22

PRINCE ALFONSO OF Aragon, the proud son of kings, carried himself regally—even when he had drunk too much wine, as he had on this moonlit evening. The moment he finished dinner at the Vatican with the Pope, Lucrezia, and her brothers, he made excuses to leave. He told them he wanted to return home, for he had something he must attend to. He kissed his wife good-bye with the promise that he would anxiously await the pleasure of her company whenever she chose to return.

The truth was that he found it quite uncomfortable sitting in the company of the Pope and his sons, for he had been meeting in secret with Cardinal della Rovere. On two occasions, della Rovere, driven once again by ambition, had asked for Alfonso’s support, and discussed the danger to the young man in the current situation. Della Rovere encouraged the young prince to look toward the future, after the Borgia’s fall from power, when he—the cardinal—would become the next Pope. Naples would then have nothing to fear, for the crown would be taken back from the French king and returned to its rightful owners. And someday it would be his.

Now Alfonso was terrified that Alexander would discover the truth about these secret meetings. Since he had returned from the Colonna castle to Rome, he often caught the brothers watching him closely, and he knew they suspected him of treachery.

As Alfonso walked across the empty square in front of Saint Peter’s, the sound of his own footsteps seemed suddenly to echo loudly on the pavement. As the moon hid behind some passing clouds, the square suddenly turned black as pitch. Alfonso heard some shuffling, and looked quickly to see if anyone was following him. But he saw nothing. Breathing deeply, he tried to quiet his racing heart. But something was wrong. He felt it.

Suddenly, as the clouds uncovered the moon, he saw several masked men rushing toward him from the shadows of the buildings. They were wielding scroti, primitive street weapons made of a leather pouch filled with chunks of iron and fastened to a leather handle. He tried to turn back and run across the square, but three of them grabbed him and threw him to the ground. All three of the men jumped him and with their scroti came down hard upon his body. He tried to cover his head with his arms, he tried to turn on his stomach to protect himself, but over and over again his weapon came crashing down unmercifully on his arms and legs, as he tried to stifle his cries of pain. Then one of the men brought his weapon down hard right on the bridge of his nose. He heard the crack of his bones as he felt himself losing consciousness.

Just as the last assailant drew his stiletto and sliced Alfonso from his neck to his navel, there came the shout of a papal guard. The attackers, startled, ran toward one of the streets that led from the square.

The guard standing over the young man judged the severity of his wounds, and knew he must make a choice. He could immediately provide the necessary care to this unfortunate soul, or chase the scum who attacked him. Then, by the pale light of the moon, he recognized Alfonso as the Pope’s son-in-law.

Frantically, he called for help. Then he quickly removed his own cape and tried to staunch the bleeding that flowed from the boy’s massive chest wound.

Shouting again and again for help, the desperate man carried Alfonso to the nearby headquarters of the papal guard and placed him gently on the iron cot.

The Vatican physician was summoned at once, and rushed to Alfonso’s side. Fortunately, the cut was long but not too deep. From what he could see, no major organs had been damaged, and the quick thinking of the guard had stopped the young prince from bleeding to death.

A practical and experienced man, the Vatican physician looked around quickly, then motioned to one of the other guards to hand over a flask of brandy. He poured the alcohol into the open wound, and began to stitch it closed. But there was little he could do for the young man’s once-handsome face, except place a compress on his shattered nose and pray it would heal without too much ruin.

Alexander was called from his table by Duarte and informed secretly of the incident.

The Pope ordered Alfonso to be carried to his private chambers and put to bed in one of his own rooms. Sixteen of his finest guards were called to act as sentinels. He then instructed Duarte to send an urgent message to the king of Naples, explaining what had happened to his nephew, and requesting that he send his own physician, as well as Sancia, to Rome to nurse her brother and comfort Lucrezia.

Alexander dreaded telling his daughter what had happened, but he knew he must. Returning to the table, he stood directly before her. “There has been an accident in the square. Your beloved husband, Alfonso, has been attacked by several treacherous scoundrels.”

Lucrezia’s expression was one of shock. She stood up immediately. “Where is he? Is he harmed badly?”

