The Borgia Betrayal

by Sara Poole

  A few moments passed before her eyes adjusted enough to see beyond the shadows surrounding the bed. At first, she thought I really was asleep, but the unnatural stiffness of my posture alerted her that something was wrong. She crept to the side of the bed and looked at me closely. As she described later, “Your skin was pale as alabaster, your lips were without color, and there was no sign that you were breathing.”

  Portia screamed; she couldn’t help herself, but she did manage to stifle the sound by clapping both hands over her mouth. As she stood looking at me, her gaze also took in the presence of the empty goblet and vial on the floor. Their significance did not escape her.

  At once, she turned and, though her legs threatened to give way, left the apartment. She told the guard that I had a sudden craving for honey and that she was off to get some. Noticing nothing untoward in her manner, he let her go and maintained his position outside the door without alerting the condottierre that anything was wrong.

  Portia went directly to Luigi’s villa, where he was pacing up and down in his private study, awaiting word. Having been admitted to his presence at once, she broke down and wept as she told him the news.

  Luigi instructed her to remain at the villa and went immediately to my residence. When the condottierre refused to admit him, he raised such a hue and cry that windows were flung open up and down the street and eager heads poked out to determine what was happening.

  “I am telling you, I must see Donna Francesca at once! I have the gravest concern for her welfare. If she has come to harm and you do nothing, your master will have you drawn and quartered. And I will provide the horses to do it!”

  The condottierre paled but he was not without courage. Insisting that Luigi go no farther than the loggia, he stomped up the stairs to my apartment, ordered the guard to open the door, and entered.

  Moments later, he emerged looking like a man who had seen his own death rather than mine.

  In the confusion that followed, Luigi managed to insert himself into my bedchamber. He confirmed for himself that I was, to all appearances, dead even as he said a quick prayer that I was anything but. He also unfurled the document he had brought with him, that being my last will and testament giving him full authority to order all matters concerning my estate.

  By then, two of the men-at-arms had been dispatched to alert Cesare. He arrived as people were beginning to mill about in the street. Already, the rumor that I was dead was spreading. Cesare entered the apartment alone. Finding Luigi in the bedchamber, he ordered him to leave, only to be refused. As gently as he could manage, Luigi told him what had happened.

  Cesare did not believe him. He insisted that I was only sleeping heavily, nothing more, and went over to the bed to see for himself. When he was unable to rouse me, he demanded that a physician be summoned. That worthy arrived and without delay pronounced me dead. Due note was made of the goblet and the vial on the floor.

  With the arrival of the physician, the crowd outside had fallen silent. When he emerged again almost immediately, looking grim, and hurried off, the conclusion was unmistakable—this time the Pope’s poisoner truly was dead. Most everyone had the sense to seek the relative safety of their homes but others rushed to spread the word throughout the city. Rocco heard it as he was opening his shop. At once, he dropped the shutters, bolted the door, and raced off in the hope of finding that it was a lie.

  He arrived outside my apartment just as Cesare exited. The son of Jove came in a fury, one hand closed around the throat of the condottierre as he pulled him after him, uttering dire imprecations as to his fate while at the same time exploding in a stream of orders. Reinforcements arrived led by Vittoro, who directed that the street be cordoned off and attempted to calm Cesare while determining what had actually happened.

  With his fears mounting as to my safety, Rocco tried to force his way into the building, in the process exchanging blows with several of the guards. Such was his desperate fury that he did them more harm than they managed to do him, only to finally be stopped by Vittoro, who got both arms around him and held him fast until he calmed enough to understand what was being said.

  “She is gone,” Vittoro told him. “We do not know how or why but that is the truth. I am sorry. There is nothing to be done save try to prevent this entire situation from spiraling out of control.”

  Cesare was back inside the building as this went on. He could be heard shouting at Luigi.

  “You will not take her! I will not allow it! How dare you even suggest such a thing—”

  He broke off as Luigi tried to reason with him. He pointed out what was by then already being said from the Palatine to the Capitoline and back again, that Borgia’s poisoner had poisoned herself. Moreover, she had done it deliberately.

  I like to imagine that by this time a mood of delicious horror was descending over the city. People are always inclined to enjoy the misfortune of others but never more so than when they believe such suffering is deserved. I was a woman who had risen above myself, shunned the life every woman is supposed to want, and become a figure of fear and resentment. Now I had been struck down in what must surely be a sign of divine displeasure. Moreover, I would go on paying for my sinfulness through all eternity. I am more than a little surprised that a celebration did not break out, at least among Il Frateschi, who must surely have believed that the way was now clear to send Borgia to his own damnation. But perhaps they were simply too busy laying their final plans and had to postpone their revelry.

  Cesare and Luigi were still arguing over what was to be done with me, with Cesare refusing to allow my body to be removed on the grounds that obviously there had been some mistake; I could not possibly be dead, no matter what the idiot physician claimed. It was now the second hour since Portia’s discovery of my remains and Luigi was, understandably enough, anxious to get me away. He thought he had begun to make some progress with Cesare when a note arrived from Lucrezia.

