Sins of the House of Borgia

by Sarah Bower

  One morning, when I had been accompanying her on a walk through the rose garden which had been planted by her mother and was now in Donna Lucrezia’s care, she broke off in the middle of a tirade about greenfly to ask me what had happened to the black slave.

  “Which black slave?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  “The one your mistress brought from Rome, of course. Surely she cannot have sold her or exchanged her for this.” She gestured behind her, at the sallow, sharp-boned Dalmatian, who was following us with an armful of rugs. “She told me once how attached she was to the girl. A gift from her last husband, I believe.”

  I had not known this before. “She died, alas,” I said, hoping Donna Isabella would not ask me how.

  “What a shame. She was so striking, such a dense, shiny black. I was going to ask Lucrezia to lend her to me to model for the servant in a Judith with the Head of Holofernes I am commissioning from Squarcione.”

  “I am sorry, madonna.” Her voice was like a wire passing through my brain from ear to ear. What does it matter, I wanted to ask, what difference is there to you between a Jew and a black? What is this false hierarchy you have set up to make Judith into one of your own, a great lady with lapdogs and slaves and her lover’s head in a silk purse?

  “No matter. It happens all the time. They look strong then succumb to the merest sniffle. It all goes to prove we are the superior race. Now tell me, who will win the Battagliuola this year?”

  “Madonna says the Ferrarese, Don Alfonso the papal force.”

  “Ah, they are being kind to one another. Tell me who you think will win?”

  “The side whose mothers get to market earliest, madonna, and buy up the biggest vegetables.”

  The Battagliuola was an uproarious affair in which teams of children fought one another in the Campo Franco beside the convent of Corpus Domini with fruit and vegetables fired from slings. It commemorated an ancient victory of the Este over a papal army. For Donna Lucrezia, it was a point of honour that she should attend, so the people could see she was an Este now and owed her allegiance to Ferrara, not Rome.

  We walked the short distance from the castle, Donna Lucrezia and Don Alfonso arm in arm at our head, servants following behind with chairs and rugs and braziers and two chests containing prizes for the winners and runners up. With the heir to the duchy now married to the pope’s daughter, there could be no losers. Don Giulio, masked as Spavente, his black ostrich feathers bobbing tall above his blond head, walked beside Angela in the guise of Columbine.

  “I wish you could have seen the masks I sent to dear Cesare,” remarked Donna Isabella, more to Ser Taddeo than to me, I supposed, as I had heard them described in minute detail several times already. “The gold and silver particularly. The young sculptor who did them for me is a marvel, such a find. He understands just what I mean when I say all art must have a beautiful meaning.” Her voice was muffled by her own mask of black velvet trimmed with ermine tails which bobbed either side of her plump cheeks as she walked.

  Ser Taddeo gave the smile of a benevolent lion. “Doubtless he was grateful to find so sensitive and understanding a patron, madonna,” he said. Donna Isabella lifted her chin, and her shoulders settled into an attitude of great self-satisfaction.

  As we waited in the square for our chairs to be set up, and a servant went round with jugs of hot, spiced wine and little cakes, Ser Taddeo asked her for the man’s name. “I am such a poor suitor,” he said. “I have not even given my intended a betrothal ring yet. He sounds like just the man for the job, to invest our marriage with a beautiful meaning.” He squeezed my elbow.

  Had madonna finally told Cesare about the baby, then? Had she heard from him? His intentions towards the child? There must be a letter for me.

  “He is called Gideon. Gideon da Quieto d’Arzenta.”

  There must be. Cesare would not let such news go unacknowledged.

  “That is my brother, madonna.” Who was speaking? Whose brother? The wine. It was too strong.

  A sudden shriek from Donna Isabella brought me to my senses. Donna Isabella was embracing Fidelma. She looked like a great spinnaker sail draped around Fidelma’s mast-like straightness.

  “Gideon is your brother!” exclaimed Donna Isabella, her voice soaring to such a pitch on the word brother that people stopped what they were doing and turned towards her.