“The wounds are quite severe,” Alexander said. “But with prayer, we hope not fatal.”

Lucrezia turned to her brothers. “Chez, Jofre, do something! Find the villains, lock them in a pen, and have the wild dogs rip at their flesh.” She began to run then, and cry. “Papa, take me to him.”

Alexander quickly led the way, with Lucrezia, Cesare, and Jofre following.

Young Alfonso lay unconscious, his body covered with cotton sheeting, blood streaming in great streaks from each of the wounds on his face.

The moment Lucrezia saw him, she screamed and then collapsed. It was her brother Jofre who caught her and carried her to a waiting chair. Cesare’s face was covered with a carnival mask, and yet Jofre noticed that he seemed to betray little of the shock that he himself had felt. “Brother,” Jofre asked, “who would have reason to attack?”

Only Cesare’s eyes showed, and they glittered like coal. “Baby brother, each of us has more enemies than we can imagine,” he said. Then, reluctantly, he offered, “I will see if there is anything I can discover,” and he left the room.

The moment Lucrezia came back to herself, she ordered the servants to bring her some clean bandages and warm water. She then carefully lifted the sheet to see what further damage had been done to her beloved, but when she saw the slice from neck to navel she felt sickened and quickly took her seat again.

Jofre stood by, and together they spent the night waiting for Alfonso’s eyes to open. But it was two days before he even stirred, and by that time the physician from Naples as well as Sancia had arrived. Sancia, distraught, bent to kiss her brother’s forehead but could find no place left uninjured, and so she lifted his hand and placed a kiss upon his bruised and blackened fingers.

She kissed both Lucrezia and her husband, Jofre, who even in these dire circumstances could not hide his pleasure at seeing her. To Jofre, Sancia looked more beautiful than ever; her dark hair lush and curling, her cheeks flushed with fear for her brother, and her eyes shiny with tears made him love her all the more.

She sat next to Lucrezia and held her hand. “My sweet sister,” Sancia said. “How dreadful that such terrible villains should harm our prince of grace. I am here now, so you may rest without worry, for I will care for my brother in your place.”

Lucrezia was so grateful to see Sancia that she began to cry again. Sancia soothed her. “Where is Cesare? Has he discovered anything of value? Has he captured the attackers?”

Lucrezia was so weary that all she could do was shake her head. “I must rest,” she told Sancia, “but only for a brief time. Then I’ll return to wait for Alfonso to wake, for I want mine to be the first face he sees when he opens his eyes.”

She left them then and walked with Jofre to Santa Maria in Portico, where she greeted her children and Adriana, and then lay exhausted on her bed. But just before she fell into a long dreamless sleep, something struck her and disturbed her.

Her brother Cesare. His expression when he heard the news—or rather, his lack of expression. What went on beneath that mask?

 

Several days later, Jofre and Sancia were finally alone in their chambers. It had been days since she’d arrived, and he had been longing for time alone with her, yet he understood her concern for her brother as she attended to him.

Now, as she undressed for bed, Jofre came up to her and put his arms around her. “I have truly missed you,” he said. “And I am sorry about the tragedy that has befallen your brother.”

Standing naked, Sancia placed her arms around Jofre’s neck, and in a rare moment of tenderness put her head on his shoulder. “It’s your brother we must speak about,” Sancia said softly.

Jofre moved away so he could see her face. She was strikingly beautiful, and her distress over Alfonso made her look softer than usual. “There is something about Cesare that troubles you?” he asked.

Sancia climbed into bed, and motioned to Jofre to join her. She leaned on her side as he undressed. “There is much about Cesare that troubles me,” she said. “Those freakish masks he has taken to wearing make him appear altogether sinister.”

“They are to cover the marks of the pox, Sancia,” Jofre said. “He is embarrassed by them.”

“Jofre, it’s not only that,” Sancia said. “It is more the mystery that has taken hold of him since he is back from France. He is different, I feel it. Whether he is intoxicated by his own power, or the pox has invaded his brain as well as his face, I feel frightened for us all.”

“It is his wish to protect our family, to make Rome strong, to unify the city-states so they may be ruled properly under the Holy Father,” Jofre said.

