Sancia seized hold of me and hauled me, gasping and giggling, up the staircase to the marble pulpit, where the canons usually assembled to sing the epistle. Our women clumsily followed, hoisting up their skirts and stepping on the toes of outraged worshippers, the crackling of velvet and silk like a hundred birds let loose. By the time we climbed the stairs to the empty canon stalls overlooking the inside of the basilica, my ribs throbbed from the volcanic release of an emotion I had not realized I’d kept inside.
“May I know what you find so hilarious?” Sancia asked, as if she feared I had lost my reason. “It is a holy day, remember?”
“Yes. I remember.” My shoulders shook as I fought back another outburst. Swallowing my nervous, almost hysterical, mirth, I looked askance at our pale women—or, at least, mine were pale. Hers appeared to be enjoying the view, judging by how they shoved at their necklines to expose their cleavage, leaning over the choir railing to encourage those ogling them from the pews below.
“You are right,” I suddenly said. I felt as if a stone had been dislodged from my chest. “I have never tasted anything sweet. My body is as untouched as the day I was born.”
She did not seem taken aback. “I see. Yet you have been married for…how long? Three years?” When I nodded, she gave a sigh. “What are you waiting for? If a husband is not inclined, or if he is but we are not, one needn’t take an oath of celibacy. There are alternatives.”
“Such as?” I could not believe I dared voice such unseemly curiosity.
“Such as this.” Sancia swept out her arm to encompass the vista. The sermon had resumed, promising to be as tedious as I thought, the Dominican enamored of his own tenor even as Papa began to sag on his throne, trying to resist his torpor. Some of the cardinals had already succumbed, heads bobbing against their chests, while the younger men—the pages and secretaries, grooms and ambassadorial assistants, even a few friars—surreptitiously eased off into the shadows under the columns to play dice or gossip with one another.
“Which one?” Sancia said. “If you could choose any man here, who would it be?”
I wanted to play along, if only for the daring fun of it. “None—” I started to say, and then, without any effort on my part, my gaze alighted on Alfonso of Naples. He sat beside Gioffre and the Neapolitan ambassador, appearing to heed the Dominican’s sermon. Only as I sat above him, I could glean something in his lap. What was it? A napkin? No. A book! He had a book, which he glanced down at now and then, his fingers flipping the pages with laconic ease.
“He’s reading,” I said, incredulous.
Sancia chuckled. “Yes, my brother is an avid reader. He adores Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and all the classics. Condemn him to a cell with a book and he would die content.” She paused. “So, is it him? If you could, would you select Alfonso as your lover?”
No one had ever asked me such a question. In truth, no one, except Cesare, ever treated me as if I had an opinion worth hearing.
“Well?” said Sancia. “It is a simple answer: yes or no.”
I returned my gaze to Alfonso, watching how the light spilled over the polished gilt of his hair, the way he sat with such insouciance, caressing the leaves of his book as if they were skin.
I heard myself breathe, “I believe I would.”
“I knew it!” Sancia cried, causing Burchard and those few cardinals still awake to look up. She crooked a finger, drawing me closer. “And he would welcome the opportunity, I can assure you. He has spoken of nothing else since we arrived, lamenting that he’s not had the chance to speak with you alone. Shall I see to it? It is fitting, I think. A brother for a brother.”
My delight faltered. “Brother?” I immediately suspected she did not refer to Gioffre.
Astonishment widened her gaze. “You did not know? But I assumed, with all the couriers and spies—” Her quicksilver laugh escaped her. “He is, after all, one of His Holiness’s sons.”
Relief coursed through me. “Oh, you do mean Gioffre.”
“Gioffre?” She rolled her eyes. “I bed him the one time because it was required of us on our nuptial night, but I’m not entirely without scruple. I desire a man, not a boy, in my bed.”
“Then you must—you refer to…” I found I could not utter his name.
