What had happened to him?
I almost detained Perotto as we entered by a servant gate, to ask how Juan had died, but my voice lodged in my throat. I could not bear to know, lest I begin to falter, the ice encasing me thawing until the sheer horror of it, the pain, overwhelmed me and I confessed to this loyal youth what Juan had done and why I fled and how I now feared I was somehow to blame for his death.
Inside the Vatican, the clergy amassed to whisper. The unexpected demise of a papal son was an event; even the most indolent among them felt called upon to tend His Holiness. Perotto managed to guide me with expertise through the frescoed maze, employing secret passages and hidden doors to avoid the maelstrom of speculation that my arrival would cause.
Guards stood outside the papal apartments. At my father’s private door, we found cardinals gathered, including Cardinal Sforza.
I had not seen him since Giovanni and I separated, though I suspected he continued to advise Giovanni even from afar. As he turned to me, I hid my trepidation.
“Maestro Perotto,” he said, “it’s in rather poor taste to bring a courtesan at such a time.”
Behind him, portly Cardinal Costa grunted. “Poor taste or not, it may be just what the physician ordered. After all, if the scent of a woman cannot rouse His Holiness, we might have to consider calling for a new vote of the conclave, eh?”
The others guffawed. Seeing a smile slither across Cardinal Sforza’s mouth, I lifted a hand to cast back my hood. Astonished silence fell. But I focused only on Cardinal Sforza’s expression, thinking I must imagine how his gaze lingered for a moment on my belly, though I did not yet show; my gown was concealing, fitted at the waist and flowing loose to my ankles, according to the current fashion. Still, he must have heard by now of my abrupt retreat into a convent and, of course, he knew Giovanni had left me. Perhaps my husband had even shared some of those foul accusations of his that Papa mentioned, for the cardinal seemed to sense what I had gone to lengths to hide as he murmured, “This is indeed a surprise, Donna Lucrezia. We thought you indisposed.”
“My indisposition is nothing before this tragedy, Your Eminence. My brother the duke of Gandia has been found dead; my family and I are bereft.”
“Indeed.” He dipped his head. “All Rome, I assure you, is bereft.”
His proper tone carried an unmistakable hint of mockery. It was apparent to me that he and these others had gathered outside Papa’s door in the hope that the loss of his beloved son would signal the end of my father’s ambitions, if not his own life.
I gestured to Perotto. “Tell His Holiness I am here.”
Cardinal Sforza said, “I fear you have come in vain, my lady. We have been here for over five hours and His Holiness shows no inclination to reveal himself, though he has important business to attend to, not the least of which is the burial of his son.”
“He will see me,” I said, as Perotto passed between the guards with their halberds. I heard him rap on the gilded door. “Your Holiness, please forgive me, but her ladyship Madonna Lucrezia is here. She begs an audience with you.” I held my breath, not looking at the cardinal, though I could feel his stare fixed on me.
It seemed I stood there forever, waiting. I began to think the worst, fear smothering me until I could barely draw in a full breath. My father had fallen ill with grief. He would not let anyone in until we had to break down the doors, and by then it would be too late—
The metallic creak of bolts drawn back caused the cardinals to recoil. Cardinal Sforza made as if to detain me. I went still, daring him to set his spidery, ringed hand upon my person. “With due respect, my lady,” he said, “perhaps I should enter first.”
“Why?” I replied. “You have never loved His Holiness.”
His gaze turned cold. “And my lady should have a care,” he murmured, so low only I could hear him. “Your marriage to my cousin Giovanni is not annulled yet.”
“And if this were any other moment,” I said, “I would remind my father of how you connived to see me wed to your cousin, though you know well that he is unfit.”
The cardinal’s mouth turned inward. I swept past him, the guards, and Perotto, through the half-open doors into my father’s chamber.
I came to a halt. A scuffle of footsteps behind me, an indignant “We must speak to His Holiness”—all cut off by the swift closure of the door. Perotto had barred the cardinals’ entry.
