He broke the quiet. “We had to strike a pact with King Charles. We’ll be despised for it, no doubt, condemned throughout Italy, but we had no other choice. We were trapped in the castel. The French threatened to turn their cannon on us—”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “I received your missive. I still have it.”
“It reached you?” He gave a faint smile. “I must reward that courier if I ever see him again. He must have braved hell to escape the city, let alone reach Pesaro.” He went silent again, plucking at his smock before he said, “Anyway, the secret passage from the Vatican had collapsed from their barrage. We had no escape. Though the king had promised to deal with us honorably, the moment his army breached our walls they went on a rampage. The Jewish quarter, the Borgo district and palazzos: They looted everything. Mama fled to her vineyard on the Esquiline. They might have torched and raped the entire city if we hadn’t agreed to an accord.” He grimaced. “I’ve seen Turks show more restraint. The French are like animals; they pissed on the very altar of the basilica, stabled their horses in the Vatican, and brought their whores into the papal apartments.”
“Dio mio.” I crossed myself, thinking of the beautiful frescoes, the gilded furnishings and tapestries, now soiled and tainted. “What accord did you reach?” I asked, prepared for the news that we were now subjects of the king of France.
“Don’t you want to know what happened before that?” His tone turned mischievous, causing me to smile. “Rome had begun to riot. We don’t take kindly to plunder unless we are the ones doing it. Charles was alarmed; his men were being killed in the streets, so he sent an urgent message to the castel, asking Papa to meet with him. It was all very regal, very private. Charles rode to the castel, and after they embraced, they walked by themselves along the loggia.”
He inclined to me. “You’ve never seen such a ludicrous pair, Papa lumbering like a bear in his camauro while Charles hopped alongside him, all twitchy and slobbering. The king of France is a dwarf, Lucia—uglier than sin and no higher than my shoulder. And a fool, too: He had all of Rome in his grip. He could have made us do anything, but by the time he and Papa finished their stroll, their treaty was sealed. Charles vowed obedience to Papa as Supreme Pontiff, renouncing any hope that he would support Papa’s dethronement, while Papa sanctioned the king’s crusade against the Turk, thereby granting him safe passage through our states.”
I considered this for a long moment. “Why didn’t Papa grant him safe passage before? By refusing, he put the entire city in danger.”
“We never thought it would come to that.” Cesare grimaced. “Or Papa didn’t. I had a feeling it might. But he was right to refuse them at first. The Romagna territories are part of our holy state: To allow Charles safe passage would have sent a message to every sovereign in Europe that we are open to plunder. And in the end, our refusal helped save us. Most of the Romagna barons had already kissed Charles’s culo and offered up their fortresses, so our refusal to let the French pass under papal sanction now makes those barons traitors.”
“And Naples? Gioffre is there, with his wife, Princess Sancia. Is he now in danger?”
Cesare nodded. “We must pray Naples can escape its fate. It was them or us. Alfonso abdicated in favor of his son, Ferrantino, who is rabid as a dog. He’ll no doubt fight the French to his last breath. We can only hope he has enough soldiers to win.”
“Is that why you were in Velletri? You left Rome with King Charles?”
“Both Djem and I. I told you, Charles is a fool. He actually agreed to pay Papa five hundred thousand ducats for my company. Having me there lent papal authority to his campaign for Naples. He would have paid even more for Djem, however. Charles wanted the sultan’s hated brother in his camp as a hostage because he thinks that when he launches his crusade, Djem might prove useful as a pawn. I traveled as cardinal legate. I brought nineteen mules with my possessions. It must have come as quite a shock when the French opened those coffers and found they were empty.”
I chuckled, warming to his tone. “You brought nothing with you?”
“Oh, I did. In the first two coffers. I even displayed my vestments and chalices to Charles, whose eyes popped out more than usual at all the gemstones. He’s as greedy as he is venal. Alas, halfway to Velletri, the mules bearing those coffers were intercepted by my Michelotto. By the time I escaped, I had only my robes and skullcap—which I left in my tent.” He let out a sudden burst of laughter. “Charles truly believed we would honor the terms of our treaty and let him stake his claim on Naples with our full support!”
