Alfonso began to recover quickly, though his injuries were grave and would have killed a lesser man. He woke by nightfall of that first terrible day, and asked coherently after the health of his squire, Miguelito, and Tomaso Albanese. He sighed thankfully on hearing they had both survived.
‘Lucrezia,’ he said with sudden urgency (though he was too weak even to sit), ‘Sancha—neither of you can stay here with me. It is not safe. I am a doomed man.’
Lucrezia’s cheeks coloured brightly; with a vehemence that took us aback, she said, ‘I swear before God, you are safe from Cesare here. If I must strangle my brother with my own hands, I will let no harm come to you.’ And she struggled, for Alfonso’s sake, to suppress an onrush of tears.
I held her; and as I did, swaying and patting her on the back as one would a child, I explained to Alfonso all the precautions his wife had taken: how the Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors were, at this very instant, in the antechamber, and how the doors were guarded by more than two dozen soldiers.
In response, he took Lucrezia’s hand, feeble as he was, and kissed it, then forced a smile. She in turn broke free from my arms and herself smiled wanly. It was painful to see them each trying to be brave for the other’s sake.
Both were terrified; both knew that the makeshift bedchamber in the Hall of the Sibyls was the only bright spot in a dark and shadowy Rome, where Cesare Borgia lurked, waiting to strike again.
On the second day, Alfonso was well enough to eat a little; on the third day, he was well enough to sit up and speak at length. On the fourth day, the doctors from Naples arrived: Don Clemente Gactula, the King’s physician, and Don Galeano da Anna, the King’s surgeon. I greeted both men warmly, for I had known them when I was a girl, and they had tended my grandfather, Ferrante. Lucrezia consulted them on how soon Alfonso could be expected to walk, then be able to sit on a horse, then to ride: she did not say as much, but we all understood. The sooner Alfonso was able to travel and flee Rome for the safety of Naples, the better. And from Lucrezia’s attitude toward her brother and father, I had no doubt that this time, she would not let her husband leave her behind.
Alfonso continued to improve, and developed no fever. Either Lucrezia or I remained in the room at all times, and most of the time, both of us were there; we slept on the floor only inches from Alfonso’s bed, and the three of us took our meals together.
Every moment, I was wary, waiting for the next attempt on my brother’s life.
One afternoon as I was bent over the hearth like a scullery maid, basting a trio of roasting pheasants, I heard the sharp voices of men out in the antechamber.
Lucrezia was seated beside the bed, reading poetry to her husband; we three glanced up at the commotion, just in time to see Cesare Borgia—flanked on either side by one of our trusted guards—enter the bedchamber.
Lucrezia hurled her little leather-bound volume to the floor and leapt up, her face contorted with rage. ‘How could you!’ she shouted. At first, I thought she addressed her brother, until she continued: ‘How could you permit him, of all people, in here!’
‘He requested it, Madonna,’ one of the guards replied meekly. ‘We searched him for weapons; he is carrying none.’
‘It matters not!’ Lucrezia’s voice quavered with rage. ‘You are never to let him in here again!’
Cesare listened to his sister’s ranting with utter equanimity; even the look of hatred on Alfonso’s face did not ruffle him. I rose and planted myself between Cesare and my brother.
‘Lucrezia,’ Cesare said soothingly, ‘I understand your anger. Believe me when I say that I share it—and that I was most distraught, Don Alfonso, to hear of the attempt on your life. But I have been maliciously and wrongly accused by your squire—Miguelito Herrera, is that not the boy’s name? I assure you, I am entirely innocent of any hand in this. I greatly resent the implication that I would harm a relative. I wish to conduct an investigation so that I can clear my name and regain your trust.’
When Cesare finished his smooth little speech, a pregnant silence ensued.
‘You fool,’ Alfonso whispered.
I turned. My brother’s eyes blazed with hatred.
‘You fool,’ Alfonso repeated, his voice growing louder with each word. ‘You thought, because I had fallen, that I did not recognize you there, on your fine white stallion with its fine silver hooves.’
