flux have stopped, and he was able to take some broth this morning. At the party, he took his wine neat-Trebbia wine, very strong-but Cesare poured some of his out after I brought it to him, and mixed it with water. He is sick as well, too weak to leave his bed-but not so bad as Father. He begged me to sit with him. He will recover, I know it…I finally excused myself, saying that I had to rest.’ He reached out and clutched my arms suddenly for purchase as his knees buckled; I dropped the velvet cape in my hands and helped him over to the bed, where he sat.
He covered his face with cupped hands. ‘I have failed you, Sancha. Now we will have to poison ourselves…’
In the face of his weakness, I might have grown angered, but instead I felt unnaturally calm. A conviction as unreasoning and mysterious as faith gripped me; I knew beyond doubt that Jofre had helped me take the first steps towards fulfilling my destiny. It remained for me to complete it.
‘No,’ I proclaimed forcefully. ‘No harm will come to us. I require only a little more of your help. Tell me their situation. Are they guarded?’
Jofre shook his head. ‘The only guards remaining now circle the Vatican. The rest have fled, as have most of the servants…But if they hear that Father and Cesare are improving, they might return.’
‘Then we must work swiftly,’ I said. ‘Who is with them now?’
‘Don Micheletto Corella was sitting with Cesare…’ Jofre grimaced with hatred. ‘Not out of loyalty. He waits like a hawk, ready to strike the moment Alexander dies, or Cesare worsens…and then he will steal whatever treasure and power he can. Father is alone except for the chamberlain, Gasparre, who truly grieves.’
For an instant, I was perplexed. Destiny required that the fatal blow be delivered by my hand-but Jofre could hardly take me past the guards as a visitor to the Borgia apartments without arousing suspicion.
I stared beyond the unshuttered window, at the tiny, distant bodies moving out in Saint Peter’s square, at the dark waves of heat rising from the cobblestones. It was summer, the time of Carnival, and I found myself suddenly transported to another vineyard, another party, where I had sat between Juan and Cesare, and had been intrigued by the appearance of a costumed guest.
I moved over to the black velvet cape I had dropped on the floor, and lifted it from the marble. It was hooded; it would hide my hair. I turned to my husband.
‘I need a mask,’ I said. ‘One that will cover my face completely, and a courtesan’s gown. The gaudier, the better.’
Jofre stared, uncomprehending.
My tone grew impatient. ‘You know such women. You can find such things. Hurry; we have until the sun sets.’
The mask Jofre brought was beautiful: leather cut and tooled to resemble butterfly wings, bronzed along the edges, and painted deep purple and blue green. It covered but half my face, revealing my lips and chin, so my resourceful husband had found a matching fan made from peacock feathers. The satin gown was bright, dazzling scarlet, cut immodestly low-nothing I ever would have worn. I asked Esmeralda to take a bit of fabric from the hem and create a small pocket-‘as you did for my stiletto.’ She complied without question; nor did she say a word as she helped me into the courtesan’s gown, then watched me tie the mask in place, and cover myself with the black cape. Once I drew the hood over my hair, and spread open the peacock fan to hide my lips and chin, my disguise was complete. Only one thing remained: I slipped the vial containing the rest of the canterella into my gown.
Jofre gaped at me with open lust; I was at once flattered and jealous, for his reaction reminded me of all the whores he had taken during our marriage. I stifled my anger and proffered him my arm.
‘Let us walk together, Don Jofre,’ I said coyly. ‘I am of the mood to take the night air of Saint Peter’s piazza.’
He tried to smile, but was too sick with fear; I noticed that he carried his dagger that night, sheathed at his hip, in case our efforts again failed. I held his arm tightly, comfortingly, as we walked out of the unguarded, silent Castel Sant’Angelo.
Given the gravity of what I was about to do, my senses had the peculiar keenness I had experienced during madness: each step Jofre and I took rang and echoed with excruciating intensity. There were few passers-by on the bridge, no doubt because most were at home, afraid of the crime and unrest prompted by the death of a pope. I watched the faint lights from the palazzos and the boats play off the dark waters of the Tiber; never had it smelled so swampish and foul, so redolent of a decade’s worth of rotting flesh.
