Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Lucrezia opened the door and stepped out into a golden Roman sunset. Flocks of pigeons rose from the piazza, startled by a noise, feathers drifting down in sacrifice for flight. Faintly, she could smell the scent of the pine and fruit trees from the orchards surrounding the city. She breathed deeply, savoring the air. The Passetto was high above the cesspools and the rot of the streets; the air was sweet on the walkway, untainted by filth. Winds stroked against her cheeks, the touch light, catching strands of her hair. It had darkened during the years in Pesaro, as had her mood. But hair could be lightened; her mother had taught her that, and diversions could be found to mend the spirit.

  She stood alone on the elevated path that stretched to the Castel San’Angelo and sipped wine from the taza she had brought. Time dripped slowly by. A soldier in the green and gold uniform of the papal army opened the door onto the passage, only to stop when he saw her face. The soldier bowed and left. Lucrezia smiled. She was the beloved daughter of the Pope of Rome. For as long as she wished it, the Passetto belonged to her.

  The sun began to set, uneven tile rooftops dusted with shimmering gold and a thousand spires spreading out over the hills. Pink and orange bled through the clouds as the murmuring voices below changed, signaling the coming of night, the return to home.

  The side of Lucrezia’s mouth lifted. Homecomings could be sweet. That much the journey to Pesaro had taught her. The weeks since their return to Rome had passed in a blur of festivities and pageants, wine and song. She was at the center of a whirlwind, the honoring of the Borgia children; her father had presented her with a king’s ransom in jewels and feasted her return even as he heaped honors upon Juan, welcoming him back to the city with titles and gold, visiting him often in the palazzo that had become his new residence.

  All of the Borgia children had returned. Joffre and his wife, Sancia, had journeyed from Naples to share in the festivities. She sighed, thinking of the brother that had become a stranger in the years she had been away, their bond nothing but a faded memory. Once a sweet but simple-minded child, he had matured into an indolent youth with a pouting, sneering mouth whose bones were buried beneath layers of fat. Content to pursue his own indulgences, Joffre did not seem to mind that his wife had bedded half the men in Rome, including both of his brothers.

  And Cesare…no, she would not think of him. Not yet.

  The crenellations at the top of the passetto threw shadows on the walkway, jagged as waiting teeth. The stones of the path warmed her shoes; the fabric of her skirts whispered as she walked. There was a noise behind her, the scraping of wood over stone as the door opened, and the aroma of bergamot on the breeze. Cesare.

  Without turning to look behind her, she set the lip of her taza on the stone. There were only a few swallows left, but it would not do for him to see the cup tremble in her hands, a display of weakness. It was a chess match between them now. Since she had returned to Rome, he had advanced forward even as she retreated, making him chase her. Frustration made him wild, unpredictable. Last evening as they had dined at the Vatican, he had tried to catch her eye and then her hand, every line in his body entreating her for a word, a moment's private communication. She danced away, light on her feet, partnering in the dancing with Juan, her husband, her father. He had stormed from the hall.

  The memory made her smile.

  There was no noise as he approached, but she sensed his presence, the release of pressure like a fist slowly unclenched. The shadows near the covered passageway were his refuge; he hovered there, thinking he could watch her in secrecy. She felt his eyes, moving down her back. She wondered what changes he observed; after so long apart, could he sense her moods, feel the cloying despair that had dogged her every waking movement apart from him?

  "Cardinal Borgia," she greeted him, taking the taza when she was sure that her hands would be steady and tilting it in salute. Light caught the silver so that it glowed against her hand.

  "Lady Sforza," he returned, matching her formality. The red biretti and scarlet robes suited him, she thought idly, turning to face him and taking no care to disguise the thoroughness of her stare. Some official occasion must have warranted his formal church garb instead of the hunting leathers he customarily wore to perform his duties, sword and dagger kept close at hand. Age suited him as well. Though he had not a score of years, his face held the calm assurance of a man in his prime. "You look to be in good spirits."