  It was a tearstained and barely legible plea, first that what she had just heard be revealed as “the most scurrilous and vile lie ever told.” But if it was not, I must be brought home at once so that those who loved me could mourn me properly and see me to a decent rest. “Home” apparently was the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, where I had lived briefly after Borgia’s ascent to the papacy and from which Lucrezia declared that she intended to bury me.

  So much for the best laid plans.

  Luigi protested. He flung about the will, shouted at the top of his lungs, and pleaded and cajoled. Finally, he begged. Cesare was having none of it. His beloved sister was entirely right. Obviously, I had perished at the hands of that madman, Morozzi, who would pay for what he had done with the most excruciating and prolonged death ever seen in God’s Creation. Indeed, a prize would be offered to whoever came up with an entirely new method of inflicting death so horrible that it would be whispered about for centuries. The entire city would be summoned to take part; people would come from hundreds of miles around; there would be feasting in my honor, and games. Yes, damn it, games. Cesare himself would sacrifice a bull.

  In the meantime, lest the filthy rumor that I was a suicide gain any credence, I would be honored with a funeral Mass performed by no less than His Holiness, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, Pope Alexander VI. I have no idea what Borgia made of this idea when he heard of it, which he must have very shortly. Perhaps he was willing to go along in the hope of soothing Lucrezia’s grief sufficiently to get her through the wedding in a few days’ time. He must have also been concerned about his own safety, fully expecting to see Morozzi pop out from behind any corner at any time. With such danger looming, he could not afford a rupture within his own family. When all is said and done, it does not matter why he agreed. Any hope I had of a quick departure to the safety of Luigi’s family crypt where Sofia would be able to revive me died the moment that he did so.

  Worse yet—the entire situation truly was going from bad to worse at a remarkable clip—Rocco agreed with Cesare. He informed Luigi that any s
uggestion of my having taken my own life was outrageous and that I would have what I had so regretted had been denied my father—a proper and decent funeral. Or there would damn well be hell to pay.

  All of which explains, so far as anything that happened that day ever truly can be explained, how it was that at mid-morning, as a hushed crowd reassembled in the streets, I was borne on a stretcher down the stairs and out through the loggia to begin my solemn journey to Saint Peter’s.

  Actually to the Sistine Chapel. I was laid out there on the handiest catafalque—the same one, I believe, used for the funeral the previous year of Pope Innocent VIII. The irony hangs a little heavy, considering that I may have put him on that bier. Borgia was at the entrance to the chapel to receive me. Lucrezia stood beside him, crying piteously while outdoing her brother in vows of revenge. Juan was not in attendance but a remarkable number of other people were. Most were clerics, no more immune than common folk to the excitement caused by my demise. However, more than a few foreign ambassadors squeezed in, anxious to report to their masters what transpired. There was a handful of nuns who kept close to the walls out of the conviction that lightning would rain down the moment a strega entered the sanctuary, incinerating anyone standing too close to me. I assume they were properly disappointed when this did not occur.

  Rocco forced his way in, meeting up with Vittoro, who had been joined by Felicia with Nando in hand. The entire rest of the family was also there, all the girls with their husbands and children, which I think was rather sweet. Renaldo was bustling about, doing his best to keep the proceedings organized while dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. He broke down at one point and sobbed openly, but got control of himself quickly enough and soldiered on. Portia slipped in just as the doors were being closed and took up a position next to Luigi, who by that time was well and truly frantic. In his despair, he let slip the truth to her, fortunately in a whisper. She responded with such glee that at once the rumor sprang up that she must have had a hand in my demise.

  About the only bright spot was Borgia himself, who had recovered from the shock of my death enough to realize that the situation was teetering out of control. People were far too excited and he was far too vulnerable. Accordingly, he made short work of the Mass but was still sufficiently shaken to deliver a brief homily in which he seemed to compare me to Esther, who saved her people from extermination in Babylon. Having caused more than a little shock with the suggestion that I was a secret Jewess being buried with the honors due the most devout Christian, Il Papa blessed all those assembled and sent them on their way. Barely had he turned from the altar than he ordered Vittoro to double the guard around the Vatican and dispatch every available spy into the streets to gauge the mood of the city.

  Still in tears, Lucrezia approached the bier and kissed my forehead gently. Cesare gathered her to him and together they wept. She led him away finally, whispering that I was in a better place and that they should be glad for me while demanding at the same time that Morozzi die by inches and that she be allowed to help dispatch him.

  Near to breaking down entirely, Luigi flung himself at Borgia and pleaded, “Let me take her now, for pity’s sake! We’re on the edge of the precipice here and you know it. Let me get her away before something terrible happens!”

  Whether he truly believed that the citizenry of Rome was about to rise up in outrage at the presence of an apparently Jewish witch within the holy of holies, I cannot say. Perhaps he feared that I would be dealt with as was Hypatia, another woman who did not know her place, flayed alive and burned by the mob in ancient Alexandria for the sin of being a mathematician. But Borgia must have known that he had gone as far as he dared to keep peace in his family and, not incidentally, to placate my vengeful soul.