Before me, the chamber swam into focus: frescoes in shadow, the Moorish lamps hanging motionless from the eaves, costly Turkey carpets on the heavy walnut and oak furnishings, and my father’s bed, shrouded in purple and white like a barge submerged by its own sails. I began to walk toward the upholstered chair with its footstool, facing the hearth. My soles crunched on something underfoot, but I paid no heed. There was no fire in the hearth’s deep well; instead, a terra-cotta pot of ferns sat there. Light spilled from a lone candelabrum.
I looked around me. “Papa? Papa, where are you?” My voice faded into inky recesses. “Papa, please. Answer me.”
“I am here.”
I whirled about. He crouched in a puddle of white robes under the large window overlooking the piazza, its curtains pulled to form a blank canvas. I began to move to him, overwhelmed at the sight of him, alive and speaking.
He said, “Do not come any closer. I cannot bear it.”
I went to him, anyway, as he let out a moan and I saw his arms, draped in crumpled sleeves, rise to cover his face. “No. Go away, I say. Leave me.”
“Papa, please. I want to be here for you.” I sank before him, reaching out a tentative hand. Though he did not remove his arms from his face, a strangled sob caught in his throat and he whispered, “You should not have come. They should not have called for you. There is nothing here for you. There is only death.”
“No one called for me. I came because I had to. Papa, please look at me.” I set my hand on his shoulder. It felt like a mass of boneless flesh. I knew it was impossible, as it had been only hours since the tragedy, but it seemed as though he were dissolving before my eyes, his robust muscularity, his invincibility, pooling at my feet.
He lowered his arms. He was pale as wax, his fallen face scored with tears. His eyes were haunted, sunken in the hollows of his skull, helpless with disbelief. “Why?” he whispered. “Why does God strike at me now? Why take my Juan? What did he ever do to deserve such a fate?”
“I do not know,” I whispered, even as in that terrible moment, as I beheld his bewilderment, I saw that Vannozza had not told him. Papa did not know what Juan had done.
“No,” he said, “you do not know the reason, but I do. God did this because He must punish me for my presumption, for my vanity and arrogance, for believing I am equal to Him. He must prove that I am nothing. We are nothing. We are dust under His heels. Dust and bone. He can grind us up and cast us to the winds whenever He chooses.”
“Papa, no. You mustn’t say that. God would never punish you. It was an accident, a horrible—”
“NO!” His roar rocked me back on my heels. He came to his feet, looming over me like a mountain of soiled ivory, crashing his fist against his chest. “It is my fault. Mine! I am to blame, for I did not abide by His commandments. I forgot that I am His servant, a vessel for Him to fill with wine or blood. I trod His halls and sat upon His throne and gorged—yes, gorged like a pagan—on His wealth. I never showed a moment of humility. I never showed Him that only by His grace can I claim to be His pontiff. Now He reminds me that I too must sacrifice, as He once did before me. I must surrender that which I most loved—my son.”
He fell back to his knees; I smelled the tang of spilled wine on his robes as he uttered, “Do you know how they killed him? They stabbed him nine times. I counted the wounds myself. Nine. Their blades pierced his cloak and doublet, into his flesh. They stabbed him until he could no longer fight, and then they slit his throat. They threw him into the river, used rocks to sink his corpse. They did not even pretend to be common villains; they left thirt
y ducats in his purse, his dagger and sword. They killed him because I loved him and God wished it so.”
“Who…?” I almost couldn’t speak. “Who did this, Papa?”
Tears welled again in his eyes. “Whoever they are, wherever they hide, I will find them. I will hunt them down. Oh, how will they pay—with their torn and flayed skins, which I will hang over the altar of the basilica itself. God is not the only one who can seek retribution.”
Forcing myself to inch closer, resisting the urge to run out the doors and down the halls, to run and never look back, until I reached San Sisto, I embraced him. As he felt my arms about him, he leaned into me to whisper, “Vae illi homini qui cupit.”
Beware the man who covets.
I had no sense of what he meant, what he was trying to tell me, and I had no time to ask. Behind us, the chamber door crashed open. Perotto cried, “My lord cardinals, I beg of you! His Holiness is not to be disturbed—” and I turned with my father’s cryptic words still echoing in my ears, to see the cardinals striding toward us, Cardinal Sforza at their head.