  "Don't mock me," she said, bringing the wine up for another sip. She was in a wretched humor and knew that it showed on her face.

  His eyebrow quirked, and he took a step forward, onto the passetto. Too late, she realized that it was the most honest exchange they had had in years, and she was no longer running from him. "My attempts at humor used to meet with your favor."

  "Many things once met with my favor that no longer seem appealing."

  Their eyes met and clashed. The pain of it was a knife, and she dropped her gaze, turning to look out over the city. Mist was floating down, coating the furthest reaches in a soft blanket, gentling the vibrant greenery of the gardens. From her position on the passetto, she could see it all, men hurrying about on their business, beggars and pickpockets following closely behind, women in wide-brimmed hats that left their hair exposed, sunning themselves. There were children, laughing and playing. A boy and a girl caught her eye, walking together, heads bent close as they conversed.

  "Do you remember the hours we spent on the loggia?" she asked, recalling the happy, golden afternoons, whiled away in dreams as snatches of songs drifted out over the rooftops.

  "Hiding from our tutors or Juan in one of his rages?" The smile had returned to his voice.

  "Did you never wonder why they could not see what he is?" She shook her head, the memories of his thousand cruelties a bright splatter of blood-red across her childhood. Without Cesare, he might have carried through on his threats instead of venting his frustrations on her things, dresses torn and treasures stolen, pets broken and dead upon the tiles.

  "They knew." His hand rested on the stone pillar a foot away. A long, elegant hand, the marks of swordplay carefully hidden.

  "Are you sure? Our Holy Father is remarkably adept at lying to himself. None of us are as he imagines.”

  He stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them. His eyes were golden in the light. With an impatient gesture, he swept the biretti from his head, crushing the wool in his fingers and exposing curling hair that brushed against his jawline.

  “We have all changed. You, more than any.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed, bringing the taza up to her hide a cat’s smile.

  “It seems I scarcely know you any longer.”

  "Perhaps you do not. I am certainly no longer the princess that I imagined." She leaned her head against the stone. The passetto was deserted, and they were hidden from view by the crenellation. The copper of her gown glowed in the fading light, and she ran a finger along the jeweled band stretching across her breasts, drawing his eyes. "Our father once delighted in telling us that people are either sheep to be led, or the lions who feed on them. But I think he was wrong. There are sheep…there are lions… and there are Borgia."

  "You could still be a princess," he said, a wistful note in his voice as he stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the vibrant silk of her gown. "The Holy Father bargains with Naples. The Sforza are no longer favored, perhaps in time...."

  She shook her head. "No, I am done with fruitless dreams. Even if he decides to free me from this marriage only to wed me to another," her lips twisted, "I shall never be anything but a Borgia."

  His eyebrows lifted. "As Juan is a Borgia?"

  Lucrezia wrinkled her nose. The wine created a pleasant euphoria in her thoughts, tasting of plums and the sweetness of early spring. "Our brother Juan is a mad dog that snaps and bites at everyone he sees." She faced him again as she spoke, noting the stiff set to his shoulders. “He is nothing like us.”

  "And yet you seemed so cordial with him, far mo
re so than with me.” Though his lips were thin, his tone was mild, and Lucrezia felt a shiver run down her spine.

  "We must take our pleasures where we can find them, brother. The day I returned from Rome, the hurt which you wore for all to see was a very great pleasure, indeed."

  The meaning of her words hit him like a slap; Cesare recoiled. Quickly, he recovered, and in two steps he was looming over her, face cold, and she was suddenly aware of his size, the supple strength of the body hidden beneath a cardinal's robes. "Has hurting me been a game to you?"

  Lucrezia's voice dripped ice although the pounding pulse in her neck betrayed her excitement. "I am acting exactly as you counseled, or have you forgotten? What were the words that you used? That I was to treat you as a brother, in the hope that memory of our great sin would soon pass?”

