The Vatican Princess

by C. W. Gortner

  “Not a word,” he said in my ear. “You have not seen him. Not tonight.”

  “Not seen him? But he was just there!”

  Even as I spoke, the door shut behind us. With a glare at Alfonso, I pulled my hand free, kicked at my hem, and strode down the corridor. “You might have allowed us a moment,” I said as he came up beside me. “He is my brother. I deserve the chance to—”

  “If he had wanted you to greet him,” interrupted Alfonso, “if your father had wanted it, do you not think they would have asked us to stay?”

  I scowled, trying to think of something to retort, but the somber look he gave me dampened my ire. It was true; Papa had not acknowledged Cesare’s presence at all.

  “They must have much to discuss,” I heard myself say, seeking an excuse that sounded feeble even to my ears, “seeing as Cesare will soon lead their campaign into the Romagna.”

  “Yes,” said Alfonso grimly. “They now have an entire world to partition between them.”

  It began with an unexpected death.

  A loyal servant, assaulted as he left a dinner with friends, left to bleed on filthy cobblestones, his throat cut. It brought back disturbing echoes of Juan, the ruthless expediency of it, which is probably why Alfonso did not tell me himself about the incident. But I heard it, anyway, through my women. Murilla brought the news with my morning figs and cheese. Leaning to me as I slid a jeweled knife under the wax of my correspondence, she whispered in my ear.

  “Cervillon?” I repeated, stunned. “Captain Cervillon of the papal guard? Are you sure?”

  Murilla assented, her diminutive dark-brown face full of sorrow. Behind her, framed by the open door, was Nicola, pale-faced, and my other women, who leaned toward one another in conspiratorial glee, as if they had heard an irresistible scandal.

  My hand was trembling. I made myself set down the letter opener, winter’s light reflecting dully upon its inlaid-pearl handle. “But he was fine at Rodrigo’s Baptism. He has family, children….” Even as I spoke, I recalled with a sickening start that Cervillon’s family resided in Naples. He had gone there to visit them, taking advantage of his mission to persuade King Federico to come to terms with Papa, which would allow Alfonso to return to me.

  “Dio mio, have mercy on his soul,” I said, crossing myself. “He was a good man; he did not deserve such a terrible fate.”

  He was hastily entombed, I learned, in a church in the Borgo, close to where he’d been slain. No one was allowed to veil his corpse or examine the extent of his wounds, though witnesses reported that his masked assailant had come at him so fast, he never had the chance to pull his sword from its scabbard.

  “They preferred to slaughter him, like a beast, rather than let him go free,” said Alfonso that night in our rooms, when I told him that I knew. “He wasn’t murdered because he had outlived his purpose but rather because he knew secrets that might undo them.”

  I bowed my head, unlacing my robe and slipping between cold sheets. A fire burned in the hearth. My brass braziers glowed with scented coals, imported Flemish tapestries hung on the walls, and Turkish rugs cushioned the tiles underfoot, and still my bedchamber felt like a mausoleum, so cold I could see my own breath.

  Alfonso doused the candles, the hiss of dying flames giving way to silence. Moments later, he slid naked into bed beside me. He did not enfold me in his arms, as was his custom; instead, he lay rigid, staring at the tester above us.

  “It was your brother’s doing,” he finally said. “Cesare ordered Cervillon’s death before he departed for the Romagna, because the captain requested His Holiness’s leave to return to Naples. He said he missed his family too much to be away from them any longer but refused to bring them here. His Holiness must have told Cesare, fearing what Cervillon might reveal.”

  I did not want to hear it; I did not want to know that Cesare was responsible for another brutal death. Still, I had been shaken by Cervillon’s murder, so much that I now began to feel my own gnawing apprehension take hold, overcome by the memory of Cesare approaching me in the Vatican gardens, even as Michelotto stood over the bodies of Pantalisea and Perotto.

  “Why would Papa or Cesare fear Cervillon?” I finally ventured. “What secrets do you think he could possibly have to merit…?” My voice waned as I felt, rather than saw, Alfonso’s gaze shift to me. A flare in the ebbing fire sent shadows leaping across the walls.