Sancia’s voice was strong. “It is no secret that I hold no affection for your father since he sent me away. If it was not for my brother’s well-being, I would not step foot in Rome again. If you wish to be with me you will have to return to Naples, for I do not trust this Pope.”

Jofre said, “You are still angry with him, and for good reason. But it is possible your hatred for him will pass in time.”

Sancia knew better, but she understood that both she and Alfonso were in a dangerous circumstance, and so this time she held her tongue. Yet she wondered just what Jofre thought about his father—what he would even dare to feel.

He had climbed into bed alongside her now, and was leaning on his arm facing her; and again, as before, she was aware of his innocence. “Jofre,” she said, touching his cheek, “I have always admitted that when we married I found you young and thought you slow-witted. But since I’ve begun to understand you, I see the goodness of your soul. I know you are capable of love in ways others in your family are not.”

“Crezia loves,” Jofre defended. Remembering how loyally his brother had kept his secret, he was tempted to add, and Cesare loves. But instead he held his tongue.

“Yes, Crezia does love, and that is unfortunate, for her heart will be torn to pieces by the boundless ambition of both your father and your brother,” Sancia said. “Can’t you see who they are?”

“Father believes in his mission to the church,” Jofre explained. “And Cesare wishes Rome to be as formidable as it was in the time of his namesake, Julius Caesar. He believes his calling is to fight holy wars.”

Sancia smiled gently at Jofre. “Have you ever considered what your calling is? Has anyone ever asked, or noticed? And how is it you can keep from hating the brother who steals the admiration of your father, or the father who scarcely acknowledges you?”

Jofre ran his hand over the smooth olive skin of her shoulders. The touch of her flesh gave him great pleasure. “I dreamed, as I was growing up, of becoming a cardinal. Always. The smell of Papa’s garments, when he held me as a very young child and I rested on his shoulder, filled me with the love of God and the desire to serve him. But before I was able to choose, Father found a use for me in Naples. In my marriage to you. And so it was that I came to love you with the love I’d saved for God.”

His total devotion to her only increased her desire to show him how much had been stolen from him.

“The Holy Father is often ruthless in his aims,” Sancia said. “Do you see that ruthlessness, though it’s cloaked in reason? And Cesare’s ambition approaches madness—do you not see that?”

Jofre closed his eyes. “My love, I see more than you know.”

Sancia kissed him passionately, and they made love. He was a kind and careful lover after these years, for she had taught him. And above all, he wished to bring her pleasure.

Afterward, they lay together, and though Jofre was silent, Sancia felt she must warn him in order to protect herself. “Jofre, my love,” she said. “If your family tried to kill my brother, or at the very least didn’t try to stop it, and they have sent me away for political gain, how much longer do you think we will be safe? How much longer do you think they will allow us to be together?”

Jofre said menacingly, “I will allow nothing to separate us.” It was not so much a statement of love as a promise to avenge.

 

Cesare had spent the morning riding through the streets of Rome questioning the citizens about Alfonso’s attack. Had anyone heard rumors of strangers in the city? Had anyone seen anything that could help in the search? When nothing came of his questioning, he returned to the Vatican, where Alexander reminded him to meet with Cardinal Riario to discuss plans for the jubilee.

They had lunch together on the terrace of the cardinal’s palace, and Cesare offered compensation for the many planned festivals, as well as the cleanup of the city.

Afterward, they walked down the narrow alley to the shop of an art dealer who sold antiquities. Cardinal Riario had a fine private collection, and the dealer, who came highly recommended, had an exquisite new sculpture that the cardinal wanted to consider.

After several minutes they stopped in front of a heavy carved wooden door, and the cardinal knocked. An elderly man with crossed eyes, long gray hair, and a sly smile opened the door to let them in.

The cardinal introduced them. “Giovanni Costa, I bring the great Cesare Borgia, captain general, to see your statues.”

Gio Costa was effusive in his greeting, and enthusiastically led them through his shop to a courtyard filled with statues. Cesare looked around the cluttered workspace. On tables, and all over the dust-covered ground, there were arms, legs, unfinished busts, and other bits of half-sculpted marble. In the far corner of the courtyard, there was an object draped and covered with a cloth.