“Your Holiness, we implore your forgiveness.” The cardinal’s pliant features conveyed dutiful reluctance. “But the situation cannot wait any longer. News of the duke’s death is spreading; the populace will soon gather in the piazza to hear words of reassurance from Your Holiness. At times like these…alas, there are too many who might resort to vandalism and looting, should they believe Your Holiness is incapacitated by grief.”
I glared at Sforza, loathing him so intensely in that moment that I wanted to strike him. Papa tensed in my arms. Then he pulled away and stood. Though his robes hung crumpled about him, his voice did not waver. “I shall compose an address to be read to my people. My son—” He paused, swallowing. “The late duke of Gandia is to be conveyed to his tomb before the altar of Santa Maria del Popolo with a full procession of honorary guard and interred with all obsequies due to his rank. Thirty days of mourning will be instituted throughout the city. I will not tolerate lawlessness; anyone who dares seek advantage in this tragedy will be arrested.”
“Yes, Holiness,” said Cardinal Sforza. Behind him, I saw a mixture of relief, consternation, and, on those less practiced at concealing their emotions, disappointment.
They had not succeeded. Papa remained unvanquished, but in that instant I began to understand how much they truly reviled us, how they longed to see the Borgias fall.
As the cardinals turned away, Perotto rushed forth to attend my father. Suddenly Papa’s voice rang out: “Where is His Eminence the Cardinal of Valencia?”
Cardinal Sforza halted in mid-step. “I believe my lord Cesare veils his brother’s catafalque. Shall I send for him, Holiness?”
My father assumed the remote consideration of the Supreme Pontiff, who must transcend personal travails to fulfill his duty. “Yes. Tell him his sister, Lucrezia, is here. He must return her at once to the Convent of San Sisto, by my command.”
“Papa, no,” I started to say. “I must stay here with—”
“You will go.” He did not look at me. “You will go and remain there. No daughter of mine shall suffer the days ahead; this cross is mine to bear. Mine, alone.”
Cesare arrived at the Vatican clad entirely in black; I marked at once the shadow etching his cheeks, pronouncing his aquiline nose and supple mouth. He did not speak as he escorted me to the waiting horses and our escort of men-at-arms. For a time, neither could I. It felt as though Juan’s death had stolen our lifelong ability to find succor in each other’s presence, no matter the cause.
As we rode down the Via Appia, dawn chased away the mist, melting upon the cupolas and spires. Overhead, pigeons flocked to the piazzas, to watch for the tradesmen and vendors with their food carts. It was just another day, I found myself thinking. A day in which the word of the pope’s loss would spice the marketplace gossip, bringing out goodwives to mutter on their stoops; others would begin to congregate in the Piazza San Marco to await confirmation of the tragedy and reassurance that, despite his overwhelming sorrow, Papa would not allow Rome to descend into chaos. Then the people would return to their lives, to their own losses and travails; they would forget. Juan’s name would become another byword for the senseless violence that plagued the Eternal City, another unfortunate recorded in the daily ledger of death.
Yes, everyone would forget—except Papa, who now had Juan’s death carved upon his heart as viscerally as if he himself had been stabbed nine times.
I kept returning to what he had said to me before the cardinals burst in: Beware the man who covets. I had thought it a warning, something he needed me to know. But now, riding back toward the convent with Rome awakening around me, I doubted. Perhaps he’d only whispered words that held meaning for him, an obscure message that was more a warning to himself than to anyone else. For he had coveted: He had craved the papal tiara and the power it entailed more than anything else. He had schemed to obtain it. Did he believe that he must now beware of his own self?
“Do you…?” I started to say.
Cesare glanced at me—a quick stab of his feline eyes. His brow lifted a fraction, waiting for me to find my tongue.
“Juan,” I said haltingly. To speak his name felt strange on my lips. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“Didn’t Papa tell you?” In the golden light spreading around us and evaporating the mists to reveal a dazzling summer sky, I saw a nerve twitch in his temple. Something about that tiny sign of life in his otherwise sepulchral appearance made my heart race. An immediate queasiness overcame me. I gritted my teeth, praying I would not be sick, not here, not in front of him.