Cesare’s expression darkened dangerously.
‘I saw you,’ Alfonso stated heatedly, ‘and so did Don Tomaso as well—and he is in a safe place under heavy guard. So you see, there would be no point in your murdering Miguelito. We all saw you—and everyone here knows.’
‘I have tried to make peace,’ Cesare said in a low voice, and turned to go. The guards escorted him out as Lucrezia called after him, in a tone filled with venom:
‘Yes, go, murderer!’
But Alfonso had not finished addressing his brother-in-law, despite the fact that Cesare was already moving out into the antechamber. ‘So now you must kill us!’ Alfonso cried after him. ‘The ambassadors, the doctors, the servants, the guards—all of us!’
I followed Cesare all the way to the outer doors, my hatred for him drawing me like a magnet.
Just before the guards parted to let him go, I called out his name.
He turned to face me, expectant, uncertain.
For a moment, I thought to seize my stiletto, and kill him on the spot—but I knew I had no chance. I would be stopped by him or one of his guards before I could do him any harm…and it could always be claimed that I acted at the behest of my brother. It would do Alfonso and Naples no good to act here, now.
Instead, I spat directly into his face. The spittle caught the edge of his beard and dripped down onto the fine black silk of his well-fitted tunic.
He loomed toward me, so abruptly two of our guards drew their swords. In his dark eyes was pure murder. Had we been alone, he would have struck me dead and taken pleasure in the act.
As it was, he simply leaned forward and, smoothing an errant lock of hair behind my ear, whispered into it:
‘What failed at lunch will succeed by supper.’
He drew back and smiled—tenderly, evilly—at the response his words provoked in me.
Then he turned abruptly and left, moving confidently between the parted rows of guards.
XXXIII
After Cesare left, I stood in the antechamber, too stunned and outraged by his deadly promise to move. Although my body remained still, my mind was active as never before. I knew beyond doubt that unless severe measures were taken, Cesare would kill my brother. I could no longer close my eyes to the truth and hope blindly for a happy outcome.
His words had an electrifying effect on my senses as well: I saw my surroundings with exceptional clarity, and for the first time, understood their significance.
This was the Hall of the Sibyls. On the walls before me, rendered in vivid crimsons, lapis lazuli and gold were the Old Testament prophets, most bearded in white, faces lifted towards Heaven, hands gesturing up at the judgment coming to strike men down.
Beneath them were the fierce-eyed sibyls, staring out at the same gathering doom.
I thought of Savonarola railing from his pulpit, calling Pope Alexander the Antichrist. I thought of Donna Esmeralda on her knees before San Gennaro, weeping because this was the year of the Apocalypse.
The face of one particular sibyl—she golden-haired and fair, not dark and veiled—caught my eye. In that instant, every word of the strega’s prophecy returned as if she had uttered it afresh, through the sibyl’s lips:
For in your heart lies the fates of men and nations. These weapons within you—the good and the evil—must each be wielded wisely, and at the proper time, for they will change the course of events.
And I had cried, I will never resort to evil! I had tried to convince myself once that the worst evil I had to face—one I had rejected—was marriage to Cesare Borgia.
The strega had replied calmly, Then you con
demn to death those whom you most love.
She had shown me my fate again so clearly, the second time I had gone to see her. I had already wielded one weapon, she said; I had only to wield one more. I had always understood the meaning. I had simply not wanted to admit it to myself.
Standing in the Hall of the Sibyls, I realized that I had a choice. I could rely upon diplomacy, upon the Pope’s good graces, upon luck, upon the unlikely hope that Cesare’s threat had been empty, that he would not strike again.
And Alfonso would die.
Or I could accept the fact that destiny had placed in my veins the cold, calculating blood of my father and old Ferrante. I could accept that I was strong, capable of doing tasks that those with gentler hearts could not.
I made my decision then: for love of my brother, I chose to murder Cesare Borgia.
I moved about the rest of the day in a state of cold detachment, performing my nursing duties, smiling and talking with my brother and Lucrezia while I secretly pondered how best to move against the Captain-General.
