The Borgia Bride

One afternoon as I was bent over the hearth like a scullery maid, basting a trio of roasting pheasants, I heard the sharp voices of men out in the antechamber.

Lucrezia was seated beside the bed, reading poetry to her husband; we three glanced up at the commotion, just in time to see Cesare Borgia-flanked on either side by one of our trusted guards-enter the bedchamber.

Lucrezia hurled her little leather-bound volume to the floor and leapt up, her face contorted with rage. ‘How could you!’ she shouted. At first, I thought she addressed her brother, until she continued: ‘How could you permit him, of all people, in here!’

‘He requested it, Madonna,’ one of the guards replied meekly. ‘We searched him for weapons; he is carrying none.’

‘It matters not!’ Lucrezia’s voice quavered with rage. ‘You are never to let him in here again!’

Cesare listened to his sister’s ranting with utter equanimity; even the look of hatred on Alfonso’s face did not ruffle him. I rose and planted myself between Cesare and my brother.

‘Lucrezia,’ Cesare said soothingly, ‘I understand your anger. Believe me when I say that I share it-and that I was most distraught, Don Alfonso, to hear of the attempt on your life. But I have been maliciously and wrongly accused by your squire-Miguelito Herrera, is that not the boy’s name? I assure you, I am entirely innocent of any hand in this. I greatly resent the implication that I would harm a relative. I wish to conduct an investigation so that I can clear my name and regain your trust.’

When Cesare finished his smooth little speech, a pregnant silence ensued.

‘You fool,’ Alfonso whispered.

I turned. My brother’s eyes blazed with hatred.

‘You fool,’ Alfonso repeated, his voice growing louder with each word. ‘You thought, because I had fallen, that I did not recognize you there, on your fine white stallion with its fine silver hooves.’

Cesare’s expression darkened dangerously.

‘I saw you,’ Alfonso stated heatedly, ‘and so did Don Tomaso as well-and he is in a safe place under heavy guard. So you see, there would be no point in your murdering Miguelito. We all saw you-and everyone here knows.’

‘I have tried to make peace,’ Cesare said in a low voice, and turned to go. The guards escorted him out as Lucrezia called after him, in a tone filled with venom:

‘Yes, go, murderer!’

But Alfonso had not finished addressing his brother-in-law, despite the fact that Cesare was already moving out into the antechamber. ‘So now you must kill us!’ Alfonso cried after him. ‘The ambassadors, the doctors, the servants, the guards-all of us!’

I followed Cesare all the way to the outer doors, my hatred for him drawing me like a magnet.

Just before the guards parted to let him go, I called out his name.

He turned to face me, expectant, uncertain.

For a moment, I thought to seize my stiletto, and kill him on the spot-but I knew I had no chance. I would be stopped by him or one of his guards before I could do him any harm…and it could always be claimed that I acted at the behest of my brother. It would do Alfonso and Naples no good to act here, now.

Instead, I spat directly into his face. The spittle caught the edge of his beard and dripped down onto the fine black silk of his well-fitted tunic.

He loomed toward me, so abruptly two of our guards drew their swords. In his dark eyes was pure murder. Had we been alone, he would have struck me dead and taken pleasure in the act.

As it was, he simply leaned forward and, smoothing an errant lock of hair behind my ear, whispered into it:

‘What failed at lunch will succeed by supper.’

He drew back and smiled-tenderly, evilly-at the response his words provoked in me.

Then he turned abruptly and left, moving confidently between the parted rows of guards.

XXXIII

After Cesare left, I stood in the antechamber, too stunned and outraged by his deadly promise to move. Although my body remained still, my mind was active as never before. I knew beyond doubt that unless severe measures were taken, Cesare would kill my brother. I could no longer close my eyes to the truth and hope blindly for a happy outcome.

His words had an electrifying effect on my senses as well: I saw my surroundings with exceptional clarity, and for the first time, understood their significance.

This was the Hall of the Sibyls. On the walls before me, rendered in vivid crimsons, lapis lazuli and gold were the Old Testament prophets, most bearded in white, faces lifted towards Heaven, hands gesturing up at the judgment coming to strike men down.

Beneath them were the fierce-eyed sibyls, staring out at the same gathering doom.

I thought of Savonarola railing from his pulpit, calling Pope Alexander the Antichrist. I thought of Donna Esmeralda on her knees before San Gennaro, weeping because this was the year of the Apocalypse.

The face of one particular sibyl-she golden-haired and fair, not dark and veiled-caught my eye. In that instant, every word of the strega’s prophecy returned as if she had uttered it afresh, through the sibyl’s lips:

For in your heart lies the fates of men and nations. These weapons within you-the good and the evil-must each be wielded wisely, and at the proper time, for they will change the course of events.

And I had cried, I will never resort to evil! I had tried to convince myself once that the worst evil I had to face-one I had rejected-was marriage to Cesare Borgia.

The strega had replied calmly, Then you condemn to death those whom you most love.

She had shown me my fate again so clearly, the second time I had gone to see her. I had already wielded one weapon, she said; I had only to wield one more. I had always understood the meaning. I had simply not wanted to admit it to myself.

Standing in the Hall of the Sibyls, I realized that I had a choice. I could rely upon diplomacy, upon the Pope’s good graces, upon luck, upon the unlikely hope that Cesare’s threat had been empty, that he would not strike again.

And Alfonso would die.

Or I could accept the fact that destiny had placed in my veins the cold, calculating blood of my father and old Ferrante. I could accept that I was strong, capable of doing tasks that those with gentler hearts could not.

I made my decision then: for love of my brother, I chose to murder Cesare Borgia.

I moved about the rest of the day in a state of cold detachment, performing my nursing duties, smiling and talking with my brother and Lucrezia while I secretly pondered how best to move against the Captain-General.

Obviously, any attempt that could be traced back to us Neapolitans was out of the question, as was any that followed too soon on the heels of the attack on Alfonso; the Pope would be swift to blame my brother, and seize upon the excuse to have him executed. If my attempt failed, Cesare himself would do the honours. As much as I yearned to commit the deed with my own stiletto, as much as I yearned for vengeance to come quickly, subtlety was essential. We would have to wait. Best to strike when Alfonso was well enough to flee to safety.

The solution, I decided, was a hired assassin-one contacted through a series of channels, which would make it difficult for anyone to discover the source.

I did not even consider asking Jofre for help. As jealous as he might be of his older brother, he had neither the stomach nor the ability to hold his tongue. Nor did I ask Lucrezia, though she surely knew of such contacts; it was one thing for her to protect her husband, another to ask her to kill her brother. I did not want to test her loyalties too far.

There was one person who knew more people than any of us, who was tied to a network where she could