisite smile and nod at his two older brothers. ‘Your Holiness,’ I said to Cesare, averting my eyes as he kissed me on each cheek, as familial relations required. ‘Captain-General,’ I said to Juan. To my surprise, there was no gloating in the Duke of Gandia’s eyes, no challenge, no guarded anger; his kiss was polite, distant. He behaved as one who had been chastened.
I greeted the other guests. When the time arrived to make our way to the table, Vannozza took my arm and said firmly, ‘Here, Sancha. I have chosen the places for everyone.’
To my dread, she sat me directly between Juan and Cesare.
Fortunately, at the beginning of the dinner, we were all distracted by toasts, led by the matriarch, Vannozza. Juan was saluted first. ‘To the Captain-General,’ Donna Vannozza proclaimed, with gusto, ‘who shall bring us all peace and prosperity.’
This brought cheers from Juan’s grooms; he bowed grandly, like a gracious sovereign.
‘To the wise and scholarly Cardinal of Valencia,’ Vannozza proclaimed next. There were some polite murmurs, and then came the final toast.
‘To the Prince and Princess of Squillace.’ This was greeted with silent smiles.
Dinner, though interminable, did not go as badly as I had feared. Juan said not a word to me: he addressed