“He did,” I managed to say. “He…he told me about the body, that it didn’t appear to be a random act. But how did they take him? How could he have ended up in the river?”
Though he wore the guise of mourning, Cesare’s expression was reflective, as if he considered the fate of a stranger. At length he said, “Juan was with me that night.”
I gripped the reins so tightly, my mare bucked her head in protest. “He was with you…?”
He nodded. “It’s not a secret. We were together most of the day, in fact. First at Papa’s beck and call, as usual, because…well, because Juan felt the need to trail us like a shadow, suspicious of everything I might say, and me because I’m due to return to Naples now that King Ferrantino is dead.” He gave a bitter smile. “Ruling that rock of a kingdom must be arduous indeed. How many kings of Naples have we seen since Papa took the see? Two? Three? In any event, Federico of Aragon, uncle to our late Ferrantino—who can tell those Neapolitans apart?—will inherit the throne. Papa wishes me to act as our legate for the coronation.”
I regarded him in appalled disbelief. He spoke as though nothing had occurred, as if our own brother had not been slain and was not soon to be conveyed to his tomb. I was about to say as much when I recalled that Juan had told me he’d have no compunction killing Cesare.
“So,” I said, “you were with Juan all day and then…?”
“We dined together that evening, along with the cardinal of Monreale. Afterward, Monreale and I returned to the Vatican, but Juan said he had business elsewhere. We assumed he was going to a courtesan or one of those seedy taverns he liked to frequent. I did advise him to take precautions, given the late hour. Evidently he heeded me, for he had his sword and a groom. They met with a masked companion in the Piazza degli Ebrei, a ruffian Juan may have hired as a bodyguard. He told his groom to wait in the piazza and went on with the masked man.”
“The Piazza degli Ebrei? Isn’t that close to Cardinal Sforza’s palazzo?”
“Indeed.” Though Cesare’s impassive tone did not alter, it sent a shiver through me. “We only know it was that particular piazza because we found the groom there, knifed several times and near death; he told us about the masked man. When Papa heard, he immediately had every possible location searched for Juan. Eventually, a Dalmatian boatman, of all persons, who’d been fishing by the Ponte di Ripetta, l
ed us to the body. He said that sometime after midnight he saw two men arrive with another on a horse, bearing a corpse wrapped in a cloak across the crupper. The men hauled it into the river, loading stones onto the cloak to sink it. They were not very thorough; our guards dragged Juan out at low tide, entangled in reeds. He was bound to be discovered, though the boatman insisted he’d seen a hundred bodies disposed in the same manner and no one had ever come looking for them before.”
Cesare sighed. “Whoever did this wanted us to find him. They must have taken Juan shortly after he left the piazza; they were on his heels, so to speak. His murder was planned in advance.”
A terrifying chill crept through me. Who could have orchestrated such a deed? Who would have dared stalk the pope’s son through the night and kill him so savagely? Nine wounds, I suddenly thought. Nine. Just like nine months, the same number it took for a pregnancy to yield fruit…
“They must have known Juan would visit that district,” added Cesare, bringing my startled attention back to him. “They were lying in wait for him. If he hired that masked man to protect him, it did him no good. Either the man fled during the attack or he was part of it.”
“Does anyone know who this man is?” I asked, even as a memory of when I’d gone to see Cesare while he was ill in his palazzo raced through my mind. Michelotto had been wearing a mask when he came to fetch me. But many men went about masked at night in Rome; it was as much a disguise employed by criminals to hide their faces as an affectation among the rich, perfumed masks shielding sensitive nostrils from the putrid air. It did not mean…it could not mean that—
“He could be anyone.” Cesare shrugged. “The city doesn’t lack for hirelings: a disfigured condottiere plying his trade in the alleyways, as so many do, pretending to be a bodyguard-for-hire to gain Juan’s confidence. Our brother was always befriending scoundrels, consorting with the worst riffraff Rome has to offer. I doubt we’ll ever find the man, if he’s still alive—and he is not the only one we suspect. Accusations started to fly even before the water had drained off the corpse.” He turned to me with a cold smile. “I believe even your husband is thought to be a possible culprit.”
The Vatican Princess Page 29