Curious, Cesare pointed to it. “What is over there?”

Costa led them to the covered piece. With great drama, and a grand sweeping motion, he whisked away the cover. “This is probably the most magnificent piece I have ever had in my possession.”

Cesare involuntarily drew in a breath as his eyes fell upon an exquisitely carved white marble Cupid. Its eyes were half closed, with full lips curved sweetly, its expression at once dreamlike and filled with longing. So translucent it seemed carved of light, with wings so delicate they made one believe that the cherub could take flight at will. The beauty of it, its sheer perfection, took his breath away.

“What is the price?” Cesare asked.

Costa pretended not to want to sell it. “When it becomes known that I have it,” he said, “the price will go through the sky.”

Cesare laughed and repeated, “How much will you take for it now?” He thought of Lucrezia, how she would love it.

“Today, for Your Eminence, only two thousand ducats,” he said.

Before Cesare could say anything, Cardinal Riario began to circle the piece, studying it closely, touching it. Then he turned to Costa and said, “My dear fellow, this is not an object of antiquity. My senses tell me it is something done quite recently.”

Costa said, “You have a good eye, Cardinal. I did not proclaim it to be an antique. But it was not finished yesterday, rather, last year. By a very talented young artist from Florence.”

The cardinal shook his head. “I have no interest in contemporary works; that is not what I collect. And certainly none at that exorbitant price. Come, Cesare, let’s go.”

But Cesare stood his ground, fascinated. Then, without further consultation or bickering, he said, “I don’t care what it costs or when it was carved; I must have it.”

Costa apologized. “The profit does not all belong to me, for I must send the artist and his representative their price. And transportation is costly . . . ”

Cesare smiled. “Your job is finished, for I already said I must have it. And so I will give you what you ask. Two thousand it is . . . ” he said. Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “What is the name of this young sculptor?”

“Buonarroti, Michelangelo Buonarroti. He shows some talent, yes?”

 

Rome was wild with rumors. First it was said that Cesare had struck down another brother, but once he denied it publicly that rumor was quickly replaced by another. Now the citizens gossiped that the Orsini, angered at Lucrezia’s governing of Nepi, had taken their revenge on her husband, an ally of their enemies, the Colonna.

But in the rooms of the Vatican there were other concerns. The Pope, hit by several bouts of syncope, was becoming weaker, so he had taken to his bed. Lucrezia, who had stayed at her husband’s side during his early recovery, now often left Sancia to care for her brother while Lucrezia ministered to her father. He seemed frail, and was comforted by her company.

“Tell me the truth, Papa,” she asked him one day. “You had no part in the attack on Alfonso, did you?”

“My sweet child,” Alexander said, sitting up in bed. “I would not lay a hand on the one who brought you such happiness. And that is why I have placed such security at his doors.”

Lucrezia was comforted knowing her father had not ordered the harm that had befallen her husband. But at the very moment that the Pope was reassuring his daughter, two swarthy Neapolitans familiar to Sancia were led into the Vatican, past the guards of Alfonso’s room. Alfonso had been recovering; on that day he was feeling quite well, though it had been only a fortnight since his assault. He could now stand, though he could not yet walk.

Alfonso greeted the men warmly, and then asked his sister to leave them for a few moments so they could converse in the way men do when no women are present, for he explained he hadn’t seen these two friends since he had been to Naples several months before.

Pleased to see her brother happy, Sancia left the Vatican to visit Lucrezia’s children. She would only be gone a short time. And in the company of these men she was certain he would be safe.

 

This golden August day in Rome was hotter than most, and the Vatican gardens were in full bloom. Cesare was strolling alone, enjoying the serenity of the tall cedars, the soft murmuring of the fountains and the cheerful chirping of birds. He seldom felt such peace. He was not bothered by the heat; in fact, he enjoyed it—a credit to his Spanish blood, no doubt. He was deep in thought, trying to deliberate on new information he had just received from Don Michelotto, when he saw the beautiful red exotic flower on the path before him. He bent to examine it, and as he did he heard the swift whir of a crossbow bolt pass perilously close to his head. It embedded itself into a nearby cedar.