  “Lucrezia…” Cesare bent forward until their foreheads touched, breath disturbing the curls of hair at her temples as he grasped her shoulders with his fingers. The touch was light, gentle, but she could not control her wince as pain speared through her, radiating out from the place where Giovanni had struck her.

  He felt the motion. “What…” he began, impatient, then stopped as he saw the purple crescent on her shoulder exposed by their movement. He reached forward and edged aside the low, square neckline of her gown. The bruise was purple against white skin. Cesare’s nostrils flared. He released her shoulders and took her hand, walking the short distance back to the covered passage that formed the beginning of the Passetto.

  Warm air caressed her shoulders as he brushed aside the wide neckline. He hissed to see the bruises, the clear outline of Giovanni’s hands, purple and yellow fading to brown. His finger reached out, tracing the marks, then pushed the gown again, displaying her upper arms, the curves of her breasts, all covered with bruises.

  “Sforza is a dead man.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

  She jerked away, pulling the gown back in place. “He has hurt me not half so much as you.”

  "Lucrezia..." Though he dropped his eyes, she continued to look at him, the seconds stretching. "I am sorry. That night…No matter that I had thought of it…desired it. You are my sister, the only person in the world with any claim on my affections. What I did to you..."

  Her finger on his lips stopped the words. "What you did was to still my fears and give me greater happiness than I have ever known." Her head dropped down, resting against his chest. Unthinking, his hands rose, curving around her shoulders, the touch light as air. "If memory serves, it was I who came to your room that night."

  "The fault was mine. You could not have known..."

  Her laugh stirred the air between them, citrus flavored with horse and steel and the spiced floral of her perfume. His robes were soft beneath her cheek, concealing the muscled breadth of his form. "If you think that, then you truly do not know me."

  Cesare's hands crept up, finding the arch of her neck beneath her hair. His face turned to the side, and he rested his cheek against the top of her head. It seemed to Lucrezia that he breathed deeply, again and again, savoring her scent in the way that a man freed from blindness watches the sunrise.

  “I am not a good man,” he whispered. “But I thought to leave you for heaven. Can you not see that?”

  “I have never longed for heaven, Cesare. Only for you. Do you know what I thought of, each time that my husband claimed his rights?” Though Cesare’s face twisted, a denial forming on his lips, she continued, the words rushing out. “I remembered your face in the sunlight, and your body, cold from the mountain water. I remembered…” her voice cracked, growing lower, as she reached out and laid her hand on his chest. “I remembered crying when you came inside me, not because it hurt, but because it was more beautiful than I could have imagined. Before that night, I had thought that I knew what love was, that it was poets and words and sweetness, but I was wrong. Love was that night, and you taught it to me. It was a precious gift, and you called it a sin.”

  “It is a sin, Lucrezia. Incest damned Cain and Abel, Lot and his daughters. It is the unpardonable sin of Gianpaolo Baglioni, who receives visitors lying in the bed he shares with his sister. It is…”

  “The sin of Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia, and known to all of Rome.” His lips tightened into a thin line, and she laughed, brushing away the tears which had fallen onto her cheeks. “Even before Caprarola, they talked of it. The nobles who bow to our father, the ladies who serve me. They whisper of the Pope’s wicked children. And they were right. I desired you long before that night when I did not even know the word to name the feeling. If Paul speaks truly and thoughts are sin, Cardinal Borgia, then I have sinned a thousand times, and never once have I regretted it.”

  “It will come,” he whispered, and beneath her hands, his arms clenched. “A day will come when you look at me with horror, realizing what we have done. There is always a reckoning, Lucrezia. For everything, there is a price. I am willing to pay it, but I will not have the weight of your soul resting on mine. I could not bear it.”

  “I am no child, Cesare Borgia, no matter the lies you have told yourself. When I came to you, I knew full well the sin I committed. It rests on my shoulders, no other, and if I grieve for that night, it is because of how it ended.” Lucrezia reached up, stopping his protest with her finger pressed against his lips. “You ran from me. I could still feel your kisses on my lips and you moving inside my body. And waking, to find your letter…”

  “Lucrezia…”

  She stepped back from his arms.