  “You truly do not know?” he said. “Cervillon was your father’s confidant; he knew intimate aspects of His Holiness’s affairs. I believe he even knew who murdered Juan—but,” he added as I let out a sharp gasp, “that is not why Cesare had him killed. Cervillon must not have had any proof or they would have eliminated him long before now. He died because of Cesare’s plan. He knew what was coming and could not stomach it. If he’d returned to Naples, he would have warned my uncle, who in turn would have alerted the other city-states. They might cower behind their walls now, but we would have roused them from their stupor. Cervillon knew your brother aspires to far more than plunder of the Romagna.”

  “How much more…?” I whispered, though I already knew. I could hear Cesare as if he lay between us, his lips at my ear: The time has come for a new age—the age of Borgia. And I shall be its scourge.

  I shivered. Alfonso drew me to him. He exuded heat; as I set my cheek on him, his chest burned like a kiln. He seemed impervious to the chill that seeped all the way into my soul.

  “He wants everything,” Alfonso said. “All of Italy. He will have it, too, if he can. His Holiness cannot curb him. That visit of his, when I told you he was not there, was staged. He wanted everyone in the room to see him. He stayed only three days, closeted with His Holiness, long enough to obtain whatever he needed before returning to his troops. Now Cervillon is dead and the Romagna will fall to his sword. The virago of Forlí and Imola will lose her domains; it is only a matter of time before she surrenders or perishes in the rubble of her strongholds. The others—Faenza, Camerino, Urbino, and the rest—will throw themselves on his mercy. Thus shall he conquer, using their cowardice against them—or their blood, if they resist.”

  “What about their corruption?” I said, remembering how my father had railed against the lords of the Romagna and their murderous courts, recalling how my own former husband, Giovanni, had stood in the courtyard of Pesaro as his secretary’s amputated hands twitched at his feet. “What about the violence they cause? Does it not merit them being brought to justice?”

  “Cesare might impose justice now,” he replied, “and may even believe in it, but what he truly craves is power. Have you not heard his motto? It says it all: ‘Caesar or Nothing.’ He styles himself like an emperor. Emperors need empires. He’s only just begun to amass his.”

  I had not heard it. I closed my eyes then, trying to find reassurance in my husband’s proximity, in the strong beat of his heart in my ears. “What shall we do?” I said at length. His arms tightened about me, reminding me that I must soon make my choice, the one he had warned me about. My family or him: It had come to that.

  “We must survive,” he said, “no matter the cost.”

  THE YEAR 1500 arrived with ill portents. A comet streaked fire across the sky in Umbria, and a statue of the Virgin in Assisi wept blood. Everywhere, prophets, diviners, and backstreet witches searched for omens in wine dregs, predicting chaos to a gullible populace already unsettled by the fall of Milan, the war in the Romagna, and threat of a poor harvest after torrential rainstorms.

  Nevertheless, the turn of the century was also a Jubilee Year for the papacy, in which thousands would flock to Rome to secure indulgences, witness the symbolic opening of holy doors in the basilicas, and venerate the sacred relics. Thus, the doomsayers’ cries were quelled either by the crash of falling masonry—Papa had commanded beautification of the city—or by the silence of the dungeons into which they were thrown for sedition.

  In January, word came of Caterina Sforza’s capture. Rumor was she had suffered degradation at the hand
s of Cesare’s troops, until he intervened and took her under his personal charge. As his prisoner, the countess was sent to Rome under guard to be lodged in confinement in the Castel Sant’Angelo. This victory, however, was muted by Il Moro’s unexpected march on Milan with an army financed by the Hapsburgs. The same citizens who’d delighted to see the last of him turned out in droves to help him oust the French. The Sforza reclaimed their city, and Il Moro’s subsequent challenge to his neighboring city-states to join forces with him against Borgia tyranny brought a sudden halt to Cesare’s campaign.

  Alfonso brought me the news, coming upon me as I sat rocking little Rodrigo in my arms.

  “Lucrezia,” he said, his voice grave, “we must prepare.”

