The Borgia Bride

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  There were others there as well—nobles and their wives, attendants of the papal court, more cardinals, and suspiciously unattended women to whom I was not introduced. The event was supremely informal, not at all what I was accustomed to in Naples or Squillace, where Jofre and I took our thrones and nobles and family were carefully placed and served according to rank. A throne was carried in for His Holiness and placed where he might best watch the proceedings, but otherwise, everyone moved about freely, from time to time taking cushions or chairs whenever they wished, and vacating them just as easily, to be filled by another.

  This did not trouble me; custom varies in all royal households. But then a chair was brought for Giulia, that she might sit directly next to the Pope; and when he first caught sight of her, he went to her, and in front of the entire company, kissed her without modesty, then bade her sit beside him.

  I was mildly scandalized. My mother was a prince’s mistress, but my father would never have sat beside her or kissed her at a public affair; and this was, after all, the Vatican. I found it repugnant, too, that only a few hours before, the hands that now caressed Giulia had reached so easily for me. Still, I permitted myself no reaction; Jofre was my guide. He accepted his father’s behaviour as quite natural, so I tried to, as well.

  In the interim, wine flowed. I took mine mixed with water, and only a couple of glasses of that.

  ‘I have been to Naples, and know something of it,’ Lucrezia addressed me conversationally, ‘but never to Squillace. Tell me of it.’ Like me, she had taken care not to be affected by the wine; she was too busy judging me, assessing the potential for rivalry between us.

  ‘Squillace is quite beautiful in its own way. It lies upon the coast of the Ionian Sea, and though the shoreline is not as scenic as Naples’—it has no Vesuvio, after all—the harbour is lovely. The city has many artists, many craftsmen known for their pottery and ceramics.’

  ‘It is not as large as Naples?’

  ‘No, indeed.’ Jofre snickered a bit.

  Cesare, up to this point silent, offered graciously, ‘But nonetheless charming, I have heard. Size and beauty are not related.’

  Lucrezia tilted her head; her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Ah. There are times I yearn for the simplicity of the provinces; Rome being so vast, and the demands on our time so great, it can be overwhelming. Still, we have the responsibility to impress the populace at all the social functions. Here, I am afraid, the people are far more jaded than those in Squillace, and expect more.’

  I lifted my chin at the subtle insult: did she refer to my attire, deliberately matronly and sedate, that she might better shine at our first meeting? If so, I would not make the same mistake again.

  ‘Lucrezia!’ the Pope called, obviously quite tipsy from the wine. ‘Dance for us! Dance with Sancha!’ He had an arm around Giulia; she giggled as he drew her to him, nose to nose, and kissed her.

  Lucrezia gave me another of her sidewise, faintly mocking glances. ‘You of course know the Spanish fashion…or do they not teach that in the south?’

  ‘I am a princess of the House of Aragon,’ I answered, not kindly.

  We joined hands. And as the Pope clapped from time to time with delight, and the musicians played, we performed the steps of an old-fashioned Castilian dance.

  At that moment, I was glad to have been raised by my father, to have learned that men and women could behave with apparent courtesy, yet retain a talent for duplicity; I sensed Lucrezia was one such person. And so, as we made polite conversation during our little dance, I kept my wits sharp. Indeed, the instant came when Lucrezia intentionally skipped a step in the dance, and held her foot out precisely so that I would trip and embarrass myself.

  I was ready. Perhaps I should have been kind, and simply avoided stumbling, pretending she had made an unintended move; but my father’s ire and haughtiness rose in me. I deliberately brought my foot down upon hers.

  She let go a little cry and turned to me sharply; though we continued through our movements, we shared the candid look of two opponents in a duel.

  ‘How shall we play this, Madonna?’ I asked mildly, though my gaze was hard. ‘I did not come to Rome willingly; certainly I did not come to make an enemy. I have no wish to be anything other than a good sister to you.’

  Mindful of those watching, she smiled prettily; it was the coldest, most terrifying expression I had ever seen. ‘You are not my sister. And you will never be my equal, Your Highness. Mark that.’

