the bishop had never received a single wound; the cause of death, instead, was ‘Borgia fever’-a condition caused by a steel-blue powder.
Canterella: a second new term came into fashion, and was whispered throughout Rome.
Sometime after, another victim fell, Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, known as ‘the Lesser’. This cardinal was a young cousin of the Borgias, of a different branch of the family from Cardinal Giovanni Borgia of Monreale, ‘the Greater’, who had presided at my nuptials.
Whatever this unfortunate young Giovanni knew that endangered him, I cannot say. I do know this much: the man was greatly in debt, and close to his more powerful kin. He had set out from Rome to meet with Cesare privately in the Romagna-ostensibly to congratulate him on his recent conquests at Imola and Forli.
But before Giovanni could reach Cesare’s camp, he was consumed by a sudden ague-‘Borgia fever’, no doubt; the symptoms of the canterella were coming to be known as a high fever and a bloody flux. The cardinal died shortly thereafter.
His body was sent back to Rome, where it was swiftly interred at the cathedral at Santa Maria del Popolo. The grave was unmarked.
One night at supper, Jofre remarked that the cardinal’s passing had been a shame.
His Holiness slammed his fork down on the table with such force that we all started; I looked up from my meal to see him red-faced, scowling.
‘Do not mention that name to me ever again,’ Alexander scolded his son, with a ferocity that left us all silent for some time after.
‘Did I mention what Baby Rodrigo did today, at luncheon?’ Lucrezia asked gaily, breaking the awkward pall.
This soothed His Holiness; he turned towards his daughter and smiled expectantly.
‘He is so strong-always kicking his arms and legs-and I know he is far too young, but today, he pulled so hard upon my arm, I thought he would sit up on his own.’
Alexander’s mood immediately became indulgent. ‘You were a strong baby,’ he said, with paternal pride. ‘You and Cesare. Both of you sat up and started walking early; why, I had you upon a saddle with me by the time you were barely two years old.’
Lucrezia returned his smile, relieved that Alexander’s ill humour had passed.
At supper’s end, Lucrezia went over to her father and said softly, ‘You must forgive Jofre. I know he did not mean to trouble you with sad thoughts.’
The Pope’s expression once again grew forbidding; he narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Talk of death over food,’ he said shortly, ‘is bad for the digestion.’
Not long after little Rodrigo’s baptism, Alfonso and I received a formal request from Captain Juan de Cervillon for an audience. I was more than happy to grant it, for he had been so kind to us, and of such great service.
We received him in Alfonso’s antechamber on a bright, sunny winter morning, and I could not help but think of the meeting we had had that past summer, in Naples. I hoped the news he brought was as good, for as long as Alfonso and I had de Cervillon for a friend, I knew he would always work ceaselessly on our behalf to maintain the best possible relations between Naples and the Pope.
He appeared before us, once again dressed smartly, his sabre sheathed at his hip, his dark hair streaked with silver, and bowed to us as we sat before him.
I smiled and proffered my hand for him to kiss. ‘Captain, you are cheerful this morning. I hope you bring happy news.’
‘Both happy and sad,’ he said, but with a gaiety he could not entirely mask, despite his formal military manners.
‘Speak, dear friend,’ Alfonso said, curious.
‘Your Highnesses, I wished to take my formal leave of you before I depart for Naples.’
‘Ah!’ Alfonso replied. ‘Then you are visiting your family for Christmas?’
‘It is not a visit,’ de Cervillon said. ‘His Holiness has given me permanent leave to return to my native city.’
I felt two separate emotions: an honest sorrow to see the good captain go, and a selfish fear. With de Cervillon gone, who would be our champion?
My brother’s face showed only sadness over the loss of a friend. ‘Dear Captain,’ he said. ‘I am sad for our sakes, as we will miss you; but I am happy for yours. You have spent too many years away from your wife and children in the service of His Holiness.’
De Cervillon acknowledged this with a nod. ‘I have petitioned King Federico, that I might serve him.’
‘Then Naples has a lucky king,’ I said at last. ‘And the Pope has lost one of his finest men.’ Despite my best efforts, I could not entirely hide my disappointment. De Cervillon saw it and said:
‘Ah, Your Highness, I am so sorry to make you sad.’
‘I am both sad and happy, as you said,’ I told him, forcing a feeble smile. ‘I will miss you, but it is not good for any man to be away from his family. Besides, I am sure we will meet again; you will visit Rome, and I will some day visit Naples.’
‘That is true,’ de Cervillon acknowledged.
My brother rose; echoing our last meeting in Naples, he said, ‘God be with you, Captain.’
‘And with you both,’ de Cervillon responded. He bowed once again, then left. We stared after him a time in silence.
‘We will never see him again,’ Alfonso said finally, giving voice to my thoughts.
My brother’s words were prophetic, but not in the way I envisioned. Here is the tale as told by Esmeralda:
That very evening, before his scheduled departure the following morning, the captain attended a celebration thrown by his nephew. As he walked home through the streets, warmed by wine and thoughts of home, he was accosted.
If there were witnesses, none ever came forth: his bloodied body, pierced several times through by a blade, was found lying on the street. The attack had happened quickly; I am convinced that whoever attacked de Cervillon was known to him, and in fact considered a friend-for the captain’s sabre had never even been withdrawn from its sheath.
Like other Borgia victims, Church officials seized control of the corpse. Once again, the customary viewing of the deceased was not permitted; in fact, de Cervillon was buried within an hour after his discovery.
For a full day, I grieved for him and would not eat or drink. Indeed, I grieved for all of us.
Winter-Early Summer 1500
XXXI
On the eve of the year 1500, a great feast was thrown in the Sala dei Santi, the Hall of the Saints; the family and many powerful cardinals and nobles were invited. A massive table had been brought in to accommodate the guests and a surfeit of delicacies; enough spiced wine was poured to fill the River Tiber. I had become inured to the excessive grandeur of the papal palace, but on this night, it seemed once again impressive, even magical. The mantel and table had been swathed in evergreen garlands, and decorated with orange pomanders, all of which gave off a sweet scent; the walls and lintels bore swags of gold brocade. The great fireplace had been lit, along with more than a hundred candles, filling the place with such a warm glow that our golden goblets, the gilded ceilings,