  WE GATHERED AT the Porta del Popolo on our dais, while February rain drifted upon the canopy shielding us and soaked the multitude who’d gathered with us to witness Cesare’s return.

  Tension suffused the sodden air. For days now the Vatican had been awash with accounts of my brother’s triumph in the Romagna—some exaggerated, for he’d only taken a few territories, others more pragmatic, dwelling on the renewed coalition headed by Milan against us, but all overlaid by a sharp sense of anticipation. Cesare had accomplished far more in less time than Juan ever had before him; no one doubted now that he had earned his coveted title of gonfalonier.

  Alfonso stood rigid beside me. He’d been honing his physical prowess every day, with archery or falconry in the mornings, sword training in the afternoons. I had grown so used to the metallic clash of blades in the palazzo courtyard that I barely lifted protest anymore, though I had to move Rodrigo and his attendants to a separate wing, where the sounds of my husband’s exertions were muffled enough to not disturb our babe’s rest.

  He had grown his beard again, thick and luxuriant, like ripe wheat. I had not the heart to request that he shave it, though my own cheeks and throat were raw from its scratch on the rare occasions we made love. He was distracted these days, forever on alert; I knew his beard was how he masked himself, concealing his face and thoughts from prying eyes.

  A murmur in the crowd shifted my attention to the scene before me. Tasseled carpets depicting our Borgia bull and spiked sun hung limp from the gate, the road running underneath it speckled with wilted petals. The crowd pressed en masse against the guarded cordons of the road as the procession suddenly came into view; the dreary rain and gray skies, the filth on the cobblestones, even Alfonso’s brooding expression, faded to insignificance.

  Cesare had always had a flair for the dramatic, but never more so than now. He was preceded by a train of pack mules, bearing possessions seized from the fallen fortresses in the Romagna, and by line after line of soldiers and mounted grooms, their livery emblazoned with his Valentinois coat of arms, a proud display that ensorcelled his audience. The hush from the crowd was so complete, I could clearly hear the soughing of caparisons and damp snapping of wet pennants—and everywhere I looked, I saw black.

  All black. Everything black.

  From harness to saddlecloth, cap to doublet and hose, Cesare had dressed his entourage in that color he had adopted as his badge—the hue of eternity and chameleon adaptability, which could meld with any tint yet retain a hue all its own. A river of night flowed past us, an enormous fluid darkness, flickering here and there with a glint of polished metal, the fiery spit of jewels, and the gold Order of St. Michael that hung in heavy links about Cesare’s throat.

  He rode alone at the end of the procession, austere in latticed velvet that adhered to a body so forged by battle, he himself resembled a sword—erect on his magnificent sable horse, his beauty both breathtaking and terrible. And as he rode past the dais and bowed his head to our father, who sat ensconced in furs on his throne, Cesare’s gaze rose for a moment to meet mine—just a moment, so fleeting it was almost inconsequential.

  But I saw what was smoldering there, in his hooded green eyes—I understood.

  He was back. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  CESARE DID NOT approach me in the cold winter days following his arrival. He accepted a Golden Rose in honor of his military achievements, the title of captain general and gonfalonier, as predicted. After that, he became a fixture at Papa’s side, his manservant Michelotto never far behind. My babe Rodrigo was presented to him at one of the Carnival events, toted out to remind the assembly of the fertility of our Borgia line. As he gazed intently upon my son’s blue-eyed visage, at his fine brownish hair that had already begun to turn fair, Cesare looked bemused, as if Rodrigo were an icon of uncertain provenance. Leaning over to kiss my son’s cheek, he mumbled something I did not hear, then looked up at me.

  “You do us proud, Lucia,” he said. As he uttered these words, he ignored Alfonso, standing paces away with Sancia, who was dressed to the teeth in turquoise silk. Then he strode away, rousing again in me that insidious jolt of fear.

  I found myself clutching my child to my chest.

  “He is jealous,” Sancia said. “He cannot abide that you bore my brother a son, an heir of the blood of Naples, whom His Holiness dotes on. To him, it’s another obstacle, a menace to his position. He will not rest until—”

  “Sancia,” cut in Alfonso. “Enough. You frighten her.”

