The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  At Cesare’s palazzo, my guards banged on the gates; after an interminable moment during which I clenched my hands in impatience and Pantalisea glanced around anxiously from under her hood, as if we were about to be assaulted, I heard the bolts slide back.

  The postern opened. We slipped inside to find my brother’s house shrouded in darkness; a lone firebrand in the inner cortile shed light over the coffers and trunks of Cesare’s return from Naples, still lashed with ropes and heaped where they’d been left in the arcade.

  The page who’d unbolted the gates stood before us. Without giving him a glance, I said to Pantalisea, “Wait here with the guards.” I pushed back my hood as I climbed the staircase to the piano nobile, hurrying down the loggia to Cesare’s apartments.

  A figure emerging from the shadows brought me to a frightened halt. “Michelotto!” I pressed a hand to my pounding heart as my brother’s manservant bowed. In the gloom, I could barely distinguish his features, but as soon as he spoke, I felt a pang of dread at his somber tone.

  “Donna Lucrezia, you were not expected.”

  “No?” I reached for the crumpled note in my cloak’s inner pocket. “I received this missive from—” I suddenly realized I did not know who had sent it. Even as I hesitated, footsteps came hurrying behind Michelotto and he half-turned to reveal Sancia, her hair tangled, her eyes seeming enormous in her drawn face. My fear increased; in the time I had known her, I had never seen her look anything but perfectly poised.

  “Lucrezia, thank God!” She thrust out her hand to take me by my sleeve. “Where have you been? I sent that note hours ago. I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

  “You knew where I was,” I said. “I was in the library. You yourself helped arrange it—”

  Michelotto stepped between us, forcing her to release me. “With all due respect, Your Highness,” he murmured to Sancia, “I do not think my lord would wish his sister to see him at this time, not in his current state.”

  Before Sancia could reply, I said firmly, “If my brother has need of me, then whether or not he wishes to see me is of no account.” Unclasping my cloak, I let it drop to the tiled floor at his feet. “Please step aside.”

  Michelotto retrieved my cloak. “As you say, my lady,” he said, and Sancia yanked me forward to a pair of wooden doors.

  She came to a halt. I searched her face before I said, “You said he was ill. Is it a fever?”

  Her voice trembled. “It might be a fever, yes, but unlike any I’ve seen. He arrived yesterday; he did not want anyone to know. He asked me to meet him here, said he had something important we must discuss. I came at once, naturally. I thought he wanted…”

  “Yes,” I said, growing impatient. “I know what you thought. What did he say?”

  “He seemed fine.” She kneaded her hands. “Beautiful, as always, with high color in his face from the sun and not at all tired from his travels, but he—he was enraged. No sooner had I stepped into his rooms than he began raving.”

  “Raving?” I wanted to grab her, forcibly shake out her words. “About what?”

  “Juan,” she said, and I froze.

  “Juan? But he is in Spain.”

  “Not for long.” Sancia exhaled a shuddering breath. “Your father has summoned him; his Spanish wife gave birth to a son, and His Holiness has declared that Juan must return here to lead a campaign against the Orsini barons in the Romagna. They refuse to join the Holy League, so your father will bring the entire family to task for assisting the French and calling for his dethronement. His Holiness intends to grant Juan command as gonfalonier of the papal states.”

  “Juan? Our captain general?” I almost laughed in disbelief. “Per Dio, he cannot be serious. Juan doesn’t know the first thing about overseeing an army.”

  “That’s what Cesare said.” When she took my hand again, her fingers were icy. “Lucrezia, he was wild. Never have I seen him like that; he said…terrible things. He started throwing everything he could get hold of; it was as though he lost his reason. The sweat poured off him. He turned so white that I thought he must indeed be delirious with fever. I still think he is. I think he is very ill. I believe he has—”

  “What?” I clutched her hand so tightly that she winced. “You think he has what?”

  “The French pox,” she whispered.

  Everything darkened for a paralyzing instant.