Obviously, any attempt that could be traced back to us Neapolitans was out of the question, as was any that followed too soon on the heels of the attack on Alfonso; the Pope would be swift to blame my brother, and seize upon the excuse to have him executed. If my attempt failed, Cesare himself would do the honours. As much as I yearned to commit the deed with my own stiletto, as much as I yearned for vengeance to come quickly, subtlety was essential. We would have to wait. Best to strike when Alfonso was well enough to flee to safety.
The solution, I decided, was a hired assassin—one contacted through a series of channels, which would make it difficult for anyone to discover the source.
I did not even consider asking Jofre for help. As jealous as he might be of his older brother, he had neither the stomach nor the ability to hold his tongue. Nor did I ask Lucrezia, though she surely knew of such contacts; it was one thing for her to protect her husband, another to ask her to kill her brother. I did not want to test her loyalties too far.
There was one person who knew more people than any of us, who was tied to a network where she could obtain the most intimate knowledge of any event or person—and she was the only one whose integrity I trusted as much as Alfonso’s. She, I decided, would be the first link in my chain.
That night as Alfonso and Lucrezia lay sleeping near each other, I rolled gently onto my side and rose, then took a few steps over to the small mattress where a supine Donna Esmeralda slumbered.
I knelt beside her and whispered her name into her ear; her eyes popped open as she gasped and gave a start. I put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.
‘We must speak outside,’ I said softly, and gestured towards the doors which opened onto the small balcony.
Sleepy and confused, she nonetheless obeyed, and went out onto the balcony, where she waited while I closed the French doors silently behind us.
‘What is it, Madonna?’ she hissed.
I moved next to her, so close that my mouth grazed her ear as I whispered, my voice so low I scarce could hear my own words. ‘You were right that Cesare is evil, and the time has come for him to be stopped. Today, he told me outright that he intends to finish his crime—to kill Alfonso.’
She recoiled and made a soft sound of distress; I pressed a finger to my lips for silence.
‘We must be utterly calm about this. I am sure you know of servants who can contact someone…a man whose services we can buy.’
Her eyes widened; she crossed herself. ‘I cannot be a party to murder. It is a mortal sin.’
‘The guilt is mine alone. I am ordering you to do this; God knows you bear no blame.’ I paused. ‘Don’t you see, Esmeralda? At last, we are doing Savonarola’s work. We are stopping evil. We are the avenging hand of God against the Borgias.’
She grew very still as she contemplated this.
I gave her a moment, then pressed my case again. ‘I vow before God; I entreat Him. This blood is on my head alone, and no one else’s. Think of the sins Cesare has committed—how he murdered his own brother, how he has raped Caterina Sforza and countless other women, how he has brutalized Italy and betrayed Naples…We are not the criminals here. We are the instruments of justice.’
Again she was silent. At last, her expression hardened; she had made her decision.
‘How soon is this to be accomplished, Madonna?’
In the darkness, I smiled. ‘When Alfonso is well enough to make an escape. Let us say one month from this very day—no later.’ I knew that Cesare was bound by the same restrictions as I; if he attacked my brother again too soon, even if by surreptitious means, everyone would know him to be the guilty party. And Naples and Spain would raise an outcry so great that Alexander would not be able to ignore it.
‘One month, then,’ she affirmed. ‘May God keep us all safe until then.’
Two weeks passed; July gave birth to August. During that time, Donna Esmeralda made the necessary arrangements, though she shared with me no details, for my protection. A trusted maidservant retrieved a jewel from my chambers; this was used to pay our unknown assassin.
Despite the steamy Roman heat, Alfonso developed no infections, no fevers—the result of the fastidious nursing he received from me and Lucrezia. In time, the deep slash in his thigh healed well enough for him to walk very short distances; he spent much of his time walking to and from the balcony, where he stared out at the lush Vatican gardens. Eventually, we pulled cushioned chairs out onto the balcony, with ottomans so that he could prop up his wounded leg; he sat there often and took the sun.
