quite unwillingly. She had hinted at her longing for forgiveness.
I could not, would not respond. What news had I to share? That I had gone mad with grief, due in part to her treachery? That the only thing that brought me joy was the thought of revenge against Cesare?
Later, I privately showed the letter to Dorotea de la Crema. Her lips thinned as she read; at last, she nodded. ‘Cesare is seizing whatever lands he wishes,’ she confirmed. ‘And whatever women, too. I have heard the latest news; when he conquers a new town, he seizes all the noblewomen for his travelling harem. And every night, he chooses a new woman to humiliate.’
Such news fuelled my hatred, and made me dream at night: of seizing the sword that still impaled my heart, of using it to strike out, with a flash of steel, and sever Cesare’s head from his body in a single, avenging blow. Of smiling as I watched the head topple and roll away from the falling corpse, of watching the most evil blood to fill any veins flow freely as the Tiber.
Oddly, in the dream, I heard my brother’s voice cheerfully repeat:
Summer 1501-Early Winter 1503
XXXVI
I woke with a gasp to a humid August morning, and the sound of Esmeralda’s cries out in the antechamber. I ran out to find her huddled over, clutching her heart, as if she was in the grip of a fierce pain.
‘Esmeralda!’ I rushed to her side and caught her fleshy upper arms. She was older now, and quite plump; I thought at once of Ferrante’s attack of apoplexy, and helped her to a chair. ‘Sit, darling…’ I rose, found wine and poured a goblet, then raised the rim to her lips. ‘Here, drink. Then the guard will fetch the doctor.’
She took a sip, coughed, then with a dismissive wave of her hand, wheezed, ‘No doctor!’ She looked up at me, her eyes full of grief, and said wretchedly, ‘Oh, Donna Sancha! If only this were something a doctor could help…’ She drew a gasping breath, then added, ‘Do not call the guard. I just spoke to him. He brought news…’
‘What has happened?’ I demanded.
‘Our Naples,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with a corner of her pendulous sleeve. ‘Oh, Madonna, it breaks my heart…Your uncle, Federico, was forced from the throne into exile. King Ferdinand the Catholic and King Louis-they conspired and joined their armies; now they share rule of Naples. Today, the French and Spanish banners both fly over the Castel Nuovo. Ferdinand is now regent of the city proper.’
I released a long breath as I knelt slowly beside her. Even though Alfonso’s death had stolen from me my reason and joy, there had always remained the faint but distant hope that someday, I might return home-to the royal palace, to Federico and the brothers, and the family I had known. Now that, too, had been taken from me.
The royal House of Aragon was no more.
I was too stunned for speech. Donna Esmeralda and I remained silent, grieving in silence for some moments until I said knowingly, a corner of my lip twitching with hatred: ‘And Cesare Borgia…he rode with King Louis’ army into the city.’
She looked at me, astonished. ‘Why, yes, Madonna…How did you know?’
I did not answer.
I fell again into a numb despair, one that even Esmeralda and the doctor’s draught could not pierce. My only respite came during my walks with Donna Dorotea-who now did almost all of the speaking while I listened, mute and uninterested.
One day she brought news of Lucrezia, who had returned to Rome that autumn in response to the adamant summons of her father. Dorotea relayed an encounter between the Pope and his daughter. In the papal throne room, in the presence of Lucrezia’s ladies, the Pope’s servants and the chamberlain, His Holiness told Lucrezia that he and Cesare had studied the suitors lined up for her hand. They had chosen one: Francesco Orsini, the Duke of Gravina. Orsini had proposed marriage to Lucrezia a few years earlier, but had been rejected in favour of my brother.
Now, Alexander informed his daughter, she would become the Duchess of Gravina. Politically, this was the wisest course of action.
No, Lucrezia had told her father. She would have nothing to do with the man.
Startled, Alexander had asked her reason.
‘Because all my husbands have been very unlucky!’ Lucrezia announced angrily, and stormed from the chamber without asking His Holiness’ leave.
Word of this spread quickly throughout Rome. When the Duke of Gravina heard of her refusal, he took great offence (or perhaps he considered the truth of Lucrezia’s words), and withdrew his offer at once.
Shortly thereafter, I found myself restless one evening, and took to wandering the corridors. Winter was approaching, and I kept my cape wrapped tightly about me as I headed for the loggia, to take in the bracing night air.
Even before I stepped from the landing onto the floor, I could hear the bells of Saint Peter’s, singing a funeral dirge.
Staring out over the balcony’s edge, pale as the fur she was wrapped in, stood a small, slender woman wrapped in white ermine, accompanied by guards who waited at a respectful distance. I was so distracted by the bells, I was almost upon her before I noticed her.
She was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen, more beautiful even than the Pope’s former mistress, the delicate Giulia. This woman was alabaster-skinned, golden-haired, with blue eyes brighter than any gem; in her bearing was a rare dignity and grace, and in her gaze was a profound sadness. I understood at once why Cesare had wanted to possess her.
‘Caterina Sforza,’ I breathed.
She turned her striking features toward me and regarded me. There was no hostility in her gaze, no condescension, only a grief that verged on madness.
She moved slightly aside, making room at the balcony. It was a clear invitation and I took it, stepping up to stand beside her.
She was silent some time, gazing out again at the piazza in front of the great stone edifice of Saint Peter’s, where a torch-lit funeral procession was slowly making its way out of the cathedral and into the street. From the number of mourners, I judged the deceased to be a person of some importance.
At last Donna Caterina sighed. ‘Another cardinal, no doubt,’ she said, in a voice stronger and more resonant than I would have expected, ‘cut down in order to finance Cesare’s wars.’ She paused. ‘Each time I hear the bells toll, I pray they are for the Holy Father.’
‘I pray they are for Cesare,’ I countered. ‘He is a far worthier candidate for death.’
She looked at me, tilting her lovely head and appraising me frankly. ‘It is better if Alexander dies first, you see,’ she explained. ‘For if his son predeceases him, he will simply find another Cesare to head his army, and continue the Borgia terror. It is a game they play together: the Pope merely pretends not to be able to control Cesare’s cruelty, but believe me, each hand knows exactly what the other is doing at all times. Of course, if Alexander were