My spirits lifted. My brother had just reduced the French menace to a farce.
“Charles has no idea what awaits him. Taking Naples is not going to be as simple as he thinks,” Cesare went on. “And while he contends with King Ferrantino, Papa and I will form a Holy League with our city-states. They will heed us now; they have seen what can happen if they do not. And when they do”—he leaned to me, his grin laced with triumph—“we shall make them bow to us. The Medici have already fled Florence, exiled from their own city by that devil Savonarola, who now orders all their precious possessions thrown onto his bonfire of vanities. One great family has fallen; that’s one less we have to vanquish. We shall force the rest to their knees, and once we wring from them what we need, we will conquer every one, every petty warlord or haughty duke, every treacherous prince who plotted our downfall. We will make them be our vassals or put their heads on spikes. The time has come for a new age—the age of Borgia. And I shall be its scourge. I shall raise such terror, they will tremble at our very name.”
I laughed out loud then, as much at his dramatic declaration as with joy that, despite the circumstances of his arrival, his irrepressible spirit had apparently suffered no ill effects.
“And Djem?” I asked, mirth coloring my voice. “Is he still a hostage with the French?” I thought it was only what he deserved, after what he had done to me that night in my palazzo.
“He is dead.” Cesare’s reply was flat. “I killed him.” And as I gaped at him, stunned by his pronouncement, he added, “It was his life or mine.”
Guilt overwhelmed me. “But you—you shouldn’t have! I never said I wanted him dead.” Even as I spoke, I dreaded Juan’s reaction when he was told that his beloved friend was gone.
A slight frown knit Cesare’s brow. “I didn’t do it for you. That would have been killing a dog because its master had it bark. No, we’d planned our escape, you see; when the French camped for the night, we would steal away in borrowed clothes, take two packhorses, and ride directly to Perugia to meet with Papa. But when the hour came, that damn Turk balked. He started yelling at me, saying Juan would never have let matters reach such a pass that he, a prince, should find himself forced to flee like a thief. I had to stop it. I had to stop him.” His voice suddenly quavered. “I thought they’d hear him. He was strong; he fought my garrote. I had to strangle him with the wire I carried in case we ran into any guards.”
I sat in horrified silence, unable to utter a word.
“It was his life or mine,” Cesare said again, and his quaver deepened. “I had no choice. You must believe me. If I hadn’t, he would have given us both away.”
“Yes. Of course,” I whispered. “You had to save yourself.” But I was struggling to reconcile my relief that he had escaped with the brutality of this unexpected act. Then I saw him shudder. He wasn’t as indifferent to what he had done as he feigned.
“Please,” he said. “Do not judge me. I would never have done it, if there had been another way. But he was shouting so loudly, he’d have woken the entire camp, and I had to—”
“No. Say no more. I understand. Cesare, I would never judge you.”
He let out a moan, averting his face. “But you do. How can you not? I killed a man. I shouldn’t have told you. I should never have admitted it. I should never have come here.”
“Don’t say that.” I shifted onto the edge of the bed, pulling him gently to me. He melted i
nto my embrace like a disconsolate child. I could feel his coiled muscles. As I realized just how near I’d come to losing him and everything I loved, I tightened my arms around him, trying to impart warmth, my devotion, and reassurance, as he sank his face into my breast.
His arms encircled my waist. “I would have killed a hundred men to reach you,” I heard him say, and then he reared up, clasping his mouth to mine, his breath moist as summer dusk. His tongue flickered, probing. As I felt his entire body meld against mine, I struggled but found he had me trapped in his grip. He whispered into my mouth, “No one loves you as I do, Lucia. No one ever can,” and I began to succumb to his power, his shoulders unyielding as ivory yet pliant as satin, his bones ridged under his chest, where I could feel his thundering heart.
His lips trailed upward, over my jaw to my ear. “Plato tells us every man searches for his lost twin. But we need never look, Lucia, because we have always had each other.”