  “No, you have had your say, and I will have mine. For two years, I have done as you asked. I tried to forget that night; I have been that fool’s wife, and buried the part of me that went to you in Caprarola. I behaved as our father wished,” her jaw trembled before she clenched back the tears. “I was a countess without fault, devout and obedient and noble, and each day, I wished that I would die. Had I done as you asked and forgotten that night, I would have thrown myself from the tower; dying with that memory would have been better than living without it.”

  A thought, an aching moment shimmered in the air between them. The sadness was gone from his eyes, the regret, replaced by a dawning awareness. He closed the distance between them again and rested his hands on her shoulders. The skin of his palms caught the gold lattice of her gown, and the warmth of her skin beneath. The touch was light, fingers curving down and lightly stroking.

  “We cannot be as we once were.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Too much lies between us.”

  “Then what are we to do?”

  His finger traced her cheek and she lifted her face to his touch. They were close enough to touch, to kiss, though he held back, watching her with the golden eyes of a hawk.

  “That is for you to decide. There is a glorious path laid out before you, Cesare Borgia. It takes no prophecy for me to see it; I know it to the marrow of my bones.”

  Another step brought them closer, his arm around her waist bending her back so that her neck formed an arch, white as a swan. His fingers traced a path downwards, following the tracery of blue veins. Sweat gathered at Lucrezia’s temples, in the hollow between her breasts.

  “You are right,” he pressed his lips against the hollow by her ear. “When the time comes, I will do…monstrous things. War and murder and evil.” His hips shifted; Lucrezia felt him through the layers of cloth, rigid against her stomach. “Desire for the one thing that I can never claim. A thousand sins committed in the Borgia name. To protect our family, I will become the thing they fear.” His fingers caressed her jawline and she leaned back, savoring the feeling.

  “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes as his mouth moved, tasting the air against her lips.

  “And what of you?” Cesare turned his head to the side, pressing their cheeks together; his hands trembled. Lucrezia felt tears prick at the inside of her eyelids. No matter the temptation, he held himself back. Despair overwhelmed as she realized the futility of the plans that she had made. Their battle was over
, and he had won.

  Lucrezia blinked, clearing her eyes. She smiled up at him. “I will do what I must. I am a Borgia, Cesare, and unafraid to do what is needed to find happiness. This farce of a marriage will end soon. Giovanni is a brute, without worth, and his stupidity is a danger to our family.”

  “Is that all?” Her words seemed to amuse him, deepening the smile playing around the edges of his lips.

  “No. Someday, I will have a child, one that I can protect, one who will not be forced to endure what I have done for the good of the family. And someday, I will find the love that I have sought.”

  “You are loved, Lucrezia.”

  “I had thought so.” She wiped the underside of her nose with a linen square tucked into her sleeve. Replacing it, she looked up, meeting his eyes. There was grief in their depths, and something darker, a violent force barely contained. His jaw clenched into a hard line, and a pulse fluttered at his temples. “Once I would have said nothing could alter our love for one another. But that was a lie. You left, and I knew that all of your words were empty promises. Even now, you hold yourself back from me. You have my congratulations, brother. I have finally learned the lesson you wished, and I am done with living in the shadow of what has happened. Perhaps there is another that I can love, someone who will love me, and I will finally be able to do as you wish, and forget that night ever happened.”

  Without a word, Cesare moved, hands clasping her waist as he carried her back into the shadowed well of the door leading out onto the passetto. Her back met the stones as he leaned forward, holding her in place with his body. His hands traveled upward, marking the swell of her hips, palms caressing the pointed tips of her breasts straining through the silk gown, meeting around the column of her neck. He squeezed and bent down so that their foreheads touched again. The well of his eyes glittered in the shadow, and he pressed closer, muscles flexed and sinews straining, the careful control he exerted over himself gone, ripped to tatters by her words.