Once we crossed the bridge, we entered Saint Peter’s square. The year I had come to Sant’Angelo-the year of Jubilee-it had been filled to overflowing with pilgrims; now it was empty, save for a few stragglers.
My heartbeat quickened as we approached the Vatican gates, where tired, surly-looking young soldiers eyed me warily; there were fewer now than there had been at morning. My grip on my fan tightened; I held it closer to my face. But upon recognizing Jofre, the guards immediately bowed and opened the gates without a challenge.
For the last time I ascended the steps to the papal palace.
It pained me to move through those familiar halls; the air was heavy with treachery and grief. When I entered the Borgia apartments, the surfeit of gilding and decoration no longer seemed breathtaking or glorious, but sinister.
I passed the Hall of the Sibyls, scrubbed clean of blood and restored to its previous luxury since I had last seen it; I averted my eyes, and summoned all the coldness in my heart.
‘In here,’ Jofre said, and led me to the Room of the Saints, the scene of much celebration. Now it had been turned into a hospital of sorts. A great bed with a canopy had been brought in; tables held basins of water and cloths, as well as flasks of water and wine, a goblet, and medicines. True to Jofre’s word, Alexander had been abandoned save for Gasparre, who sat sleeping in a chair at the pontiff’s bedside.
In the middle of the bed-beneath the brilliantly coloured fresco of Lucrezia as the sagacious Saint Catherine-lay the Pope. His skullcap had been removed, revealing a bald crown and a fringe of dishevelled white hair as fine and downy as an infant’s. He wore only a linen nightgown; sheets had been drawn up to cover his spindly legs and half his round, protruding stomach. He too dozed, though his eyes were slit open; the lids were puffed and blackened; his complexion was grey, and his cheeks sunken, giving him a skeletal appearance.
I let go of Jofre’s arm. He went over to Gasparre, put a hand on his shoulder to rouse him, then whispered something in the startled chamberlain’s ear. I know not what he said; I was only grateful that my husband’s lie worked, for Gasparre rose and left the room.
I turned to Jofre. ‘Husband,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you went, too.’
‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘I will see you safely out of here.’
I went over to the table and set down my fan, then poured a small amount of wine into the goblet. While Jofre watched the entrance, I withdrew the green vial, and poured half its contents into the liquid, then swirled it. It was a massive dose, enough for fifty men, but though I was cold enough to commit murder, I was not cruel. I desired that Alexander go quickly, not that he suffer.
When I was satisfied it was ready, I nodded to my husband.
He moved away from the door, sat on the edge of his father’s bed, and put a gentle hand on the old man’s arm. ‘Father,’ he said.
Alexander’s eyelids flickered; he gazed up at his averred son in confusion. ‘Juan?’
‘No, Father. It is I, Jofre.’ Tears gathered in my husband’s eyes; his face contorted with sudden grief. Holding the goblet, I moved behind him.
Alexander blinked and recognized me at once despite the mask that hid the upper half of my face. ‘Sancha?’ His voice was weak, reedy, but held a trace of good humour; he seemed pleased to see me. ‘Sancha, you have come to visit…Is it the season for Carnival already?’ It was as though he had forgotten my brother’s murder and my imprisonment. He spoke to me as he would have to Lucrezia, seeking feminine comfort. ‘Sancha, where is Juan?’
I stepped in front of my husband. ‘He sleeps, Holiness. As you should, too. Here. This will help.’
I held the cup to his lips; he drank, coughing at first, but then recovered, and managed to take several swallows. As I pulled the goblet away, he grimaced. ‘It is bitter.’
‘The most efficacious medicines always are,’ I replied. ‘Now rest, Your Holiness.’
‘Tell Jofre to stop that crying,’ he said peevishly, then sighed and closed his blackened eyelids.
With the back of my hand, I reached down and stroked his weathered cheek. The skin was soft, thin as parchment.