  “Good,” Sancia retorted. “She should be frightened. We should all be frightened now that he has returned. He would see us to our graves.”

  Alfonso said quietly, “I have matters well in hand; I assure you, there’s nothing he can do.”

  His conviction eased the erratic pounding of my heart; I returned my son to his nursemaid and we proceeded to the festivities. My smile was quick and laughter ready as I feigned amusement at the tumblers and other entertainments, even as I sensed Cesare watching me.

  During the final feast before Lent, as I moved through hordes in search of Alfonso, whom I’d last seen near Papa, Cesare crept up behind me. I whirled about, the bejeweled mask I held to my face slipping. He too wore a mask; I had not recognized him in the crowd because he wore white, a color many had donned this night. Now that we were inches apart, I also recognized his garb. It was the unicorn disguise he’d worn at my wedding to Alfonso.

  “Will you avoid me forever?” he said. “I see such caution in your eyes when you look at me. Do you find me so changed that you can no longer love me?”

  Angrily, I tossed my head, repressing the urge to remind him that if he saw caution in me, he had only himself to blame. “What nonsense. You’ve not changed a bit. You might think it grand to skulk around the Vatican, scaring bishops and cardinals, but to me you are as obvious as ever. Pray, when does this charade end, so we can learn what you are really about?”

  “Ah, Lucia. Such wit.” He paused, plucking at the crisscrossed laces of his doublet. “I almost had him, you know. I was within a few leagues of his miserable fish town when I received word that Milan had fallen again to the Sforza. Had the news come a few days later…” He sighed.

  It took me a moment to understand of whom he spoke. When I did, my voice hardened. “Are we not past all that? If I can forgive and forget, surely so can you.”

  “Forgive?” His smile was like a blade, cutting across his mouth. “I would bathe in his blood for you. Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro owes us a debt that I will see paid.”

  “Not ‘us.’ ” I took a step closer, watching the impact it had on him, the slight dilation of his pupils behind the mask, the parting of his lips. It relieved and perturbed me that I still held such sway over him. “I do not want any part of your revenge. I will not live the rest of my days thirsting for the demise of a man who has no meaning to me anymore.”

  His hand shot out so fast, his fingers were about my arm before I could react. “He disdained you,” he said, every word enunciated with the fervor of condemnation. “No one—no one—harms my sister and gets away with it, not while I live.” He paused, his grip tightening. “Vae illi homini qui cupit,” he whispered.

  Beware the man who covets.

  His words pierced
me like shards. It was the same oblique message Papa had imparted on the day I saw him after Juan’s death. As my breath stalled in my lungs, I remembered when Cesare and I rode together back to San Sisto and I asked him if he was responsible. He had denied it but he had lied. And I had let him deceive me, clinging to the illusion I’d always sought refuge in, where he was still my beloved brother—impetuous and ardent, often unscrupulous and disquieting, but also misunderstood in his struggles to prove his worth. Now, in this heart-shattering instant, as I gazed upon his face sliced in two by his mask, his fingers coiled about my arm like a serpent’s tail, I recognized at last the stark, undeniable truth.

  Papa had tried to tell me. The man who covets was Cesare; he had wanted everything Juan possessed. Our brother had indeed died by his hand. And our father knew it. He’d known it from the moment Juan’s body was dragged from the Tiber. It was why he had canceled the investigation in the murder, to spare us all from confronting any evidence against Cesare that might arise.

  Cesare must have seen my horror. He released me, retreating a few steps. That careless demeanor he cultivated as a façade returned to shape his face. “There it is again: that look. It seems we’ve only one more secret between us, beautiful Lucia.”

  His evoking of the child I had hidden away was deliberate, an intimacy he thought would keep us bound, but I no longer cared to acknowledge his wounds, soothe his injuries, or tend his neglect. I had been blinded by him only because I wanted to be. I let myself believe his lies because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate, when all along I’d sensed the demon inside him—the one he himself warned me about what now seemed a lifetime ago:

  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.

  He made a formal bow, an elegant movement that was as much a mockery as a display of his fearsome agility. “I bid you good night.”