“Yes. Your other brother. Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia.” When I still did not speak, she added, “We discovered our attraction was mutual when he arrived in Naples to crown Ferrantino. I did so regret I had to leave him to come here, though I’m not so regretful now, because you and I are now friends. He told me I would like you. He said I must look after you until he returns, because you are the most beautiful, tenderhearted woman he’s ever known. I must admit, his praise made me jealous. He spoke like a man who cannot forget a lover. But I see why he adores you so.”
I sat without moving, waiting for my outrage to surge. I imagined myself slapping her across her face, calling her a puttana, for surely it was what she deserved for putting the cuckold’s horns on Gioffre with his own brother.
Instead, the relief I had felt earlier returned with an intensity that seemed to flood my entire being. I should be furious with her, and Cesare, too. But he had never dissimulated his aversion to the Church; like so many others who were cardinals or bishops, like hundreds of women forced to enter a convent, he only did what came naturally to those without a vocation. But even more important for me, I thought that we had averted my mother’s curse. He had taken a lover. He wasn’t pining for me. He had meant what he said about accepting my decision.
“You are not upset?” Sancia asked, with a contrition I would not have thought her capable of. “You must think me reprehensible for marrying the one and bedding the other.”
“I do not,” I told her quietly. She also only did what came naturally to her. If Cesare must bed someone, at least he’d chosen a princess who would never ask for more than he could give.
“So. Will you do it?” she said, eager to change the subject. “My brother departs for Naples in a few weeks. You’ll not have another chance unless he returns.”
It took me only a moment to decide.
“Yes,” I said. “Let us arrange it. Discreetly.”
I decided to meet him in the Biblioteca Apostolica, the Vatican Library, which housed the priceless papal collection of rare tomes and codices, illuminated manuscripts and ancient scrolls. I thought it the perfect venue, inspired by my sight of him with a book at Mass—but Sancia was taken aback.
“Not a garden, loggia, or even a private house,” she said, “but some dusty place full of old papers? Lucrezia, are you certain? It’s hardly the setting for a romantic encounter.”
“If your brother is the prince I think he is,” I assured her, “he’ll understand.”
On the appointed day, I donned a hooded cape and left my palazzo alone, having told Pantalisea and my other women that Papa wished to sup with me.
I had once paid a brief childhood visit to the cavernous library on the ground floor of the Apostolic Palace, north of the Cortile dei Pappagalli. I still remembered it. My father was then vice-chancellor to Pope Innocent; taking me by the hand, he guided me past the reception room adorned with half-finished frescoes into four vast chambers filled with scriptorium. The vaulted ceilings were grazed by tall rows of shelves that, to my awestruck eyes, appeared about to topple over, laden with books and sheaves. I had noticed a distinct odor, humidity mixed with dust, and a strange arid smell that made me think of a desert, though I’d never seen one. When I commented on it, Papa replied, “That, farfallina, is the perfume of knowledge.”
The same perfume now welcomed me as I stepped over the threshold and the head librarian in his dark robe and cap bustled up to greet me. Pushing back my cowl, I surveyed the now-finished paintings on the walls and ceiling, colorful sibyls unfurling papyri at the feet of Archimedes and Ctesibius of Alexandria.
The librarian peered at me through his thick spectacles. He said anxiously, “His Highness has already arrived.
You requested privacy, Donna, and so I’ve closed the archives to visitors, citing the need to inventory a new shipment. But, begging your forgiveness, I fear I must ask…I must emphasize…”
I suppressed my amusement as he faltered. This was a first. Did this fussy little man actually think that I planned to entertain a lover on a makeshift bed of his precious parchments?
He started when I set a hand on his sleeve. “You needn’t worry,” I said. “I promise we will leave everything exactly as we found it. There shall be no impropriety—though I must ask you to keep this matter between us.” I removed a pouch from my cloak. “For your troubles,” I added, as his pallid face turned red at the quantity of my bribe.
I moved past him, the brush of my skirts echoing on the floor.
The library looked, if possible, more congested than I recalled; books and portfolios overflowed their berths, spilling in brittle waterfalls into random heaps. There were piles of scrolls along the walls and a pyramid of unpacked crates on a nearby bench, stamped with my father’s insignia of the papal keys and bull. As I started to move toward these, a voice came at me, seemingly from nowhere: “I understand His Holiness has a passion for the written word,” and I turned about to see Alfonso materialize from between the shelves.