He and I were sitting there one afternoon conversing; Lucrezia had yielded to stress and exhaustion and lay fast asleep on her little mattress back in the bedchamber. The sun was setting, sinking down between columns of clouds that glowed deep coral-red. ‘I was a fool ever to return to Rome,’ Alfonso admitted bitterly. His natural cheerfulness was a thing of the past; these days, whenever he spoke, there was a hardness in his tone, a note of defeat. ‘You were right, Sancha. I should have stayed in Naples and insisted Lucrezia join me there. Now we are all endangered on my account.’
‘Not Lucrezia,’ I countered wearily, ‘or little Rodrigo. The Pope would never allow harm to come to one of his own blood.’
Alfonso regarded me, his eyes filled with a hollow matter-of-factness. ‘The Pope no longer controls Cesare. You forget, he could not stop him from killing Juan.’
I fell silent. I had not shared with him the fact that I had set into motion a plot against Cesare’s life; he would never have approved. Only Esmeralda and I shared the secret.
One of the guards—quietly, mindful of the fact that Lucrezia was sleeping—stepped out onto the balcony and bowed to us. ‘Donna Sancha,’ he said. ‘Your husband, the Prince of Squillace, has asked permission to visit you. He waits now at the door to the apartment.’
I hesitated, uncertain, and glanced quickly over at Alfonso.
In all this time my husband had not communicated with me. I knew that he had not supported Cesare’s action—he doubtless deplored it. But I also knew that he was by nature reluctant to anger his older brother.
‘Search him,’ Alfonso ordered.
‘We have already taken the liberty, Duke,’ the soldier offered. ‘He carries no weapons. He says he merely wishes to be permitted inside to have a word with his wife.’
I rose, motioning for my brother to remain as he was. ‘I will speak to him.’
I left Alfonso and the balcony and passed noiselessly through the bedchamber into the antechamber. The latter was not as full as it had been in the first days after the attempt on Alfonso’s life. The Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors had gone, leaving behind their representatives; but the Neapolitan doctors rested there, always on call.
As I approached the now-open doors, the guards blocking them parted so that I could see Jofre.
‘Sancha, please,’ he said, his expression forlorn. ‘May I see you for just a little while?’
‘Shal
l I come out?’ I asked. Alfonso was the target; I was not afraid for myself.
My question made Jofre visibly nervous. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It will be more comfortable for us in there.’ He nodded at the antechamber.
I considered this. For the merest instant, I entertained the thought that Cesare had sent his little brother in the role of the world’s unlikeliest assassin; then I dismissed it at once. I knew Jofre’s heart; it might often grow faint, but it was incapable of malevolence.
‘Let him pass,’ I told the guards.
Jofre entered and embraced me at once. His grip contained true passion and sorrow as he whispered in my ear, ‘Forgive me. Forgive me for not coming sooner. Cesare threatened to kill me if I came, and even Father forbade me to visit. I tried before, without success, but I was determined to see you.’
I drew back from him a bit and studied him. In his voice, his face, his every gesture, was nothing but sincerity, and I believed him.
Believed him, which was not the same as trusting him. He meant well, but was not strong enough to be allowed access to secrets. I resolved to say nothing of our plans to smuggle Alfonso to Naples as soon as possible, or of our secret correspondence with King Federico. Certainly I would never reveal to him my terrible plot against Cesare. But the concern in his eyes made me draw him further into the apartment, away from the eyes and ears of the guards and the ambassadors, past the sleeping Lucrezia, out onto the balcony where Alfonso sat.
‘Don Alfonso,’ Jofre said at the sight of him. ‘Dear brother, forgive me for the sins of my kinsman. It has been whispered often enough that I am not a true Borgia—no, do not protest, Sancha, I have heard all the rumours. Neither of my brothers was ever known for their kindness; they have insulted me mercilessly on that account. Perhaps it is just as well, for I want no blood in my veins capable of such a foul crime.’
The Borgia Bride Page 36