  “Impossible,” I heard myself utter. “He’s always been strong, healthy. Besides that bout of marsh fever when he was a boy, Cesare hasn’t been ill a day in his life.”

  “He threw me out of the room.” She drew back, tugging at her bodice to display the mottled bruise on her shoulder. “He did this to me with his hands. I tried to tell him he should not become so irate, that surely, once he expressed his concern to His Holiness, he could compel your father to heed his advice. I even offered to speak to His Holiness myself—you know how fond he is of me. But Cesare threatened to strangle me if I dared say a word to anyone. Then he flung me out of the room as though I were a dog.”

  Tears swam in her eyes. I could see that the violence Cesare had shown terrified her. As worldly as she appeared, Sancia was barely eighteen years of age. She had lived her entire life in the pampered court, and while it was one thing to play seductress before admiring sycophants, it was quite another to find herself handled like a common puttana.

  “I love him,” she said. “I truly do. He’s the most fascinating man I have ever known, but today he frightened me. It was as if I looked into the eyes of a madman. There was a moment as he came toward me—Lucrezia, I thought he would kill me.”

  I embraced her. “You mustn’t think that. He is beside himself, if what you say is true. For Papa to disregard him so completely and bestow such an honor upon Juan—it must have indeed driven him beyond reason. Cesare has tried so hard, for so long, to prove his worth. He cannot abide this. But I am certain,” I said, caressing the hair from her brow as she regarded me with the expression of a bewildered child, “that he did not intend to hurt you. He will apologize and make amends, you’ll see. He will regret having done this. He already does.”

  “Yes.” She nodded desperately. “I thought the same. It is why I summoned you. You are his beloved sister; he always speaks of you with such admiration. I did not want to interrupt your time with Alfonso, so I sent word to your maid, but I thought…”

  “I understand. I will speak to him.” I smiled to ease her distress, though I felt only mounting apprehension. “Have Michelotto escort you to your palazzo. I’ll send word.”

  Her voice caught as she whispered, “Thank you, Lucrezia,” and stumbled down the loggia to where Michelotto stood, watching us.

  As Michelotto guided Sancia away, I turned to the doors. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it might not be better, or at least wiser, to leave Cesare alone until his temper cooled. But Sancia’s words—I think he is very ill—went through me like a horrid presentiment, so that I found myself rapping upon the wood, my voice peremptory as I called out: “Cesare. It is Lucrezia. Let me in.”

  Silence fell, the echo of my voice fading into the loggia. I could hear the faint sounds of revelry outside the palazzo walls, the populace in the streets going about their evening without a care.

  Then the key in the lock clicked. The door creaked open.

  Pushing against it, I entered his chamber.

  Though the curtains at the far window were half yanked from their rods, admitting the silvery glow of the moon over the garden, the room was submerged in darkness, causing me to step gingerly. My slippers crunched on fragments of something broken on the floor; as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the entire chamber had been ransacked—tables turned on their sides, heavy chairs toppled, the carpets on the sideboards wrenched down, along with platters, candlesticks, decanters, and goblets.

  “Cesare?” My whisper shivered in the stillness.

  He stepped into view from a corner sideboard, his back to me, silhouetted against the window with its fall
en drapery—his shirt hung about him, a shapeless linen ghost through which the light filtered, outlining his torso within it.

  I threaded my way to him. When he felt my fingers on his arm, he said in a low, flat tone, “You should not have come.”

  “Sancia sent word. She is very worried for you. She thinks you may be ill.”

  He did not move. As I began to turn him around to me, he abruptly swerved to avoid my touch, inadvertently revealing himself.

  I could not contain my shock. He was gaunt, and the bronze hue of his time spent in Naples had turned ashen. Drenched in perspiration, the unlaced front of his chemise clung to his chest as though he had just bathed and put it upon his wet skin. He had shorn his hair again, perhaps to better endure the heat of Naples; his close-cropped skull made him resemble a starving prisoner.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Sweet Virgin, look at you. You are ill.” I reached out to touch his brow. He flinched. “Cesare, we must call for Papa’s physician, Torella. You’re burning with fever.”