Instinctively he dropped to the ground as a second bolt sped by. And as he shouted for his guards, he rolled over to see where the arrows were coming from.

There, on the balcony of the Vatican Palace, stood his brother-in-law Alfonso, supported by two Neapolitan guards. One was drawing back his crossbow to shoot again, and Alfonso himself had his own bow aimed straight at Cesare. This bolt landed in the earth only inches from his leg. Cesare called for his guards again, shouting, “Traitor! Traitor! Look to the balcony!” Automatically he reached for his sword, wondering how he could slay his brother-in-law before being hit by Alfonso’s crossbow.

By then the Vatican guards were running toward him, shouting, and he watched as Alfonso slipped from the balcony and disappeared. Cesare dug the crossbow bolt out of the dirt beside him, but the one caught in the cedar could not be removed. He immediately brought the bolt he carried to the Vatican assayer, a man highly skilled in the study of metals and other substances. The man confirmed what Cesare suspected: The bolt had been soaked in a lethal poison, and even a scratch would have been fatal.

Next Cesare went to the Vatican apartment, where he found his sister Lucrezia gently bathing her husband’s wounds. Alfonso lay motionless, his bare white chest still showing the angry red scar of the attacker’s stiletto. The two men who had been with him on the balcony had escaped down some Vatican corridor, but Cesare’s guards were in hot pursuit.

Cesare said nothing to his sister. Alfonso looked up at him nervously, not knowing for certain if Cesare had recognized him in the garden attack. Cesare smiled, then leaned down close as though to comfort him, and whispered in his ear. “What was begun at lunch will be finished at supper.”

Then he stood tall again, stared at the silent prince, and kissed his sister before leaving.

 

Hours later, in that same room at the Vatican where Alfonso was recovering, Lucrezia and Sancia were making plans to travel to her palace in Nepi. There they would all spend time together with the children while Alfonso regained his strength, and make up for what they had lost when Sancia was banished to Naples. Lucrezia had developed a deep respect for Sancia’s fighting spirit, and they had grown fond of each other.

Alfonso had fallen asleep as the women sat by his bed talking in whispers. But suddenly he was awakened by a hard knock at the door. When Lucrezia opened it, she was surprised to see Don Michelotto.

“Cousin Miguel. What are you doing here?” she said, smiling.

“I’ve come to see your husband about some Vatican business,” he said, thinking fondly of the times he had carried Lucrezia on his shoulders as a child. He bowed and asked, “May I beg your indulgence for a few moments? Your father is calling for you, and I would appreciate the time to speak with your husband privately.”

Lucrezia hesitated only a moment before agreeing. “Of course, I’ll go to Papa, and Sancia will stay here, for Alfonso is weak tonight.”

Michelotto’s face never changed its pleasant expression. He leaned toward Sancia now, and said in apology, “It is very private, this conversation.”

Alfonso didn’t say a word; he pretended to be sleeping, hoping Michelotto would go away, for he didn’t want to try to explain what he had been doing on the balcony that afternoon.

Lucrezia and Sancia left the room, destined for the Pope’s chambers, but before they reached the end of the corridor they were summoned back by the urgent call of Michelotto.

They ran back to the room to find Alfonso lying in bed as though asleep, but now his skin was tinged with blue, his body still and dead.

“He must have suffered a hemorrhage,” Michelotto explained softly. “For suddenly his breath just stopped.” He said nothing about the powerful hands he had placed around Alfonso’s neck.

Lucrezia began to sob uncontrollably, as she threw her body over that of her husband. But Sancia began to shriek and scream, throwing herself at Michelotto, her fists swinging and hitting his chest again and again. When Cesare entered the room Sancia immediately fell upon him, scratching and screaming all the more. “You bastard! You godless son of the devil,” she screamed.

She began to rip at her hair, tearing shocks of it out of her head, leaving many of her long dark locks lying in heaps on the floor at her feet.

Jofre entered and came toward her, and bore the weight of her fists until she could scream and shout no more. Then he held her, to try to comfort her, until she could stop trembling. Finally, he took her to their quarters.