  “Yes, madonna,” said Fidelma, staggering discreetly beneath Donna Isabella’s weight. “Before I came to Christ I was Juditha da Quieto d’Arzenta.”

  It was the first time I had ever heard Fidelma make reference to her family or her life before her conversion. I remembered the bargain she had struck with her father, and thought her well named, for she was faithful. She did not break her promises. A gust of wind blew dust into my eyes and made them water. My baby kicked and somersaulted as though he wished he could join the excited combatants, now jostling around men in the papal and Este liveries who were handing out ammunition and last-minute tactical advice. What would he be, I wondered, pressing my hands to my belly to calm him, this child of the oath breaker and the victor of Senigallia?

  “Oh look,” said Taddeo, pointing towards the ducal party who were arranging themselves in the chairs set up by the servants. “There’s our poet.” It was a gallant conceit of Taddeo’s to refer to Bembo as “our poet,” because his recital at Strozzi’s party had been the occasion of our first meeting. I looked. Bembo, conspicuous in his scholar’s black, was making his way directly towards Donna Lucrezia. I glanced around for Strozzi, who was nowhere to be seen, but I did intercept a hard look from Donna Isabella, who had disengaged herself from Fidelma and was watching the poet’s progress across the crowded square with as close concentration as if she had placed a bet on the time of his arrival.

  “Excuse me, messer,” I said to Taddeo. “I must make sure they give madonna the right cushions. She is a martyr to her back since her miscarriage last summer.”

  Just as Pythagoras tells us, two straight lines moving towards one another must intersect at an apex. Using my great belly to forge a path through the melee of shrieking children and their scolding mothers, piles of wizened winter oranges and misshapen parsnips, and servants clustered around the braziers they had set up to mull wine and roast chestnuts, I managed to cut off Bembo a few feet from madonna’s chair.

  “Monna Violante.” He bowed, and as he straightened up I saw he was blushing. So he knew, then, that I was the letter bearer. “I was just…The duchess asked me to declaim a eulogy for the winners.” He withdrew a folded parchment from a satchel he had fastened across his chest like an arquebusier’s ammunition belt.

  I had not got my breath back enough to speak before Donna Lucrezia exclaimed from behind me, “Ah, Messer Pietro, there you are at last. I had begun to think we must start without you.”

  Bembo craned his neck to see her around my bulk. “I am guilty of leaving your commission to the last minute, duchesa. Forgive me. Perhaps you would like to cast your eye over the work, to make sure it meets with your approval.”

  I glanced behind me to see her reaction. Don Alfonso looked interested, but madonna made a dismissive gesture with one gloved hand. At the same time, I was aware out of the corner of my eye of Bembo thrusting the parchment towards me with some insistence. I took it. Only then did I realise a second parchment was tucked inside the folds of the first. What was I to do? Don Alfonso was already reaching out his hand to take the verses from me. In my haste to prevent him, I lunged for the parchments and they slipped from my grasp. Unable to bend and pick them up, I stared in horror at the corner of the secret enclosure poking out from the folds of its outer wrapping. Bembo stooped swiftly to rescue them, but not as quickly as Vittorio, whom I had not noticed until now.

  “Allow me, Monna Violante,” he said, handing me the parchments with a look that said, I know what this is; my master knows; he will do nothing for now, but beware.

  “Thank you, Ser Vittorio, my mistress is grateful for your gal
lantry.” He nodded and melted back into the crowd. I believed we understood one another. Somehow, with my back to Don Alfonso, I managed to slip the second parchment into my sleeve before handing Bembo’s eulogy to Donna Lucrezia for her approval. My heartbeat was just beginning to return to normal when she rose from her chair. “Messer Pietro,” she said, “come closer.” Oh God, what now? What had they been writing in the letters I carried to make her so indiscreet?

  Don Alfonso frowned. “Sit down, woman, and let the game begin before these children are all crying for their mothers.”

  Donna Isabella, acutely sensitive to any hint of discord between her brother and his Borgia wife, had discarded Fidelma and was watching Don Alfonso and Donna Lucrezia as though they were combatants in a close fought game of tennis. Donna Lucrezia served her ace.