  I fell silent, not knowing how to ease her jealousy.

  During our dance, servants appeared with trays of dainty chocolates. Alexander made a great show of feeding one to Giulia, then she fed one to him. Just as our dance was ending, and our audience applauded politely, Alexander—with a great boyish grin—hurled one of the chocolates some distance, hitting Cesare.

  The dark-frocked young cardinal reacted with consummate grace; he smiled without surprise, retrieved the chocolate, and ate it with a relish that pleased his laughing father.

  Then Alexander, with an exaggerated gesture, dropped a chocolate down Giulia’s bodice.

  For an instant, a look of consternation crossed the girl’s face. She did not want her expensive gown ruined.

  I caught the sharp gaze Adriana Mila shot her: it was a warning, a threat.

  At once Giulia smiled, then giggled with a degree of sincerity only a man smitten by love could have believed. The Pope giggled too, like a naughty schoolboy, and fished his hand deep into her bodice between her snowy breasts, taking an inordinate amount of time and waggling his eyebrows with an expression of prurient delight calculated to entertain the crowd.

  Those gathered roared with laughter.

  Abruptly, Adriana went to Alexander’s side, and whispered something in his ear; he nodded, then turned to Giulia and, taking her lovely face in his great hands, kissed her on the lips and murmured a promise to her. I suspected a tryst was arranged, and wondered whether a rumour I had heard was true: that the Pope had ordered a passageway constructed between the Palazzo Santa Maria and the Vatican, so that he could secretly visit his women whenever he wished.

  Giulia nodded, her face bright, and left along with the unhappy Orsino, the two of them led by Adriana.

  This was a signal to the guests that I did not understand: at once, a line of cardinals formed at His Holiness’ throne, bowing and bidding him farewell; most of the nobles followed after.

  The night was still early, but the celebration was now reduced to close family—and the unknown, unattended, extravagantly-dressed women.

  Whores, I realized with sudden discomfort, even before His Holiness hurled yet another chocolate, which buried itself in the décolletage of the most buxom female present. The harlot laughed. She was an attractive young girl, golden-haired, but there was a hardness in her eyes despite her drunkenness. She leaned forward, the better to reveal her bosom, and half-ran, unsteady on her feet, toward Alexander.

  He sat, ready for her. And the moment her brocade-covered breasts appeared before him, he thrust his face heartily between them and began searching for the hidden sweet like a dog hunting a morsel dropped from the master’s table.

  She laughed shrilly, pressing him hard against her with a hand at the back of his head. At last he withdrew, triumphant, his face smeared with chocolate, the candy between his lips.

  Cesare’s expression was reserved, noncommittal, as he stared down into his goblet. Obviously, this was something he was accustomed to, if not approving of.

  I looked at once to Jofre; my little husband was laughing, himself quite intoxicated, and waved to one of the servants to bring a tray of sweets. I forgot myself: I failed to entirely hide my disgust.

  Lucrezia caught this at once. ‘Ah, Madonna Sancha, you are provincial.’ And to prove that she was not, when the tray of chocolates arrived, she dropped one between her own breasts.

  Cesare, with a deftness that lacked any hint of impropriety, caught the sweet at once between two fingers, and replaced it
on the tray. ‘You must give our new sister time,’ he said smoothly, without reproach, ‘to come to know us, that she might not be so shocked by our Roman ways.’

  In response, Lucrezia flushed brightly. She set down her goblet on the tray, took the half-melted sweet, and settled it once more firmly in her bosom.

  Without a word, she went over to her father’s throne and gestured for the giggling harlot—who now was sitting on the pontiff’s lap, moving her hips in a most lascivious fashion—to leave.

  The woman did so, bowing sweetly, though it was clear she resented the intrusion. And Lucrezia took her place.

  She sat upon her father’s lap, and pressed his face to her small breasts; by then, Alexander was obviously drunk—but not too drunk to notice that the woman had changed.

  As he searched, with lips and tongue, for the candy, Lucrezia turned her face towards mine, her eyes narrowed, filled with both challenge and triumph.