It was only after Cesare dismissed Michelotto that Lucrezia lifted her head from the chest of her lifeless husband and turned to Cesare. Tears streaming down her face, she said, “I will never forgive you for this, my brother. For you have taken from me a part of my heart that can never love again. It can never be yours, for it is no longer mine. And even our children will suffer for this.”

He tried to reach out for her, to explain that Alfonso had shot his weapon first. And yet he found himself speechless in the face of her desolation.

Lucrezia ran from the room then, to her father’s chambers. “I shall never feel the same way about you, my father,” she threatened. “For you have caused me more misery than you can imagine. If it was on your order that someone did this evil deed, then, out of love you should have considered me. If it was my brother’s hand, then you should have stopped him. But I will never love either of you again, for you have broken my trust.”

Pope Alexander lifted his head to look at her and his expression was one of surprise. “Crezia, what are you saying? What has happened to you?”

Her light eyes were clouded with grief. “You have ripped the heart from my chest and you have severed a bond that was tied in the heavens.”

Alexander stood up and slowly walked toward his daughter, but he kept himself from wrapping his arms around her, for he was certain she would recoil from his touch. “My sweet child, your husband was never meant to be harmed, but he tried to kill your brother Cesare. I ordered your husband’s protection,” he said, but lowered his head and added, “but I could not stop your brother from protecting himself.”

Lucrezia saw the distress on her father’s face, and she fell to her knees at his feet. She covered her face with her hands as she wept, “Papa, you must help me understand. What kind of evil comes in this world? What kind of God is this, who would allow such love to be extinguished? This is madness! My husband tried to kill my brother, and my brother kills my husband? Their souls will be lost in hell; they will be damned. I will see neither of them again; with this one tragic deed I have lost them forever.”

Alexander put his hand on his daughter’s head and tried to stop her tears. “Shh, shh,” he said. “God is merciful. He will forgive them both. Otherwise there is no reason for his being. And one day, when this worldly tragedy is done, we shall all be together again.”

“I cannot wait an eternity for happiness,” Lucrezia cried, and then she stood and ran from the room.

 

This time there was no question. Everyone knew Cesare was responsible for the killing. Yet word had spread of the attack on him in the garden, and so most Romans thought his action justified. Within a short time the two Neapolitans were caught, confessed, and were hanged in the public square.

But once the initial shock wore off, Lucrezia was enraged. She entered Cesare’s chambers, screaming that he had first killed his brother, and now his brother-in-law. Alexander tried to keep Cesare from becoming angry, for he wanted no breach between his two favorite children. Yet Cesare was stunned and upset by his sister’s presumption that he had killed their brother Juan. He had never considered defending himself to her, for he never imagined she suspected him.

After several weeks Alexander and Cesare could no longer bear seeing Lucrezia in tears, or stand to witness her misery. And so they began to avoid her, and finally to ignore her. When Alexander tried to send her and her children back to Santa Maria in Portico, Lucrezia insisted on leaving Rome for Nepi and taking her children and Sancia with her. Her brother Jofre was welcome, she told her father, but no other brother could come. Just before she left, she informed Alexander that she never again wished to speak to Cesare.

 

Cesare struggled to keep himself from following Lucrezia, for he wanted very much to explain. Yet he knew it would do no good, and so he distracted himself with strategies for his campaign. The first thing he knew he must do was go to Venice in order to reduce any possibility of interference from their quarters, for Rimini, Faenza, and Pesaro were territories all under the protection of the Venetians.

After days of sea travel Cesare finally approached Venice, and the huge shimmering pastel city built on stilts emerged from the vast dark waters like some mythic dragon. He saw Saint Mark’s Square before him, then the Doge’s Palace.

From the harbor he was taken to an imposing Moorish palace just off the Grand Canal, where several noble Venetians greeted him and helped to make him comfortable. Cesare settled in, and soon requested a meeting with the members of the Great Council. There Cesare explained the Pope’s position, and offered an accommodation: papal troops would defend Venice from the Turks in the event of an invasion, and in return Venice would withdraw its protection of Rimini, Faenza, and Pesaro.