  He waved a hand as though to be done with the whole frantic business.

  “Take her then, but do it quietly. And make sure no one knows where you bury her or she’ll be dug up by nightfall.”

  Vittoro suggested smuggling me out through one of the two tunnels he had left open when he closed all the rest. The intent was to get me as far from the Vatican as possible before concealing me in a wagon that would carry me the rest of the way to Luigi’s family crypt.

  A little procession formed up quickly—Vittoro; a dozen men-at-arms; Rocco, who was endeavoring to console Nando; Luigi; and myself, of course. Two of the guards were designated to carry the litter holding my body. The rest spread out in front and back to prevent any intrusion.

  They had not counted on Cesare. He heard the clamor of the guards clearing the way between the Sistine Chapel and the tunnel entrance, and turned back to see what was happening. The discovery that I was being taken away with such haste made him forget any thought of indulging his grief. He squared his shoulders and announced that he would be the chief mourner at my entombment. It was, after all, his right, as he was as close to a husband as I had.

  I do not care to think what Rocco made of that but he could not have been entirely surprised. He had witnessed Cesare’s possessiveness firsthand in Saint Peter’s Square when the two almost came to blows because Rocco had dared to embrace me. Moreover, he had to know that I was a woman of unorthodox behavior and more than a little passion. Please God, let him have known and not found out that way, for all that he claims the past does not matter. He did, however, choose not to continue, apparently unwilling to watch the spectacle of Cesare mourning me.

  And so we went, first by foot, then by wagon, until we reached the d’Amico family crypt set in a lovely little garden adjacent to Luigi’s villa. There he had caused to be constructed a perfect jewel of a chapel and beneath it a resting place of polished brick with an arched ceiling, below which was set a series of marble biers rising from the stone floor. It was the custom then, as it is now, for the wealthy to be laid out in such circumstance so that time may transform their mortal remains into bones suitable for placement in an ossuary. Luigi being the first of his family to rise to such heights, the crypt had never been used, which was part of the reason why I had suggested it. I had no particular desire to wake among rotting corpses.

  But enough of that. Sofia and David were waiting near the crypt, along with Benjamin, who had insisted on coming along. They had half concealed themselves behind a cluster of linden trees but were able to see clearly what transpired. The little procession arrived, Luigi led the way toward the tomb with Cesare walking beside the litter. The double doors were unlocked and opened. I was carried down a short flight of steps into the interior lit with torches. At Luigi’s direction, my body was placed on one of the marble biers. A thin sheet of gauzy silk sent for that purpose by Lucrezia was laid over me, enshrouding me from head to toe.

  Cesare dismissed the guard, ordering Vittoro and the others back to the Vatican to protect the Pope.

  “Be assured, Lord,” Luigi said when they were gone, “she will be safe here. Her life was not easy but she is at peace now. Let us leave her to it.”

  He turned to go, as did all the rest, all save Cesare. To Luigi’s horror, the son of Jove announced with great dignity that he would pray alone for the repose of my soul, and ordered everyone else out of the crypt.

  31

  My memories of returning to this world are scant and fragmentary. I floated upward as though out of a deep pool. I had no idea as to my identity or any need to know. I simply was, a condition which filled me with inexpressible contentment.

  Gradually, my awareness of myself became more distinct. I was separate, apart from wherever I was emerging from. Curiosity stirred in me, driving out tranquillity.

  Where was I? What was happening?

  I felt the rise and fall of my chest, and knew that I was breathing. With that realization came a rush of relief. I was alive! But where and in what circumstance?

  Hesitantly, I opened my eyes but only barely, half afraid of what I would see. Had the plan gone terribly wrong? Was I buried, as I had feared that I might be if Luigi did not prevail? Or had I been laid in some catacomb surrounded
by the truly dead?

  At first, I saw only the flicker of torches set in brackets along the walls and the deep shadows between them. Only gradually did I realize that I was not alone. But instead of Sofia being there to help me, inexplicably it was Cesare who knelt beside the bier, his head in his hands. I heard a low murmur coming from him and assumed that he was praying. That he should do so on my behalf astounded me. I was on the verge of regretting how often I had thought him too vain to humble himself before the Almighty when I realized that he was berating God, demanding to know why He had done this to him.

  Him? Disbelief rose in me, warring with exasperation. Belatedly, I remembered that for the Borgias life was what they saw in the mirror and nothing else. The purity of their focus was at once their greatest strength and their ultimate weakness.

  After several moments listening to Cesare harangue the Deity, I felt compelled to respond.

  “For heaven’s sake—” My voice emerged as little more than a croak but it might as well have been a thunderclap. Cesare jumped up and leaped away from the bier, his mouth agape in horror.

  “Aiyeeeh!”

  I will not belabor the moment save to say that it was not his finest.

  I sat up slowly, partly because I was still very stiff and weak but also, I admit, because I was enjoying knocking him sideways. Too great a sense of one’s own exalted position in the Cosmos is not good for any man.

  “Don’t scream, it hurts my ears.”

  He backed up farther and stared at me. “Holy Mother of God!”