Desire seared my blood. I let him take my hands, drawing them down to the pulsing strength between his legs. I wanted to resist. I knew in some distant, clamoring part of me that it was unspeakable, a mortal sin, an unforgivable transgression against nature. But sensations I had never felt, never even imagined they existed, overcame me. My body wanted him. My body knew that all along it was here, in Cesare’s arms, that I truly belonged—
“No!” Gulping air as if I’d flailed to the surface of a dark sea, I pressed my hands at his chest and forced him back. “We cannot.”
He cupped my chin. “Cannot? Or dare not?”
“Cesare, please. It…you know it would be a terrible sin.”
His chuckle was like a purr in the back of his throat. “Since when has sin ever mattered to us? We are Borgias. We were made to love only each other.”
“No. You must let me go.” I splayed my palms, keeping him at bay. I felt his resistance, his urgent, devastating lust. It was so vast, I felt it would consume me. Even as I fought to curb my own sharp yearning, he abruptly released his hold on me. I could still feel the trace of heat from his fingers on my skin as he gestured with his head toward the doorway.
“Giovanni,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise.”
I whirled about. I’d not realized until this moment how far I had clambered onto the bed, so entwined with Cesare that for a paralyzing moment I could not distinguish his body from mine. Through a dissipating haze, I saw my husband standing motionless on the threshold, his gauntlets clutched in his fist as he regarded us from under his cap.
“I was told you were here, my lord cardinal, but could scarcely believe it. How is it you came all this way and I was not informed?”
“He arrived only two days ago.” I quickly climbed off the bed, tugging at my skirts, cringing inwardly at the distress in my voice and the brittle excuses tumbling from my lips that no one, much less Giovanni, could ever believe. “He was very ill and I—I was going to write to you, but I was tending to him. See?” I spun to the side table for the bottle of medicine and, in my haste, knocked over the empty cup. As it clanked onto the floor, the sound rang too loud to my ears.
“I do see,” said Giovanni thickly. “I see that once again I am the last to know.”
Cesare laughed. “Come, now! You find fault where there is none. It is true what my sister says. I was in terrible shape. We’d have called for you soon enough.” He sprang with ease from the bed, as though he had been in health the entire time, making me wince. His crumpled smock turned translucent in the light, revealing his hard manhood. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care, striding to Giovanni and yanking him into a fraternal embrace.
Over Cesare’s shoulder, Giovanni stared unblinking at me.
“I’ll—I’ll inform the servants you are here,” I said, hating how I stuttered over the words. As I started for the door, Giovanni stepped away from Cesare. He looked so meager compared to my brother, who, despite his loss of weight, his overgrown cheeks in dire need of barbering, and that borrowed smock, carried himself as if he wore the most exquisite court finery.
“See if you might find me some proper apparel while you are at it,” Cesare said. He winked at Giovanni. “Perhaps the signore has something he can lend me? I arrived with the shirt on my back, so to speak. A fracas with the French. Nothing serious. We’ve had quite a stir in Rome, but the worst is over and His Holiness will summon us soon to join him.”
“Of course,” said Giovanni, his voice leaden. “Lucrezia, ask my chamberlain to fetch one of my doublets and a pair of hose for His Eminence.”
My smile felt taut enough to crack my lips. “I’ll see to it at once.”
As soon as I left the room, I picked up my skirts and ran as fast as I could down the hallway, not stopping until I burst into my apartments, startling my women at their chores. Pantalisea half-rose to her feet as I dashed past her and slammed my bedchamber door behind me.
With my back against the door, I slid to the floor in a boneless heap.
I did not know whether to weep or pray. I had just discovered the darkness within me; I now knew something forbidden lurked in my heart, held sway over my flesh. How could I ever evade or forget this terrifying hunger, when desire for my own brother scorched my very soul?
And Giovanni had seen it. He knew.
He had looked at me as if I were already damned.