  “I wished to ask Ser Pietro to cast his eye over some verses I have written. I fear they are too poor for their subject.” She bestowed a meaningful smile on her husband. “I hope Ser Pietro can help me make them more worthy.”

  “Ah.” Don Alfonso cleared his throat; he shifted about in his chair and his naturally high colour deepened a little. “Well, well, wife. I am certain anything you would write would honour so unworthy a subject.” He took her hand and patted it. He picked up Fonsi, who had slid from her lap as she rose and was now scrabbling at Don Alfonso’s knee, and while his attention was distracted, Donna Lucrezia handed her “verses” to Bembo and a look passed between them which I envied to the core of my being.

  Only some time later, when the Battagliuola was in full swing, did I consider the significance of Vittorio. The din of screaming children and cheering adults, of squashes smashing into the convent doors and cabbages clattering against braziers was keeping my baby wakeful. As he turned somersaults and pummelled my belly, and a small pumpkin hurtled past within inches of my nose, I began to wonder if, in years to come, he would take part in Battagliuole, and if he would have brothers to fight alongside him.

  How soon after the birth could I return to my lover’s bed to begin making those brothers? What was the ruling of the Church on such matters? Was it true that breast feeding prevented pregnancy? When would it be safe to lie with him again? I had never stopped wanting Cesare, though whenever I saw myself in a mirror, I wondered where the I was who had been desirable to him. I longed for him to know about his child and come to Ferrara and lay his palm against my belly and feel our baby reach out towards its warmth, but I feared his reaction should he see my extroverted navel and the skin stretched taut and shiny over my leaking breasts.

  Then I thought of Vittorio, of the look he gave me as he handed me Bembo’s papers. Cesare must know, of course he must. He was far from depending only on letters from his sister for his intelligence at the court of Ferrara. Perhaps his silence meant he suspected the child was not his. He had given me my name because I had once broken a promise I had made him. Why should he believe I would be a faithful mistress? So I must tell him. If madonna would not write to him, then I must.

  I could no longer give my attention to the spectacle. The letter I had to write clamoured to be let out on to the page. I could almost feel the pen in my hand, the feather tickling my palm, the yield and spring of the nib as I pressed it into clean vellum and formed the words. What words? Should I give the bare facts of the matter or dress them in declarations of love? Dwell on the practicalities or write of our child as the embodiment of our passion, a tie which bound us for life? Should I leaven my news with humour, or would that make him believe me too frivolous to make a fitting mother for his son? The more I thought about it, the more impossible the task became.

  Then I remembered the letter tucked into my sleeve, the poet’s letter to his mistress. Surely there could be no better example for me to follow. But if I were to have an opportunity to read it before handing it over to Donna Lucrezia, I must leave the Battagliuola before her; I must leave now. Turning to Ser Taddeo, who was standing behind my chair, I touched his sleeve to gain his attention.

  “I feel a little unwell, my dear,” I told him. “I think I would like to rest awhile, if you would be kind enough to escort me back to the castle.”

  “Will the duchess permit it?” he asked, casting a doubtful glance towards madonna, who was absorbed in feeding sweets to her little dog while Don Alfonso cheered on a sortie by the Ferrarese forces from behind a barricade of green and yellow striped marrows.

  “As you know, the welfare of this child concerns her closely. She will excuse me if you explain the reason, and come straight back yourself.”

  “Should I ask Donna Angela to accompany you?”

  “I would prefer it to be you.” I squeezed his wrist and gave him a smile I hoped conveyed both warmth and vulnerability.

  He picked his way cautiously across ground made treacherous by squashed fruit and vegetables, dodging missiles as he went, wincing at the high-pitched screams of over-excited children. I watched him bow to madonna and Don Alfonso, madonna cocking one ear towards him to hear what he had to say above the din of battle. She cast me a troubled glance, I frowned and clenched my hands over my belly, she nodded and waved Ser Taddeo away impatiently as he attempted a second bow.

