himself to Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, who sat on his right. As for Cesare, he occasionally caught my gaze, his own dolorous, pleading. Once he tried to speak in my ear while the others were distracted, but I gently pushed him away, saying, ‘The time is not right, Cardinal. Let us not cause ourselves further pain by speaking of our situation.’
He pressed back, and whispered, ‘Look at you, Sancha-your face is drawn, you have grown thin. Admit it: you are as miserable as I. But I see how you cling now to Jofre; do not tell me you would let something as ridiculous as guilt destroy our love.’
I looked at him, stricken. I could not deny my sorrow-but its cause went far deeper than Cesare suspected. I turned from him.
We said nothing more to each other. At last the sun set, and the tapers and torches were lit.
It was at this time that a stranger joined our group, a tall, lean man, his face entirely covered by a ceramic mask painted brightly in the Venetian style. With holes for the eyes and a slit mouth, it displayed a solemn expression; its forehead was inscribed with the symbol of the scales. His hair and body were draped in a full hooded cloak, further hiding his appearance. Our visitor knew everyone in our group, and greeted them by name, but he disguised his voice by deepening it; intrigued, we tried to guess his identity. It was the time of Carnival, with many masquerade parties being thrown in the city; we all assumed our guest had come from such a function.
Vannozza welcomed him to the table, and the servants brought a chair for him; I was delighted when it was placed between me and Juan, further separating us.
Juan was quite taken by our surprise visitor, and spent a great deal of time questioning him in an effort to guess his identity. The stranger completely charmed him, for as the night wore on, the two put their heads together and I overheard them making plans for further adventure after the party. At one point, Juan left to relieve himself of an overabundance of wine, and Jofre and I chose to make our farewells and return home.
But before I stood, I turned to the unknown man beside me and asked,
He glanced over at me, and I saw an odd light flicker in the dark eyes behind the mask. ‘Call me Justice, Madonna,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘For I am here to put things aright.’
His answer evoked an odd chill in me. I regarded him in silence, then rose and hurried to my husband’s side. As we embraced and kissed Vannozza during our leave-taking, Juan returned to the table and decided it was time for him and his mysterious friend to go in search of amorous women.
As the two left abruptly, without saying farewell to their hostess, I turned and glanced at Cesare.
The cardinal was just lifting his goblet to his lips, but I could see his eyes. They were focused on Juan and the stranger, with the same detached intensity they had directed at the corpulent body of Antonio Orsini, swinging from the olive tree.
None of us-His Holiness included-noticed Juan’s failure to return the following morning. It was his habit, when he woke in a strange woman’s bed, to wait until cover of evening to return to the Vatican.
But evening turned to night. Jofre and I had been invited to sup with the Pope, and listened to Alexander’s worries. While we were at table, Juan’s captain appeared, and announced that the Captain-General had failed to attend to pressing business that day.
Alexander wrung his hands. ‘Where can he be? Why would he want to cause his poor father such worry? If something has happened…’
Jofre rose from his place and put a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder. ‘Nothing has happened, Father. You know how Juan is when he has found a new woman. He simply cannot deny himself another night of love…but I am sure he will return come morning.’
‘Yes, yes…’ Alexander murmured, eager to seize upon such comfort.
I said nothing, but could not erase from my thoughts the image of the masked stranger called Justice.
With His Holiness sufficiently calmed, we retired and went to our separate beds. Some hours later, I was summoned from sleep by an armed soldier and led to the Vatican. The Pope was not sitting on his throne waiting for the traditional greeting of a kiss on his slipper; he was pacing, glancing out the window at the torches in the piazza below. I did not know it then, but these were the Spanish guards, patrolling the streets in search of their missing commander. Jofre stood beside Alexander, trying to keep an arm on his restless father’s shoulder by way of comfort.
Only later did it occur to me that Alexander had not called on Cesare to console him.
‘What is it, Holiness?’ I asked; the situation did not lend itself to formality. ‘What has happened?’
Alexander turned his face toward me, his great, broad brow deeply furrowed. Unshed tears shone in his eyes. ‘Juan has disappeared. I fear the worst.’
‘Father,’ Jofre soothed, ‘you have made yourself sick with worry. Juan has simply forgotten himself with a woman-as I said, he will certainly be home by morning.’
‘No.’ Alexander shook his head. ‘I am the architect of this. I struck out foolishly at Ascanio Sforza’s guest-I should never have had him hanged. God is punishing me by taking my favourite son.’
To his credit, Jofre did not even wince at his father’s last two words.
A cold certainty settled over me. Juan was indeed dead, but not for the reason Alexander believed.
I struggled to find compassion in myself: Alexander had summoned me here for comfort. Lucrezia was no longer here to provide the soft, feminine presence that soothed his soul; and Jofre was gentle, unlike Cesare. How could I do what I had been called to do?
Following my husband’s lead, I set a hand softly on Alexander’s other shoulder. ‘Your Holiness, this is now in the hands of God. Worry is fruitless; we will know Juan’s fate when the time is right. Jofre is right: we must not be concerned until morning.’
He turned toward me. ‘Ah, Sancha. I am glad I called for you; you are most wise.’ He clasped both my hands inside his great ones. Tears spilled from his eyes onto my skin.
‘Perhaps we should pray the rosary for Juan’s sake,’ Jofre suggested quite seriously. ‘Whether harm has come to him or not, it can only do his soul good.’
Both the Pope and I regarded him with scepticism; I realized, studying Alexander, that he believed no more than I in the efficacy of prayer. Yet such was his desperation that he hugged his son. ‘You pray on my behalf, Jofre. My heart is too troubled, but it will do me good to hear you.’
Jofre gave me a questioning glance. I gave him a look that made it clear I did not wish to join him. Even if I had been a good Christian, I could not have engaged in the hypocrisy of praying for the likes of Juan; a part of me still desired revenge against the man.
Upon realizing that no one wished to join him, Jofre produced a rosary from his tunic-a fact that surprised me- and began to pray in all earnestness:
‘O blessed Virgin, always pray for us, that God might forgive us and give us grace to live so that we might be rewarded with heaven upon our death.’
The situation was too grim for me to show any astonishment, but I was surprised to hear my husband repeat the
If Alexander noticed the difference, he did not show it; he walked back over to the windows and continued to pace.
Over and over, Jofre repeated the prayer; it has been said that Saint Dominic recommended one hundred fifty repetitions a day, and certainly, Jofre must have come close to it before he was interrupted. The soothing, monotonous sound of his chanting brought me and Alexander a measure of calm, for at last His Holiness came back to his throne and sat quietly.
Sadly, it was shattered by the appearance of one of the guards, his uniform smeared with blood. We turned to regard him with horror.