He held a book. He wore a green wool tunic and dark hose, his soft brushed-leather boots bunched about his thick calves. His hair was tousled, wisps of cobweb and shreds of parchment caught in it, as if he had been rummaging through the stacks. His expression captured me—a beatific look of wonderment, as if he’d plunged into a dream he hoped might never end.
“My father has always loved books,” I said, acutely aware of our solitude as he neared. He was not as graceful on his feet as he was on horseback; there was a slight awkwardness to his movements and constraint to the way his clothing fit. I realized it was not that he lacked elegance but rather that he had not spent his time polishing his gestures, unlike everyone else I knew. And his apparel seemed ill fitting because it was secondary to him. He must look magnificent naked, I found myself thinking, and I felt embarrassed by my thoughts as he came beside me, his hands extending the book. “Look at this. It is exquisite.”
The object he proffered was not a book but a bound portfolio, clearly ancient, which explained the reverence with which he held it. Hand-sewn and water-stained, its ink faded, the portfolio was spread open to a page depicting a giant in a wind-flung scarlet cloak, ensnared by ropes of writhing snakes and with two anguished cherubs clinging to his ribs.
“Laocoön,” I said. “He was a Trojan priest who tried to expose the ruse of the Horse; he and his sons, Antiphantes and Thymbraeus, were strangled by sea serpents sent by the gods.”
“You know the story.” His voice was smooth, without that hoarse undertone I had detected on the road, its resonance coming from deep in his chest.
“I do. It’s a play by Sophocles, cited in Virgil’s Aeneid.”
“This copy of the Aeneid is over four hundred years old.” He sounded stunned, as if he couldn’t believe it. “I found it all the way in the back, among other manuscripts from the Imperial Library of Constantinople. Did you know you had books here from that fallen city?”
“I did not. But, then, this is not my library. It belongs to His Holiness.”
“Yes. How foolish of me. How could you know everything stored here?” His sudden smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I fear I lose myself among books. I forget everything.”
“So it would seem.” I returned his smile, even as I took a step back. I could drown in his eyes. Up close I saw they had no restless green in them, no wisps of gray like Sancia’s. Instead, his had flecks of amber, like tourmalines, which in the diffused light looked golden. With his wide cheekbones and mane of unkempt hair, he reminded me of a young lion.
We stood in self-conscious silence, uncertain of what to do next. Then he said, “Shall we sit?” and I followed him deeper into the library, to an alcove where he’d made his perch, the worn cushions indented, books and manuscripts piled on a lectern nearby. The air felt closer here and dimmer, shadows lengthening with the sun’s trajectory over the Vatican.
He indicated an unlit hand lantern on the floor. “The librarian offered it to me; he said the light can be hard on the eyes at this time of day, but I cannot imagine keeping a flame here, among all this. One mistake and it could all go up in a conflagration.” He shuddered. “Thousands of years of wisdom turned to ashes, like what is happening in Florence.”
“You must mean the bonfires ordered by Savonarola.” I shifted a few books aside in the alcove. With a murmured apology he retrieved them, and as I sat, thinking I’d done well to wear a simple gown without adornment, he set the books on the floor with care. He handled inanimate objects as if they had sensations.
“It is terrible,” he said, “what that friar does, ordering everyone to surrender the most beautiful things they possess. He would burn the very world the Medici built—all that irreplaceable art, lost forever. It is said Botticelli himself was forced to throw some of his own work into the fire. How can anyone order such destruction?”
“Does not Savonarola preach that if we wish to be closer to God, we must relinquish the temptations that lead us into sin? He’s not the first to seek to cleanse the world of idolatry; St. Bernardino of Siena preached much the same. Both declare that vanity is mankind’s most egregious flaw.” As I spoke, I was pleased to see a hint of color surface in his cheeks.
“Do you believe that?” he asked.
