Sadly, Alexander grew bored with his newfound love of piety, and soon called for us to rejoin him in Rome.
We returned to Rome in the late autumn, just before winter settled in. Cesare had already come home-still a cardinal, though he had convinced Alexander to begin the manipulations of Church law necessary to free him of his scarlet robes. Fortunately, he was distracted by the legal arrangements and dispensed with appearing at family suppers. I saw little of him during those weeks.
Lucrezia, meanwhile, remained at San Sisto until the days before Christmas, when she was commanded to appear at the Vatican by the cardinals who were to grant her divorce.
I visited Lucrezia in her chambers as Pantsilea tried to dress her-but she was several months gone with child, and even the fullest ermine-trimmed tabard worn over her gown could not hide the fact. We embraced and I kissed her; she smiled, but her lips trembled slightly.
‘They will do whatever your father tells them,’ I reminded her, but her voice wavered nonetheless.
‘I know.’ Her tone was uncertain.
‘Things will improve,’ I continued. ‘Soon your confinement will be over, and we will be able to go out together. You have been very brave, Lucrezia. Your courage will be rewarded.’
She steadied herself and put a hand on my cheek. ‘I was right to trust you, Sancha. You have been a good friend.’
I was told she conducted herself admirably in front of the consistory, and did not flinch when it was announced that the midwives had found her to be
From that moment on, Lucrezia remained at home in the Palazzo Santa Maria as a recluse. It was inappropriate for her to sit, heavy with child, beside her father’s throne while he held audience, so she remained in her chambers.
In his daughter’s absence, Alexander requested that I occasionally sit, not on Lucrezia’s velvet cushion, but on the one he had once reserved for me; I could not refuse what was in essence a command.
One February morning I sat dutifully, listening to the plea a particular noble brought before His Holiness concerning an annulment he wished for his eldest daughter. I was quite bored and so was Alexander, who yawned several times, and kept adjusting his ermine wrap about his shoulders for warmth against the winter cold. Ancient cardinals stood in the room, shivering despite the fire blazing in the hearth.
Suddenly, shouts came from several rooms away.
‘Bastard! Son of a whore! How dare you touch her!’
The tone was one of raw, unrestrained fury; the voice was Cesare’s.
The nobleman who had been droning away stopped; all of us in the throne room stared, wide-eyed, in the direction of the commotion.
Rapid footsteps approached; Cesare was giving chase to someone headed directly towards us.
‘I will kill you, you bastard! Who do you think you are, to have touched her?’
A young man came running at full speed into the throne room; I recognized him as Perotto, the servant who had accompanied me to and from San Sisto, when Lucrezia was confined there.
Cesare followed, red-faced and waving a sword, displaying an utterly uncharacteristic rage.
‘Cesare…?’ the Pope asked, so startled his voice came out barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and with greater authority, demanded, ‘What is this about?’
‘Help me, Your Holiness!’ the distraught Perotto cried. ‘He has gone mad, he is raving, spouting foolishness-and he will not be content until he has killed me!’ He ascended the steps to the throne, threw himself at Alexander’s feet, and grasped the hem of his white wool garment. I was so astonished that I rose without permission and scrambled down the steps, out of the way.
Cesare dashed at him with the sword.
‘Stop!’ the Pope commanded. ‘Cesare, explain yourself!’
Such explanation was required, as was the cessation of hostilities, since grasping the hem of the Pope’s garment was a sacred act, one that conferred greater protection than taking refuge inside a church.
In reply, Cesare lunged forward, turned the cringing, moaning Perotto over, and slashed his neck with the sword.
I recoiled and instinctively raised an arm to protect myself. Alexander gasped as blood sprayed up onto his white robes and ermine cape, spattering his face.
Perotto gurgled, spasmed violently for a long, terrible moment, then lay still, sprawled across the entire span of the steps to the throne.
Cesare watched, jaw twitching, with grim pleasure. When Perotto fell eternally silent, Cesare said at last, ‘Lucrezia.
Alexander seemed less concerned with explanations than he did with the blood dripping from his cheeks. ‘Bring a cloth at once,’ he ordered, to no one in particular, and then he looked down in disgust at Perotto’s corpse. ‘And take this mess away.’
The following morning, Perotto’s body was found in the Tiber, with hand and feet bound. Custom demanded a symbolic display showing what would become of those who violated the Pope’s daughter.
Floating nearby was the body of Pantsilea. Her limbs were unbound; she had been strangled, and a gag stuffed into her now-silent mouth, a clear sign to other Borgia servants of what became of those who knew and told too much.
Early Spring 1498
XXIII
Lucrezia gave birth in early spring. Before her delivery, she was spirited away from Santa Maria, lest her screams during labour reveal to Rome the ‘secret’ it already knew. Fuelled by the rumours, Savonarola’s attacks on the papacy grew vicious: he called for an international council to be formed to depose Alexander.
The child was a boy-named Giovanni, at Lucrezia’s insistence. I could not help wondering what Giovanni Sforza, now a disgraced, divorced man held in fatal contempt by the Borgias, thought of the infant being named for him, as if it were his own get.
The child was returned to the palazzo in the care of a wet nurse. It was kept in a distant wing, that its cries might not disturb the adult occupants. Lucrezia visited the infant as frequently as she was permitted, which was not often enough to suit her. When we were alone, she often confided in me about her heartbreak that she was not allowed to act as the boy’s mother. At times, she wept, inconsolable with grief.
Once she was delivered suitors lined up for her hand, either disbelieving the charges brought by Sforza, or totally unconcerned by them. The political advantage was, after all, great.
The Pope and Cesare conferred at length about these men; some names they shared with Lucrezia, and she in turn shared them with me. There was Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina, and a count, Ottaviano Riario. The most favoured one was Antonello Sanseverino, a Neapolitan-but an Angevin, a supporter of France. Such a match would put me at a grave political disadvantage within the family.
I was troubled as well by my role as Lucrezia’s friend and confidante. I had seen the innocent Perotto’s fate, and Pantsilea’s, and knew the Borgias would not let years of loyalty interfere with their plans. If someone needed to