In a brilliantly colorful ceremony, the council passed his resolution and draped Cesare in the scarlet coat of an honorary citizen. He was now “a gentleman of Venice.”

 

The two years Lucrezia spent with Alfonso had been the happiest time of her life, a time when the promises her father made her in childhood seemed to come true. But now the grief she felt over Alfonso’s death transcended the loss of her husband’s sweet smile, bright eyes, and pleasing disposition. It transcended the loss of their laughter, even the loss of her innocence when she first bedded Cesare. For then she’d had faith in her father, trust in her brother’s love for her, and in the power of the Holy Father to bind and unbind sin. But since the death of Alfonso, all this was lost to her. Now she felt as abandoned by her father as she did by her God.

She had come to Nepi with Sancia, Jofre, her sons Giovanni and Rodrigo, and only fifty of the most trusted members of her court to accompany her.

There, just a year before, she and Alfonso had spent their hours together making love, choosing fine furniture and lovely wall hangings to decorate their castle, and walking through the tall dark oak trees and groves in the vibrant countryside.

Nepi itself was a little town, with a small central square, and streets lined with Gothic buildings and a few castles where the nobles lived. There was a church, a lovely church, built upon the temple of Jupiter. She and Alfonso had walked those streets together holding hands and laughing with pleasure at its quaintness. But now everything about Nepi seemed as melancholy as Lucrezia felt.

Whether she looked from her castle window to see the black volcano of Bracciano or turned to look at the blue chain of Sabine mountains, it made her weep. For in everything she saw, she saw Alfonso.

On one bright sunny day, Sancia and she carried the babies as they walked through the countryside. Lucrezia seemed more at peace than she had been, but suddenly the bleating of the sheep and the plaintive notes of the shepherd’s flute spun her into melancholy all over again.

There were nights she swore it was a nightmare, that she would turn and find her handsome husband lying right beside her, but then she would reach out and touch the cold empty sheets and find herself alone again. Her body and soul ached for him. She lost her taste for food, and had no appetite for pleasure. Each morning she woke more tired than she was the night before, and the few smiles she managed were brought forth by her children. The only action she took in the first month she was in Nepi was to order some clothes made for her boys, but even to play with them seemed to exhaust her.

Finally, Sancia determined to try to help her sister-in-law recover. She put aside her own pain and devoted herself to Lucrezia and the babies. Jofre was a great help as well, comforting Lucrezia whenever she cried and spending hours at the castle and in the fields playing with the children, reading them stories and singing to them each night as he put them to sleep.

It was during this time that Lucrezia began to explore her feelings about her father, her brother, and God.

 

Cesare had been in Venice for over a week, and he was ready to return to Rome to resume his campaign. So it was that the night before he was to leave, Cesare dined with several of his old classmates from the University of Pisa, enjoying good wine, engaging in old memories and interesting conversation.

As bright and shimmering as Venice appeared during the day, with its crowds of people, pastel castles and gilded rooftops, grand churches and lovely arched bridges, it was as sinister when darkness fell. The rising moisture from the waters of the canals smothered the city in a thick and misty fog, through which it was difficult to find one’s way. Between the buildings and canals the alleys grew like spider legs, providing refuge for the street thieves and other villains who would not come out by day.

As Cesare made his way along the narrow alley that led back to his palazzo, suddenly he was forced to attention by a beam of light that spilled across the canal.

He looked around, for someone had opened a door.

But before Cesare could get his bearings, three men, dressed in drab, worn peasant clothes, rushed toward him. Through the dusky gloom he saw the glint of their knives.

He turned quickly, and saw another man coming at him from the opposite direction, another knife gleaming through the darkness.

Cesare was trapped; there was nowhere to go. Both the entrance and the exit of the alley were blocked by men waiting to attack him.

Instinctively, he dove headfirst deep into the muddy waters of the canal alongside the alley, thick with the garbage and sewage of the city. He swam beneath the surface, holding his breath until he was certain his chest would burst. Finally, he broke through the surface on the other side.

From there he could see two more men running across a narrow arched bridge, from the far side of the canal to the side he was on. They were carrying torches as well as knives.