  I turned about, skirts swirling, and left.

  XII

  Esmeralda and a trio of guards followed me as far as the door, but I whirled on them. ‘I will be alone!’ I demanded, in a voice that silenced even the formidable Donna Esmeralda. Normally, she would have refused to allow me to walk unaccompanied at night, but she was shrewd enough to know that I had reached a level of determination which allowed no argument. Besides, I had no fear; I always carried Alfonso’s stiletto.

  I stepped alone into the Roman night. The air was slightly chill, the piazza before me dark; the only light came from the moon, gleaming off the marble rooftops, and the flickering golden windows of the Borgia apartments behind me. I lifted my skirts and, as carefully as I could, made my way down the high stairs to the level of the street, and from there, turned and used the dull glow coming from the ground floor of the Palazzo Santa Maria to guide me to my new home.

  I was hardly a prude. I had been witness to a certain amount of debauchery at the court of my father—and at that of my own husband. Party games with courtesans were not unheard of. But they were conducted discreetly, in the presence of only a trusted few.

  Apparently, this Pope trusted many. Or perhaps no one dared speak. Either way, it was clear that the man who had so scandalized Italian society by accosting several married women in a cathedral garden had not changed a whit since ascending to the papacy.

  I could overlook such a thing, though I had expected more discretion. And I had convinced myself, after His Holiness so easily gave up his attempts to pursue me that afternoon, that all I had to do was refuse him a few times and I would be left alone.

  I had even been warmed by how Alexander doted on his children; I had longed for such paternal affection, and imagined how my life might have been had my own father been kindly disposed towards me.

  But the oddly triumphant look in Lucrezia’s eyes, as she pressed the Pope’s face to her bosom, made me yearn instead for the home I had known. I could not hide my revulsion toward such a scene between parent and child—for an instant, in my imagination, my own father took Alexander’s place, and I Lucrezia’s. I could only shudder at the thought of pressing my own breasts to Alfonso Il’s lips, of my father groping me drunkenly. So repellent was the notion that I suppressed it immediately.

  I now understood, too well, the cause of Lucrezia’s jealousy…and it had nothing to do with my outshining her at social functions.

  Her love for Alexander went beyond that of a daughter for her father. The gaze she had directed at me was that of a woman possessive of a lover, and challenging a rival: Leave him; he is mine.

  The image of her, her young, white flesh unclothed, pressed against the aged, sagging body of the pontiff, made me ill; I stumbled along the edge of the piazza, drawing in the night air, laden with the marshy smell of the nearby Tiber, as if I could somehow cleanse myself of the memory of what I had just seen.

  My instincts said that Lucrezia was a depraved, despicable creature. Her brazen behaviour with the chocolates hinted at a monstrous notion: that she granted her own father—the Pope—sexual favours.

  I took a breath and steadied myself. I was a cynic, swift to judge. Away from my brother only a short while, I was already thinking the worst of everyone. How could I be more like Alfonso? I wondered. How would my brother react?

  Surely I was wrong, I told myself. The two could not be physically involved; such an idea was too horrible to entertain. Lucrezia had a crush on her father, as some young girls do—and a fierce temper. She was jealous of sharing his affection, and was already forced to do so with Giulia; here was I, another woman who diverted Alexander’s attentions from her. And Lucrezia had been so angered by my harsh response to her during our dance that she had lost control of her temper and wanted badly to shock me.

  That is it, I told myself. And perhaps she had drunk more wine than I realized. Perhaps she was not as sober as she seemed.

  This thought calmed me to a degree; by the time I arrived at the Palazzo Santa Maria, I was convinced that Lucrezia had resorted to outlandish behaviour out of childishness, and that Alexander had certainly been too intoxicated to realize he nuzzled at his own daughter’s bosom.

  The guards recognized me at once and permitted me entry. The ground floor loggia was well-lit, but the upstairs corridors were another matter, and I wandered in confusion until at last I found the entry to my suite.

  I extended my hand to open the antechamber door. At once, my wrist was seized with brutal force.

