distracted, and I could block my actions from both her and the guards’ view by going out onto the balcony.
I spent the rest of the day sitting in the chair in the antechamber, stroking the soft blue velvet of my brother’s slipper while the servants put my rooms in order. At dusk, a fine supper was delivered to my door. I could not eat, despite Esmeralda’s coaxing; she had what she wanted of my portion and her own, then servants bore the platters away.
But I asked for wine, and kept a flagon and goblet beside me. As she had each night since Alfonso’s death, Esmeralda beseeched me to come to bed; as always, I refused, saying I would come when I was tired. Fortunately, she was weary after all her work, and fell asleep early. When I heard her rhythmic breath, I knew my hour of opportunity had come.
I filled my goblet and rose casually, mindful of the guards outside my door, then slipped through the bedchamber where Esmeralda lay sleeping. She had left a candle burning for me; I took it out onto the balcony, and set it upon the ledge so that I could see in order to accomplish my final task.
I set my goblet down as well, then with trembling fingers found the vial of canterella hidden in my gown. I drew it forth, and held it up to the light.
The glass glinted brilliant and green as an emerald; I stared at it for a moment, transfixed, overcome by the gravity of what I was about to do.
And as I stared, an image formed within the glass, tiny but perfect and complete in detail.
It was my father’s corpse, hanging from its medallion-laden noose.
I screamed. I cast the vial from me; it clattered to the ground without breaking, and rolled away. My surroundings whirled: arms flailing, I fell to the floor, in the process knocking the taper over the ledge, so that I was suddenly in total blackness.
And in that blackness, my father’s corpse loomed larger than life. It swung before me, there on the balcony; its cold, stiff legs brushed against my shoulders, my face, and I scrabbled away on hands and knees, sobbing.
Once backed into a corner, I cringed and tried to shield myself with my hands. ‘You must promise me, Alfonso!’ I shrieked. ‘We must take a solemn oath never to be apart again…for without you, I will go mad!’
Before me stood my brother, just as he had been the day he came to Rome to marry Lucrezia, young and handsome and smiling, dressed in pale blue satin. ‘But Sancha, your mind is perfectly sound.’ His tone was matter- of-fact. ‘With or without me, you need never fear madness. You have simply tried to kill the wrong man.’
I screamed again, and ran staggering back into the dark bedchamber; a stout figure caught me. I struggled to break free until I realized it was Donna Esmeralda, shouting:
‘Sancha! Sancha!’
I sagged against her and sobbed; she clutched me with fierce tenderness. ‘I tried to be a murderess,’ I gasped into her soft, sturdy shoulder, ‘and instead, killed my own brother.’
‘Hush,’ Esmeralda commanded. ‘Hush. You committed no crime.’
‘God is punishing me…’
‘This is foolishness,’ Esmeralda insisted. I could not see her face in the night, but my cheek lay against her collarbone, and I felt the vibration of her firm voice within her chest, the solidity of her conviction. ‘God loved Alfonso. He knows it is not fair that your brother should die while Cesare lives. Judgment is coming for the Borgias, Donna. Do not weep.’ I calmed at her words; she paused, then spoke her mind. ‘Savonarola was right…this pope
She led me to the bed, and tucked me in, fully dressed as I was, then lay down beside me. ‘Here. I shall not leave your side. If you grow frightened, simply reach for me. I will be here. God is with us, Donna. He has not forsaken us.’
After she fell asleep, I sat up in bed, terrified, convinced I was a girl back in Naples, and that the surrounding darkness held the mummies of my grandfather’s museum. I shivered beneath the covers as an image formed before me: that of the leering, leather-faced Robert, his painted marble eyes gleaming, a thin hank of auburn hair hanging from his puckered skull, as he gestured sweepingly.
I wept. I wanted no welcome; I did not want to enter Ferrante’s grisly kingdom of the mad and the dead.
As the sky lightened before dawn, I crept out to the balcony and recovered the vial of canterella, then hid it with my jewels before Esmeralda woke. Soon, I told myself. Soon, I would be strong enough to use it.
I remained in a state of perpetual twilight. During the days, followed at a courteous distance by a guard, I wandered through the labyrinthine gardens until I reached a state of exhaustion. At night, I sat in a chair out on the balcony and stared hard into the darkness, at times overcome by panic because I could not see Vesuvio. I told Esmeralda I dozed outside in my chair-but I slept not at all, and my mind took on the frightening clarity and swiftness of a madman’s.
I was frantically pacing through the gardens one day when I heard the bells of Saint Peter’s toll…and at once, Donna Esmeralda’s words seized my fevered consciousness and would not let go. At that moment, I received a divine revelation, the knowledge of how to bring judgment down upon the Borgias. But subterfuge was called for. I stopped in mid-stride and waited for my panting guard to catch up to me.
‘I shall go up to the loggia now,’ I said sweetly. ‘I should like to look out at the city.’
I made my way quickly back into the building and up the stairs, until I reached the great loggia that overlooked the Castel Sant’Angelo Bridge. The broad street was filled with pilgrims and merchants, all of them close enough so that I could easily toss something for them to catch; they were well within earshot.
‘Citizens of Rome!’ I cried, leaning over the balcony’s edge. ‘Pilgrims to the Holy City! Hear me! I am Sancha of Aragon, whose brother Alfonso was murdered by His Holiness, Alexander VI, at the hands of the Captain-General, Cesare Borgia! This pope is the Antichrist, just as Savonarola said: he is an adulterer and murderer many times over! He killed his own brother to obtain the tiara, permitted the murder of his own son, Juan, and now he has killed Alfonso, Duke of Bisciglie, husband of Lucrezia-’
A guard caught me by a wrist and attempted to drag me away; I laughed, and with a lunatic’s strength, broke free.
‘Pilgrims! Romans! God calls for you to bring Alexander down! Go now! How many must die? How many must be killed before he is punished for his crimes?’
Men and women on the street below gathered, and stared up in amazement at me. An old nun, veiled in summer white, crossed herself and uttered a prayer; a black-frocked young priest gestured to his companion and pointed up at me. Commoners stopped, some with brows furrowed, others laughing.
Why did they not take action? I wondered. Why did they not rush at once to the pontifical palace, and drag Alexander out into the streets? My message was so clear, so indisputable…
I continued my ranting for some time; at last, a pair of soldiers managed to restrain me. I looked into their eyes, hurt, bewildered. ‘Have you not heard what I have been saying? Can you not see the evil? You have arms-use them!’
But they wielded no weapons against the Pope; instead, they dragged me, cursing and kicking, to my chamber. Afterwards, I vaguely remember Donna Esmeralda’s troubled face, and a doctor’s, and being forced to drink a draught that left me stuporous. At last I slept.
When I woke, Jofre appeared. From that day on, he visited me every evening-more often than he ever had when my presence at the Vatican was welcome. He brought me small gifts-jewels, keepsakes. One night, he smuggled me a miniature portrait of Alfonso that had belonged to Lucrezia, which she had not been permitted to take with her to Nepi.
Donna Esmeralda stayed by my side constantly. I was no longer allowed out on the balcony at night, but was compelled to lie in my bed beside her after drinking the bitter sleeping draught. I was compelled, too, to eat at least a bit of food each time it was brought, and so I regained partial composure. I learned to interact pleasantly with Esmeralda and Jofre when required, and to maintain while with them the appearance of sanity, even if I did not entirely possess it.
So I spent my days idly, roaming the gardens accompanied by a sentry. Only then, away from my husband and Esmeralda, did I allow full reign to my madness: I muttered under my breath with each step, holding long