  ***

  I overdid the delicacy of my condition a little on the way back to the castle, so that it took me some time to persuade Taddeo it was safe to leave me and no, I had no need of a physician. As soon as I had shut the door of my chamber on his bowing figure and anxious expression, I slid Bembo’s letter out of my sleeve. Seated on the edge of my bed, I unfolded it, careful to avoid leaving any trace of my subterfuge in the way of tears or creases or ink smudges. I wondered that so sensitive a piece of correspondence should be unsealed, then immediately realised that dollops of wax and ribbons would only make it more conspicuous. Far from being made reckless by their passion, these two were well versed in the skills of illicit courtship. They knew the rules of the game.

  As I opened the letter, hot with shame at my disloyalty and anticipation of what I might find, yet another, smaller parchment fell out of it. It would have landed in my lap had I still got one. As it was, it slid over the mound of my belly on to the floor. I squatted to retrieve it then levered myself back up on to the bed. Bright spots danced before my eyes from the effort and I could not immediately catch my breath. I feared I was to be punished for lying to Taddeo by my lie coming true. Forcing myself to breathe steadily, willing my heartbeat to slow, I read the larger of the two parchments. It contained only a few words.

  How could I better this? I return your lines to you, sweet lady, as the only possible expression of my sentiments, the perfect mirror to your perfect loveliness.

  I unfolded the smaller page, where a verse was inscribed in Donna Lucrezia’s hand. I committed it to memory. I remember it still, though my reasons are more complicated than you might expect. It read thus:

  I think were I to die

  And with my wealth of pain

  Cease longing,

  Such great love to deny

  Could make the world remain

  Unloving.

  When I consider this,

  Death’s long delay is all

  I must desire,

  Since reason tells me bliss

  Is felt by one in thrall

  To such a fire.

  Were these truly madonna’s words? She was a competent versifier, but no better than the rest of us when we composed sonnets or maccheroni to pass the time on wet days. We invented patterns of words and meanings with less thought than we embroidered shirts or altar cloths. I found it difficult to believe her capable of writing so plain and full of feeling. But if the poem was hers, dare I make use of it? Surely Cesare would recognise it. Then again, why should he? Why should he be interested in the lines madonna composed for her lovers? He was happier poring over Vitruvius or Caesar’s Gallic Wars than reading poetry of any kind. Besides, Vittorio could not have had sight of this letter; he had handed it straight to me after Bembo had dropped it. Unless he had eyes in B
embo’s inkwell, or a spy lodged in the poet’s heart, Cesare could not know what it contained.

  I read it through again. I thought of how I would wake up sometimes, terrified, in the middle of the night. Convinced my baby was dead, I would press my palms against my belly and will him to kick. Then, feeling as though my body filled the whole dark space of the bedroom, squeezing out lamps and linen chests, even Angela’s usually empty bed, I was certain I would die giving birth to some monster, my womb torn and bleeding, my heart burst from the effort. Fear jangled the nerves in my arms and legs until I was forced to get out of bed and walk about, though the joints in my knees tended to grow stiff and painful during the night. How could I bear to die while Cesare still lived? What good could heaven do me while he remained on earth? Such great love to deny, could make the world remain unloving.

  My decision was made. I would send him the poem, and it would assure him far better than my own poor words that I was a faithful mistress and the child I was carrying was his. His son, God willing, his firstborn son.

  ***

  With Carnival at an end, madonna distracted herself from the dreary privations of Lent by throwing herself into the preparations for my lying-in, which would begin after Easter. Perhaps taking vicarious pleasure in the fact that my condition excused me from the Lenten fast, she supervised my diet closely. If the child were to be a boy, I must eat only warm foods. She had all my dishes prepared in her own kitchens, usually under her personal supervision, or that of Angela, who made no secret of her resentment of this enforced time away from Giulio. You should not be thinking of love at this time, admonished madonna. Nor of beef with peppers or red fruit puddings, retorted Angela, putting in front of me a compote of figs in ginger syrup in a bowl decorated with a picture of a robust baby boy pissing an arc of golden urine into a stream. Eat, said madonna. I felt like a goose being fattened for pate di fegato.