and the polished marble floors danced with light; even Saint Catherine’s blond hair sparkled.
His Holiness was in an exceedingly jovial mood, despite his frailty. He had aged noticeably of late: his eyes had yellowed with jaundice, his hair had turned from iron grey to white. The folds of skin beneath his weak chin had grown pendulous, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with broken veins. Yet he was dressed resplendently in a mantle of gold-and-white brocade studded with diamonds, and a skullcap woven from pure gold thread, created especially for the event.
As he lifted his goblet, his hand shook slightly. ‘To the year 1500!’ he cried, to the large assembly gathered about him at the table. ‘To the year of Jubilee!’
He smiled, the proud patriarch, as we echoed his words back to him. He then sat, and gestured for us all to do the same.
Since this was such a momentous occasion, Alexander felt compelled to deliver a small speech. ‘The Christian Jubilee,’ he announced, as if we were not already familiar with the term, ‘was instituted two hundred years ago by Pope Boniface VIII. It is based on the ancient Israelite custom of observing one sacred year out of every fifty-a time when all sins were forgiven. It is not,’ he added, with a waggish air of pedantry, ‘from the Latin word
His tone grew prideful. ‘All of the hard work we undertook last year-the widening of the roads, restoring gates and bridges, repairing damages to Peter’s basilica-is now worthwhile.’ Here, he paused as the cardinals, many of whom had been involved in overseeing the work, applauded. ‘Rome is ready, as we all are, for a time of great joy and forgiveness. I have issued a bull proclaiming that those pilgrims who visit Rome and Saint Peter’s during this Holy Year shall have all their sins forgiven. We expect more than two hundred thousand souls to make the journey.’
I listened, smiling, as I sat alongside my brother and Lucrezia, for it was difficult not to be swayed by the feeling of excitement and anticipation that filled the crowd; but my joy was tempered by worry, my desire to forgive thwarted by hurt. I knew not what the year might bring, because at that very moment, Cesare Borgia fought alongside the French in Milan. I glanced over at Alfonso beside me, and he took my hand and squeezed it by way of understanding and reassurance.
As for Lucrezia, she did not notice my or Alfonso’s concern. She was listening to her father with an expression of rapt enthusiasm; now that she had both her husband and baby, she had immersed herself in happiness. I do not think she permitted herself to consider the possibility that her brother might interfere; she had so long been denied a normal life that I could not blame her for wanting to remain ignorant. Her contentment showed that night in her appearance: I had never seen her look so beautiful as she did during those days with Alfonso.
Fortunately, the Pope’s lecture was short, and we soon commenced dining. After we ate and the plates were removed, I did not linger long at the festivities, but stayed only so long as courtesy demanded.
I returned to my bedchamber to find Donna Esmeralda huddled before her shrine to San Gennaro.
‘Esmeralda! What has happened?’
She looked up at me, her olive-skinned face, framed by grey hair beneath a black veil, streaked with tears. ‘I am begging God not to bring an end to the world.’
I released a long breath and calmed myself, mildly annoyed by her superstitious attitude. Many country priests had seized upon the notion that 1500-a date created by man-was of such importance to God that He had chosen it for the Apocalypse. I had heard other servants whispering to each other fearfully about the possibility. ‘Why would God do such a thing?’ I demanded. My tone was not sympathetic; I felt I did Esmeralda no kindness by encouraging her unwarranted terror.
‘It is a special date. I feel it in my bones, Donna Sancha; God will no longer delay His judgment. Nearly two years ago, the Pope murdered Savonarola…and now the time has come for Alexander to be punished and all of Italy will suffer with him.’
‘Italy already suffers,’ I answered softly-but she suffered at Cesare’s hands, not God’s.
I let Esmeralda be. I undressed myself and went to bed, where I listened to her anguished prayers long into the night.
I woke on the first day of the new year to find that the world had not been consumed by brimstone, as the priests had predicted. Instead, it was a cool winter’s day, and a sullen Donna Esmeralda dressed me in my best finery, as I was required to appear in public. Alfonso, Jofre, His Holiness and I travelled in a carriage at a respectful distance behind Lucrezia across the Sant’Angelo bridge into the city. She rode on horseback to the cathedral of Saint John Lateran, preceded by an entourage of four dozen riders, who cleared the streets for her.
Once on the steps of the cathedral, dazzlingly clad in pearl-studded white satin and a long ermine cape, her golden curls streaming down her back, Lucrezia released flocks of albino doves heavenwards. She was a lovely sight, her arms wide in a gesture of supplication, her face flushed from the cold, tilted up toward the clouded sky.
She prayed briefly, asking God to grant special favour to those pilgrims who made the pilgrimage to Rome.
Within weeks, footsore travellers began to arrive. The bridge of the Castel Sant’Angelo was filled with a solid mass of moving bodies on their way to and from Saint Peter’s. Those who could not afford the comforts of an inn-or who could find no room, because of the growing crowds-brought their blankets and slept on the steps of Peter’s basilica. Each time we moved through the piazza, or processed to Mass, we encountered them, and soon grew so used to the sight, we no longer noticed them.
This was but one sign of the Pope’s care to show his daughter special favour-his method, I believe, of distracting Lucrezia so that she believed all was well with her little family. Alexander granted Lucrezia many new properties, including one estate belonging to the Caetani family of Naples-the same family to which my long-ago love, Onorato, belonged.
If she had any fears on Alfonso’s behalf, she distracted herself from them by conducting a platonic, courtly love affair with the poet Bernardo Accolti of Arezzo, who arrogantly referred to himself as ‘
There was little unique about Accolti’s poetry, however. He sent reams of it to Lucrezia, in which he proclaimed his undying passion for her, casting Lucrezia as his Laura and himself as the suffering Petrarch.
Lucrezia showed me the poems herself, rather timidly. When she saw that I could not entirely hide my disdain of them, she laughed at them with me-but I could see she was flattered by them. The event inspired her to set her own hand to writing poetry, which she also shyly handed me.
I told her-and meant it-that she was a far better poet than Accolti. At least, she was far less given to swooning, tears and sighs in verse.
While Lucrezia was busy distracting herself, the second battle for Milan took place. Duke Ludovico launched a battle against the French forces and was captured, doomed to imprisonment for the rest of his life; nor did his brother, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza escape.
With the House of Sforza firmly defeated, the French looked southward to Naples, that glittering ocean gem they had so long coveted.
His Holiness’ reassurances were drowned out by the voice of every other Italian, which echoed in my ears constantly, a silent shout: The French were going to take Naples. It was only a matter of time.
I did not doubt that Cesare Borgia would ride with them.
The following month, Cesare returned home, in a grand display viewed by all Rome. In a stroke of brilliance, he decided not to fuel rumours regarding his arrogance and ambition and took care to avoid staging a pompous, victorious entry.
I watched from the loggia of our palazzo as the parade passed through the streets. It began with no fewer than a hundred carriages rolling past, the horses and wagons caparisoned in black. It soon became clear that this was a funereal procession, indicative of mourning within the House of Borgia for its most recently lost member, Cardinal Giovanni the Lesser, who had died so swiftly and mysteriously on his way to ‘congratulate’ Cesare.
No herald announced the Captain-General’s return: the trumpets remained silent. There was no colour, no pageantry; drums did not roll, nor fifes play. The soldiers-hundreds of them, also in black-marched in a stillness