  I whirled. Beside me in the shadows loomed Rodrigo Borgia. Even the dim light could not hide the crudeness of his features—the receding chin that disappeared into folds of aging flesh, the prominent, slightly bulbous, irregular nose, the thick lips stretched now in a leer. His eyes were heavy-lidded with drink. The golden mantle was gone; he wore only his red satin robes and a velvet skullcap.

  It is true, then, I thought with an odd detachment. A secret passage between Santa Maria and the Vatican exists. How else could His Holiness have left the celebration so quickly and be waiting here for me?

  Standing next to him, I could not deny his physical advantage: I was not a large woman, and unlike his son Jofre, Rodrigo was a tall man, still powerful at sixty. My head did not come as high as his broad shoulders. His bones were large and thick, mine fine: his great hands together could encircle my waist, and he could easily snap my neck if he chose.

  ‘Sancha, my darling, my dream,’ he whispered, dragging me to him; the pressure on my wrist increased to the point of great pain, but I did not cry out. His words were slurred. ‘I have waited all day for this encounter, all evening—nay, for years, since the first instant you were described to me. But the war kept us apart…until now.’

  I opened my mouth to rebuke him. Yet before I could utter a word, he encircled me with an arm, placed a palm against the back of my skull, and forced my face to his. I struggled, but to no use. He kissed me, lips pressed to my teeth; the smell of foetid meat, mixed with wine, made me gag.

  He let go my wrist and drew back, his expression that of the young lover hopeful for a reaction. I gave him one: with all my strength, I landed a blow on his cheek.

  He took a staggering step back before regaining his uncertain balance. His eyes narrowed with surprise and rage; he touched the offended area, then dropped his hand and laughed derisively. ‘You are too confident of your own worth, darling Sancha. You may be a princess—but do not forget, I am the Pope.’

  ‘I will call for my servants!’ I hissed. ‘They are just beyond the door.’

  ‘Call for them.’ He smiled. ‘And I will dismiss them. Do you truly think they will refuse to obey me?’

  ‘They are loyal to me.’

  ‘If they are, they will suffer for it.’ He said this with surprising pleasantness and ease.

  ‘How can you not be ashamed?’ I demanded. ‘I am the wife of your son!’

  ‘You are a woman.’ On his face, in his voice, was a sudden hardness, a meanness I had seen before only in his daughter’s eyes. ‘And I rule here. So long as you l
ive in my household, you are my property, to do with as I please.’

  To prove his words, he moved with surprising swiftness for one so full of wine, slipped a hand inside my bodice, and took my breast in his palm.

  ‘Sancha, my darling,’ he said, with pure petulance, ‘am I so old, so hideous, that you cannot imagine loving me? I would adore you beyond words; there is nothing I would deny you. Only name what you would have. Only name it! I am forever good to those who love me.’

  Before he could finish his utterance, I seized his hand and pulled it from my bosom. He, in turn, grasped both my arms and, with a movement so powerful the wind was knocked from my lungs, shoved me backwards against the wall. His bulk pinned me; I flailed, I kicked, but his strength held me fast. In each fist, he held my wrists, forcing my arms out and against the wall at shoulder height—in a barbarous parody of the crucified Christ—then smothered my face with his.

  I coughed, hurling spittle on him; I choked as he forced his tongue upon me, into me. And then he raised my wrists overhead, taking one of his great paws to pin them both against the wall. With his other hand, he reached to lift my skirts, bending down as he did. Given his intoxication, the movement made him dizzy, and he swayed.

  I used the opportunity to tear one hand free. In a flash, I reached for my stiletto, hidden just beneath my stomacher. I was thinking to discourage him, not to wield it. But when he realized I had broken away and reached up to correct the matter, his hand found the tip of the blade.

  He shrieked, and at once recoiled. My eyes had adjusted quite well to the dim light by then, and I could see the hand he held aloft, thick fingers fanned out tautly. We both stared up at it in amazement. The stiletto had nicked the palm, a perfect stigmata, and blood already trickled down to his wrist. The injury was minor, the effect dramatic.