surgeon, Alfonso’s servants and mine, as well as a cadre of armed guards. I insisted that mattresses be brought in-I would not leave Alfonso’s side for an instant, nor would Lucrezia. I also called for a cook stove for the hearth. Conscious of the canterella, I intended to prepare every meal for my brother with my own hands.
Several hours later, Alfonso came to himself long enough to reveal the names of the men who had accompanied him when the attack occurred: his squire, Miguelito, and a gentleman-in-waiting, Tomaso Albanese.
Lucrezia summoned both men at once.
Albanese was still being tended to by the surgeon and could not be moved, but Miguelito, the squire, came almost immediately.
Alfonso’s favourite squire was still a youth, but tall and well-muscled. His shoulder was bandaged, and his right arm rested in a sling. He apologized for not having looked in after his master sooner, but his pallor and weakness made it clear his own wounds were serious. In fact, he was so unsteady on his feet that we insisted he sit, and he leaned back in the chair with a grateful sigh and rested his head against the wall.
Lucrezia had a glass of wine brought for him; he sipped it from time to time as he told the tale she and I insisted on hearing.
‘We three-the duke, Don Tomaso and I-were headed from the Vatican towards the Palazzo Santa Maria. This naturally required us to pass by Saint Peter’s-where many pilgrims were already sleeping on the steps.
‘We thought nothing of them, Madonna; perhaps I should have been more alert for the duke’s sake…’ Guilt crossed his plain, strong features. ‘But we passed by what seemed nothing more than a group of common beggars-six, I believe, all dressed in rags. I thought they had taken vows of poverty.
‘As I say, we gave them no notice; the duke and Don Tomaso were immersed in conversation and, I admit, I was not on my guard.
‘Suddenly, the beggars on the nearby steps leapt up-all of them brandishing swords. They had been lying in wait for the duke, for I heard one of them call out to the others just as we passed.
‘They surrounded us at once. It was clear they were trained soldiers; fortunately-as you well know, Donna Sancha-we were trained, too, in the Naples style of swordsmanship. Your brother-your husband, Donna Lucrezia- was the most skilled and the bravest of us all. Despite the fact that we were outnumbered, Don Alfonso fought so well that he held off his enemies for some time.
‘Don Tomaso, too, fought hard and well, and showed admirable courage in protecting the duke. As for me-I did my best, but it breaks my heart to see the noble duke lying there so pale and still.
‘Despite our best efforts to protect him, the duke was wounded. Still he kept fighting, even after he was bleeding terribly from the leg and shoulder. It was not until he received the final blow to his head that he at last fell.
‘At that time, his attackers converged on him. Other men-dark-clad, whose faces I did not recognize-had brought horses, and the attackers tried to pull Don Alfonso toward them.
‘Don Tomaso and I renewed our efforts, for we realized that if our master was taken from us, it would surely mean his end.
‘We began to shout for help, directing our cries first toward the Palazzo Santa Maria, and the guards stationed there. I gathered my master into my arms, and began to carry him in the direction of the palazzo, while Don Tomaso valiantly struck out with his sword against the attackers who remained standing-three by this time.
‘It was then that I saw two other men waiting in front of the palazzo, blocking access to the guards at the gate. One was an assassin on foot, his blade drawn and waiting, and the other sat on horseback…’
Here, young Miguelito’s voice dropped to a whisper, after which he fell silent. At first, I thought exhaustion and loss of blood had prompted a sudden weakness in him, especially after the effort of speech; I urged him to take more wine.
Then I caught the look in his eyes; it was not exhaustion, but fear that held his tongue.
I shot Lucrezia a glance, then turned back to the squire. ‘This horse,’ I said slowly. ‘Was it white, shod with silver?’
He stared up at me, stricken, then looked over at Lucrezia.
‘Your master has already named Cesare as his attacker,’ she said, with an evenness I admired. ‘You are among the friends of Naples here, and I am deeply indebted to you for saving my husband’s life. I swear that no harm will come to you for repeating the truth.’