“I hardly see how what I believe matters. I am a woman—one of God’s lowest forms of creation, according to Savonarola. He has seen those of my gender burned on his bonfires, too, or stoned and hung from gibbets. He has armies of children who march through his city seeking out the impure and iniquitous. Art or flesh—it’s all the same to him.”
“But your beliefs do matter.” He inched closer, so I could smell that perfume of knowledge on his person; dust and old paper and his own faint sweat combined to create an ineffable fragrance. He seized my hands, oblivious to the thrill he sent through me. “Women are not thoughtless beings, forged from man’s rib to bear our seed. They too can gift the world with knowledge and art; women throughout history have exalted us to higher purpose.”
“Is that so?” I looked at our clasped hands. Mine appeared lost within his, tiny ivory reliquaries swathed in russet velvet. I lifted my eyes back to him, relishing the physical impact of his gaze. “Such as…?”
“Well, women like…” He bit his lip. “Aspasia of Athens,” he exclaimed, “who was cited by Plato, Aristophanes, and Plutarch, among others. She influenced the political and artistic decisions of her lover, Pericles, and wrote her own rhetoric, though none of it has survived.”
“Wasn’t she also a courtesan?” I said, and he blushed.
“Yes, but she commanded respect from the most famous figures of her age; she alone among women in Athens was invited to dispute at gatherings. And what of Hypatia of Alexandria, who headed the Platonist school of her native city? Socrates tells us she so surpassed every other, she was the greatest mind of her age.”
“And was stoned to death by a mob for it.” I smiled to ease the pained awareness that crossed his face. “So, we come full circle to St. Bernardino and Savonarola. A woman who expresses her thoughts is a dangerous being.”
“Not to me.” His hands tightened on mine. I had the sudden sensation that my fingers were dissolving as he drew me closer. “I revere a woman who speaks her mind, who is not afraid to fight for her beliefs or be her own person.”
“A woman?” I asked. “Or a wife?” As he went still, taken aback, I withdrew my hands. “As my lord must surely be aware, they are not the same thing, at least not to most men.” I started to rise.
He gazed at me. “I am not most men,” he said, “as surely my lady must realize by now.” He did not reach for my hand again. I had the distinct impression that if I turned and walked away he would not try to stop me. He was offering m
e a choice, and it sundered my heart to realize he was someone I should fear.
He had the power to overturn my entire existence.
“I have enjoyed our afternoon,” I said, resisting the urge to lower my lashes in false reticence. “I owe you my gratitude, Prince Alfonso, for enlightening me in ways I had not expected. I shall always remember it.”
He came to his feet. “As shall I. My sole regret is that I must return soon to Naples; I feel as though we have so much yet to discover. May I write to you, Donna Lucrezia?”
Before I could consider it, before I could doubt, I kissed him. He did not startle, though for an instant he showed surprise in his sudden immobility. Then his mouth turned pliant, yielding to mine. When I drew back, I saw what I had hoped for—that look of wonderment, as if he had tasted something he indeed would never forget.
“Yes,” I said softly, “you may write.”
Pulling my hood over my head, I turned away, knowing that if I dared linger, I might be compelled to surrender what I was not yet prepared to give.
As I suspected, Alfonso of Aragon did not try to stop me.
I returned to find Pantalisea pacing in my palazzo courtyard. As I stepped through the gates, she took one look at me and blurted out, “Wherever you have been, I pray he is discreet. This message came for you hours ago, from your brother’s palazzo; the page said it was urgent.”
Alarm fired through me as I took the paper she handed me. The magic of my afternoon with Alfonso faded like an illusion.
“I must go to him at once,” I said. “Cesare has returned. He is ill.”
With Pantalisea and two burly guards, I took a litter to the Trastevere. Night had fallen, blanketing the city in mist, but the narrow lanes and piazzas were awash with thieves, whores, and swaggering condottiere seeking diversion under the low eaves. Acrid smoke wafted from torches carried by armed footmen. The doors and shutters of the taverns were flung wide open to let out raucous laughter and the din of tankards.
The Vatican Princess Page 22
