I sighed, too, and with the outflow of breath came a long, piercing pain in my breast, like someone withdrawing a sword. I knew then that I need accomplish no more: the canterella and I had both served our purpose.
‘It is done,’ I whispered to Jofre. ‘Without him, Cesare has no power. We can go.’
But Jofre took the sleeping pontiff’s hand and said, ‘I will stay with him.’
I kissed his head in reply, and left him there. I had intended to return at once to the Castel Sant’Angelo…but strangely, my feet sought a familiar path, up the stairs, on a journey I had made surreptitiously, at night, so many years before-to Cesare’s apartment.
The doors to both the inner and outer chambers were open. I kept the fan close to my face; I expected to confront Micheletto Corella there, and had prepared the alibi that I was a courtesan friend of Cesare’s, so enamoured of him that I had to reassure myself he would recover.
But the suite was empty, save for the man upon the bed. Corella, fittingly, had deserted his master.
Cesare was naked and moaning, his long legs and torso tangled up in the linens; his feet were dark purple, swollen to almost twice their normal size. A single taper burned on the nearby table, but even that feeble light pained him; he squinted and clutched his head in agony.
I entered silently and stood before the bed, uncertain why I had come. I had never seen the man so helpless, or deserted; either servants or Corella had taken advantage of his condition, for his tapestries, fur rugs and gold candelabra were all missing. Any item of value, in fact, had been taken; only the gilded ceilings and frescoes remained. Yet I felt no pity…only amazement that I had ever loved a man so wicked, amazement that I had been so fooled.
At last his tortured gaze-black, shadowed eyes in a ghastly white face, framed by dark hair hanging in damp, tangled strands-fell on me. He struggled to cover himself, to regain some dignity despite his weakness; he tried to lift his head and failed. I understood why it was not necessary to kill him: it was greater torment for him to survive, stripped of power. Without the backing of the papacy, none would remain loyal to him. With his cruelty, his treachery towards his own men, he had hanged himself-just as surely as King Alfonso II had swung from the great iron sconce in Sicily.
‘Who are you?’ he rasped.
I spoke from behind the fan, my voice muffled. ‘You are undone,’ I told him. ‘Your father is dead.’
He let go a groan-not of grief, but of great inconvenience.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded again. ‘Who speaks?’
I lowered my fan, drew back my hood, and lifted the mask to fully reveal my face; I showed him a regal haughtiness worthy of my father at his coronation. Bereft of supporters, he was no more than a whimpering coward.
‘Call me Justice,’ I said.
XXXVIII
I moved swiftly down the staircase and returned to Jofre; he sat, shoulders slumped with guilt and grief, beside the motionless form of the Pope. I glanced at Alexander: his eyes were half-open now, dulled and sightless, fixed on a far-distant spot beyond the walls; his lips had been forced open by his violet-black, swelling tongue. His great broad chest had at last fallen still, and rose no more.
Around us, two servants-a man and a woman-were busily stuffing exquisite gold-threaded tapestries into a sack; others, I knew, would soon join them, and Alexander’s quarters would soon be as bare as Cesare’s. Yet neither I nor my husband made any move to stop them.
I took Jofre’s hand. His own remained limp; he did not return my grip, and I let his fingers slip away from mine. He spoke in a tone devoid of feeling, his gaze fixed on the body of the man who for so many years had owned him as son. ‘Gasparre has gone to tell the cardinals, and make preparations. Someone will come to wash him, then take him for burial.’
I stood silent for a time, then said gently, ‘I am going home.’
He grasped my tacit meaning and turned his face away. I understood from the gesture that he had decided to return to Squillace; from that time on, we would live apart. He was not strong enough to remain with the one who had lifted the final dose to his father’s lips, not strong enough to live in the presence of our shared guilt.
I leaned down, placed a gentle kiss upon his head, and left him.
By the time I arrived once more at the Vatican gates, most of the guards had fled; those few who remained let me pass without jeering. An odd silence fell over them at the sight of me, as if they sensed my power.
I walked through the gates onto the cobblestone piazza of Saint Peter, unafraid of the darkness despite being a woman unarmed. My spirit felt light-like Rome, the Romagna, the Marches, finally free of the Borgia curse. My brother’s ghost had been avenged, and could rest at last. Ironically, Cesare had finally given me those things he had promised in the heat of love: my native city and a child.
In the distance, on the other side of the Tiber, stood the Castel Sant’Angelo, with the Archangel Michael spreading his wings over the stone keep; several of the tiny windows-those of Cesare’s madwomen-glowed yellow. I smiled, knowing that Rodrigo and Donna Esmeralda awaited me there.
Behind me, the bells of Saint Peter’s began their dolorous toll.
I stepped onto the bridge and crossed the dark river; this time I smelled only sweet brine. My heart was already in Naples, where the sun gleams off the pure blue waters of the bay.
Afterword
The details of Pope Alexander VI’s viewing and burial are particularly gruesome. After his death, his body was washed and clothed and, following custom, put on display in Saint Peter’s so that it could be visited by the faithful. But as it lay in state, the Pope’s body swelled monstrously and blackened, becoming so frightful in appearance that it was covered. The people began to murmur that Alexander had been possessed by the Devil, or had at the very least sold his soul for temporal power. Accompanied by a small group, the body was swiftly carried away for burial- to the chapel of Santa Maria della Febbri, where Alfonso of Aragon had been taken only a few years before.
The actual interment was horrific: Alexander’s corpse was so swollen it failed to fit into the coffin, and was literally beaten into it with shovels. A great stone was placed atop the grave to keep the lid in place.
Although he eventually recovered, Cesare was resoundingly abandoned by all who had previously supported him. The treacherous Don Micheletto Corella confronted the Pope’s Treasurer at knife-point, and made away with most of the papal funds; King Louis deserted Cesare at once. Friendless, with countless enemies in Italy and no support in France, Cesare was arrested by King Ferdinand of Spain. The monarch had been lobbied for years by Juan’s wife, who publicly accused Cesare of her husband’s murder. Cesare eventually managed to escape, however, and distracted himself by fighting in minor skirmishes.
As for Sancha, she succeeded in returning to Naples with her nephew Rodrigo, while Jofre returned to Squillace to rule. Curiously, Cesare brought the Roman Infante, Giovanni-his and Lucrezia’s illegitimate son-to Sancha in 1503, asking that she raise the boy; one can only speculate that Cesare still had affection and respect for her. Sancha acquiesced to his request and took care of the two children, surrounded by the surviving female members of her family. Unfortunately, she died shortly thereafter of an unrecorded illness. Historians disagree on the year: some list it as 1504, others as 1506.
Interestingly, Cesare died not long after: in 1507, in Viani, Italy, while serving as a mercenary, he unwisely rode so far ahead of his own troops that he was immediately surrounded by the enemy and killed. Many considered his death a suicide.
Lucrezia remained in Ferrara and bore Alfonso d’Este four children. Towards the end of her life, she became increasingly religious, and took to wearing hair shirts beneath her glamorous gowns. In 1518, she joined the Third Order of Saint Francis of Assisi. She died in 1519, after giving birth to a short-lived baby girl.
Jofre returned to Squillace. Upon Sancha’s passing, he married Maria de Mila and produced many heirs. He