  “It is nothing.” Again, he jerked away from me. “I have a tertian. It will pass.”

  “A tertian? Then you should be in bed, under a physician’s care.”

  “I told you, it is nothing. I’m taking some foul medicine for it. I do not need you or Torella fussing over me.” He squared his shoulders. “Go back to your palazzo. Go back to playing your silly games with Sancia. Leave me be.”

  “How can you say that to me? If you are ill, you must be attended; otherwise, I shall be the one who worries about you.”

  Without warning, he grasped my shoulders, digging his fingers into me. “It is too late for worry,” he snarled. “Or have you not heard? I am forsaken.”

  Though I wanted to push him away, remind him that I was not some mistress that he could manhandle at will, I kept my reply calm, for Sancia was right: He was sick. “I did hear. Sancia told me. She said you threatened to strangle her for it. Papa is bringing Juan home to lead a campaign against the Orsini. He will name him gonfalonier.”

  “Yes! While I was in Naples being his lackey, Papa plotted to give our brother a charge that will make us the farce of Italy, never mind that our brother can barely pull the sword from his scabbard—and that’s when he is sober. Yet Papa now sees fit to name him captain general of the papal states.”

  “Cesare.” I was struggling to remain composed. “He honored you, too. He named you cardinal. He chose you to represent him in Naples. You judge him too harshly, after everything he has endured. He allows you everything he can—”

  “Everything but my freedom. Everything but my choice.” His raw burst of laughter chilled me. Sancia had not exaggerated; it truly was as though he had turned feral. “But of course you must defend him. Ever the dutiful daughter, as Mama says, even if you hold fast to your precious virginity before the world while sneaking behind his back to entice that boorish brother of Sancia’s to your hallowed bed.”

  “How dare you?” I had to curl my fist at my side to resist striking him, my concern for his health charred by his reproach. “I would never do such a thing. And who are you to fling such accusations when you yourself would have—” I stopped myself, seeing his malicious smile.

  “I myself would have what? Why can you not say it, Lucia?”

  “I do not need to. You know well what you desired.”

  “I do. I desire it still. But you spurned me. You refused me because you must save yourself for one you deem more worthy. Do so. Give yourself to whomever you please, but do not come running after me, because I do not want your concern. I do not want your pity or false affection. I do not want or need you anymore.”

  I began to step back. The violence Sancia had feared scalded his face, so that in the bizarre alchemy of the moonlight around us, it seemed as if he had no whites in his eyes, his rage swallowing his pupils until a malevolent stranger gazed through him.

  “Cesare,” I said haltingly, “you are not yourself.”

  For a terrifying moment, as he watched me inch to the door over the shards of detritus strewn underfoot, I thought he would lunge. I could actually feel his hands upon me, and I braced for his blow. Then he let out an anguished groan. He staggered, doubling over. When I started toward him—for he was crooked somehow, as if twisted from within—he cried, “No, keep away!” Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with his sweat, his chemise soaked now, translucent, exposing the contours of his chest.

  “Let me help you,” I implored. “I love you, Cesare. I cannot bear to see you like this.”

  Another spasm contorted his face. “You cannot help me. No one can. This devil I suffer cannot be cured; it must have its way. Leave me. Save yourself, instead.”

  My mother’s words lanced through me—it is your curse, a poison you carry inside—and my plea was ragged. “There is no devil inside you. You have a fever. You do not know what you say.”

  He stared at me. “Oh, I know. Hatred is my devil. As long as Juan lives, I’ll never escape him. I am doomed to abide forever in his shadow, never becoming who I was meant to be.”

  “What…what will you do?” I whispered.

  “Whatever I must. The die is cast. Fortuna shows her cruel hand. And now let the world be forewarned.” He wiped his arm across his brow, moving back into the shadows by the sideboard. “You must go. You must leave me now.”

  Only then did I notice someone in the doorway—a dapper figure in leather, with a plumed cap and black mask over his face, so that I couldn’t see anything in his covered visage save for the hint of eyes and teeth. Yet I knew at once that it was Michelotto.