The young squire gave a reluctant nod, then admitted hoarsely, ‘Yes. It was Don Cesare, the Duke of Valencia, on horseback. I feared for my master, so I went the opposite direction, back to the Vatican, while Don Tomaso kept the would-be assassins at bay. The two of us shouted until the papal guards opened the gates and admitted us; at that moment, our assailants fled.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucrezia told him, in a blunt, flat tone I had never heard before-the sound of her true voice, unaffected and unfrightened. ‘Thank you, Miguelito, for telling the truth.’
For the next few days, the suite in the Borgia apartments-guarded constantly by soldiers and Alfonso’s most trusted men-became a peculiar Hell. We set up screens, dividing the brilliantly frescoed Hall of the Sibyls into an inner and outer chamber, so that we might have more privacy. Furniture was brought in, and with our attendants, including Donna Esmeralda, we set up a primitive camp in our luxurious surroundings, as though we were at war.
Within an hour after being sent for, the Pope’s physician arrived. He examined Alfonso, and, to Lucrezia’s and my relief, proclaimed that, given my brother’s youth and tenacious constitution, he would survive, ‘so long as his wounds are tended conscientiously.’
That they would be so tended was without question, for there were no nurses in all the world more conscientious than Lucrezia and myself. We cleaned and dressed the wounds with our own hands; with Esmeralda’s guidance, I cooked Alfonso’s favourite childhood dishes myself, and Lucrezia held cup and spoon to his lips. In our devotion to him, we were united, so much so that we began to anticipate what the other required without the need for words.
Alfonso began to recover quickly, though his injuries were grave and would have killed a lesser man. He woke by nightfall of that first terrible day, and asked coherently after the health of his squire, Miguelito, and Tomaso Albanese. He sighed thankfully on hearing they had both survived.
‘Lucrezia,’ he said with sudden urgency (though he was too weak even to sit), ‘Sancha-neither of you can stay here with me. It is not safe. I am a doomed man.’
Lucrezia’s cheeks coloured brightly; with a vehemence that took us aback, she said, ‘I swear before God, you are safe from Cesare here. If I must strangle my brother with my own hands, I will let no harm come to you.’ And she struggled, for Alfonso’s sake, to suppress an onrush of tears.
I held her; and as I did, swaying and patting her on the back as one would a child, I explained to Alfonso all the precautions his wife had taken: how the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors were, at this very instant, in the antechamber, and how the doors were guarded by more than two dozen soldiers.
In response, he took Lucrezia’s hand, feeble as he was, and kissed it, then forced a smile. She in turn broke free from my arms and herself smiled wanly. It was painful to see them each trying to be brave for the other’s sake.
Both were terrified; both knew that the makeshift bedchamber in the Hall of the Sibyls was the only bright spot in a dark and shadowy Rome, where Cesare Borgia lurked, waiting to strike again.
On the second day, Alfonso was well enough to eat a little; on the third day, he was well enough to sit up and speak at length. On the fourth day, the doctors from Naples arrived: Don Clemente Gactula, the King’s physician, and Don Galeano da Anna, the King’s surgeon. I greeted both men warmly, for I had known them when I was a girl, and they had tended my grandfather, Ferrante. Lucrezia consulted them on how soon Alfonso could be expected to walk, then be able to sit on a horse, then to ride: she did not say as much, but we all understood. The sooner Alfonso was able to travel and flee Rome for the safety of Naples, the better. And from Lucrezia’s attitude toward her brother and father, I had no doubt that this time, she would not let her husband leave her behind.
Alfonso continued to improve, and developed no fever. Either Lucrezia or I remained in the room at all times, and most of the time, both of us were there; we slept on the floor only inches from Alfonso’s bed, and the three of us took our meals together.
Every moment, I was wary, waiting for the next attempt on my brother’s life.