We departed Pesaro as the foothills of the Apennines bloomed with early wildflowers and shepherds drove flocks to pasture along the Via Flaminia. The ancient road cut through rocky gorges and dense forest; over its weathered cobbles we rode with eighty guards, our carts loaded with coffers. Cesare stayed close at my side, a gleam in his eye as he remarked, “Should the French happen upon us, I fear you shall be taken hostage as they took la Farnese, for you still ride like a Venetian, petita meva.”
I hauled the reins of my mare, causing her to snort at the harsh tug on her mouth. “I haven’t much opportunity to practice my riding.” My retort was sharp, embedded with resentment for what he’d unleashed between us.
“After all those lively excursions with the Gonzagas?” he said. “I read your letters to Papa; you described yourself as a veritable Diana of the chase.”
“My letters were supposed to be private,” I said. I knew Giovanni watched us with fervid intensity, though what he expected to see, here on the road, I could not say. Whatever it was, Cesare did not help when he leaned to me to whisper, “I know well how you can ride, Lucia.”
I slammed my heels into my mare, as much to get away from him as to disguise the rush of heat in my cheeks.
His laughter rang out behind me as I galloped past my women, catching a glimpse of the fright on Pantalisea’s face. She had been after me for weeks, ever since I had come racing into my apartments. Much as she endeavored to force my confession, I only snapped at her that the next time I’d appreciate a warning before my husband barged in on me. She had given me a wounded look in return. Ladies-in-waiting, she murmured, did not receive advance word from the signore, as I well knew.
“But this same lady-in-waiting would like full accounting of how many times the signore has failed to visit my bed,” I replied, which put an end to her questions, if not her vigilance. Only this time I was relieved. I felt safer knowing she was observant, as if her scrutiny might restrain me from any other unwitting trespass.
Yet what I so desperately sought to evade had only spurred Cesare. In the months before our departure, he’d contrived to waylay me in the gardens, even as Giovanni watched from the gallery. At night, he took up Giulia’s abandoned lute and sang forlorn refrains, making my gullible women swoon at his poetic baritone as I sat with my hands clenched in my lap.
One night, we held a feast. As we dined, he slid his hand under the table to settle his fingers on my thigh, his touch melting through the brocade of my gown while Giovanni sat brooding over the news that the young duke of Milan, held captive for years by his uncle Il Moro, had died—some said from poison at Il Moro’s behest. Now duke in title as w
ell as deed, Il Moro had blithely disregarded his past treachery with the French and agreed to join my father’s Holy League, leaving my husband in yet another quandary.
“One can hardly blame Il Moro,” Cesare remarked. “He must be seen to make amends now that he is Milan’s official ruler. He knows Charles’s enterprise is a catastrophe—the French may have conquered Naples with their impressive cannon, but it seems they failed to take into account the illicit resistance of its brothels. What do they call this new ailment again?” My brother tugged at his lip. “Ah, yes. Mal de Napoli. Though it might also be called the French disease, for who can say who gave it to whom first? Between the rapes and the sores, the French have worn out their welcome. No more talk of a Turkish crusade now!” Cesare laughed. “No, they’re eager to put all of it behind them and return home.” He looked askance at Giovanni. “Ironic, don’t you think? Now it is Il Moro who fears the French might replenish their victuals for their passage across the Alps by plundering his domains.”
“What can I do?” Giovanni was so distraught, he was oblivious to how I gulped my wine, feeling Cesare’s fingers poised like a spider upon me. “This letter from His Holiness—” He yanked a paper from his jerkin. “It says I must fulfill the terms of my condotta to Rome under the league, though surely I must seek my uncle Il Moro’s leave, as I also owe him my service. Yet His Holiness warns that if I dare refuse, I risk excommunication!”
“His warning has never stopped you before,” said Cesare, and as Giovanni went rigid at the ridicule in my brother’s tone, I pushed back my chair and excused myself.
“So soon?” said Cesare. “Such a pity. I’d hoped we might dance. It has been too long since we danced together, sister. Not since your wedding, I believe.”
The Vatican Princess Page 19