  “My lady,” he said. “It is time you returned to Santa Maria.” He came forward with my cloak and unfurled it across my shoulders. Then he pulled another mask from his pocket and affixed it to my face. As I started to resist, he murmured, “Rome is not safe at night; you must not be seen. I would not have a mishap befall you.”

  Through the eyeholes of the mask, I searched for Cesare. I could barely see him, crouched by the sideboard, motionless. “Do not bring more harm upon yourself,” I said.

  My brother did not answer, as Michelotto turned me away.

  On the way back to my palazzo, with Pantalisea gripping my hand, all I could hear was the triumphant declaration Cesare had uttered to me in Pesaro, in what now seemed a lifetime ago:

  The time has come for a new age—the age of Borgia. And I shall be its scourge.

  SANCIA CAME TO visit me a few weeks later. She had apparently recovered, waving aside my explanation that Cesare was indeed ill but on the mend. I suspected her indifference was the only way she knew how to shield herself from the hurt he’d inflicted. In truth, I’d not heard another word from him, my missives to his palazzo gone unanswered. But I surmised that he must be improving or I’d have heard otherwise.

  Instead of discussing Cesare, however, Sancia wanted to confirm gossip about my husband. “I’m told he is back, having accomplished nothing of note save to watch from afar, appropriately costumed in armor, of course, while our soldiers chased those hideous mercenaries out of the Romagna. Is it true? Is he here now?”

  I nodded, unable to disguise my grimace. Giovanni had indeed returned, and immediately after installing himself in his wing of my palazzo he’d become the object of sniggering, as it was widely known that he’d borne no honor in the skirmishes that were paving the way for our upcoming campaign against the Orsini barons. As a result, he skulked about. I could scarcely abide the sight of him whenever we crossed paths. Fortunately, we rarely did.

  “I have scarcely spoken to him,” I said. “He avoids me.”

  “What else can he do? He is humiliated.” She paused, eyeing me. “But not so much that he refrained from petitioning His Holiness to let him consummate your marriage. You never told me you had a clause in your nuptial treaty, my sly Lucrezia.”

  She sounded faintly accusatory. I shrugged, in no mood to give her the sordid details. “It’s hardly a secret. And of no relevance now,
given the fact that I’m certainly of age.”

  “You most certainly are. Women younger than you are deemed of age. Yet His Holiness will not declare it and told Giovanni that, after his recent abysmal failure in war, he is not inclined to let him do the same in your bed.” Suspicion spiked her voice. “Giovanni of course protested, citing he cannot be refused his rights as your husband indefinitely, but His Holiness warned that if he dared touch a hair on your head he’d throw him into the Castel Sant’Angelo to bed with the rats.”

  I was hardly surprised that Sancia knew of my father’s exchange with Giovanni. She had an infallible ear for scandal. And her news comforted me, for Papa’s dictate would keep Giovanni at bay. Still, I did not wish to discuss him, so I finally dared to ask if she’d had any word from Cesare.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Much as it pains me, I have not. He’s not called for me once or sent so much as an apology, though you assured me of his abject repentance. All I can say is that I believe he is as well as can be expected.”

  “Why do you say that?” I felt suddenly breathless. Had he fallen even more desperately ill and I’d been left unawares, thinking him on the mend?

  She shrugged. “You saw him, did you not? When a man’s pride sustains such a blow, the only thing on his mind is—well, his pride.”

  Her words brought back the fear I had felt when I visited my brother. I realized I shouldn’t worry about her mention of the French pox. Cesare only had a bad fever, as he claimed, exacerbated by his disappointment; it was understandable he’d keep to his palazzo until he gained mastery over himself. Those awful words he’d said to me, the monster I had glimpsed in his eyes—much like Sancia’s indifference, it was how he had learned to protect himself against the burden he must carry, the knowledge that while he suffered the shackles of the cloth, Juan was free to reap glory with the sword. Nevertheless, my disquiet persisted, until Sancia reached into her skirts and dropped a folded parchment into my lap.