Cesare took another deep breath; then, submerging himself again, he swam under the bridge itself, where two long gondolas were moored. Sinking low in the water between the two boats, he prayed he wouldn’t be seen.

The men ran up and down each of the canals and alleys trying to find him. They searched each nook and cranny with their torches, but each time they came near Cesare he slid beneath the water, and held his breath until he could no longer.

After what seemed like an eternity, when the men turned up nothing, they gathered on the bridge just above his head. He heard one of them grumble, “The Roman is nowhere to be seen. The bastard probably drowned.”

“He’s better off drowned than swimming in that shit,” one of the others said.

“Let’s call it a night,” came a voice filled with authority. “Nero paid us to cut his throat, not to run around chasing a wild goose till dawn.”

He listened to the footsteps of the men as they walked across the bridge above his head, one by one, until he heard nothing more.

Concerned that they had left a guard watching from a window or balcony, Cesare swam quietly along the dark bank of the small canal into the Grand Canal itself, and finally up to the dock of his own palazzo. His night watchman, assigned by the doge, was amazed to see their honored guest pull himself out of the water shivering and foul-smelling.

In his quarters, after a hot bath, Cesare put on a clean robe and drank a mug of hot sherry. He sat for quite a time, deep in thought. Then he gave the orders that he would leave at dawn. When they reached the dry land of the Veneto, he would pick up his carriage.

Cesare didn’t sleep that night. As the sun rose over the lagoon, he climbed into a large gondola, manned by three of the doge’s men armed with swords and crossbows. They were about to cast off when a burly man in a dark uniform ran out onto the dock.

“Excellency,” he said breathlessly. “I must introduce myself before you go. I am the captain of the police overseeing this district of the city. Before you depart I want to apologize for the incident last night. Venice is full of thieves and bandits who will rob any stranger unlucky enough to be caught out at night.”

“You must keep more of your men where they can be found,” Cesare said sardonically.

The captain said, “You would do us a great favor if you would delay your voyage and accompany me to the area of the attack. Your escort can wait here. Perhaps we can go into one or two of the nearby houses so that you may identify your assailants.”

Cesare was torn. He wanted to be on his way, but he also wanted to know who had planned to attack him. Yet investigating the attack could take hours and he had too much to do. Others could bring him information. Now he must return to Rome.

“Captain,” Cesare said, “under ordinary circumstances I’d be pleased to help you, but my carriage is waiting. I hope to reach Ferrara by nightfall, for the country roads are as dangerous as your alleys. So you must excuse me.”

The big policeman smiled and tipped his helmet. “Will you be returning to Venice soon, Excellency?”

“I hope to,” Cesare said, smiling.

“Ah, perhaps you will help us then. You can contact me at police headquarters near the Rialto. My name is Bernardino Nerozzi, but everyone calls me ‘Nero.’ ”

On the long trip back to Rome, Cesare considered who could have hired the police captain to murder him in Venice. But it was a hopeless task, for there were too many possibilities. If he had been killed, he chuckled inwardly, there would have been so many suspects, the crime would never be solved.

Still, he wondered. Could it have been one of Alfonso’s Aragonese relatives, seeking revenge for his death? Or Giovanni Sforza, still angry and humiliated over his divorce and the claim of impotence? Or one of the Riario, enraged at the capture of Caterina Sforza? Or Giuliano della Rovere, who hated all the Borgia, no matter how civilized he pretended to be? Surely it could have been one of the vicars of Faenza, Urbino, or some other city who wanted to stop his campaign and prevent his planned attacks. Or any one of the hundreds of men who held a grudge against his father.

As his carriage arrived at the gates of Rome, he was certain of only one thing. He must watch his back, for it was certain now that someone wanted him dead.

 

If being bedded by Cesare took place in paradise, Alfonso’s death was Lucrezia’s fall from grace. For now she was forced to see her life, and her family, as it truly was. She felt cast out by her father, by the Holy Father, and by the Heavenly Father as well.

Her fall from innocence was a devastating time. For she had lived and loved in magical, mythical realms, but that had now come to an end. And, oh, how she grieved. She tried to remember how it began, and yet it seemed always to be. There was no beginning.

When she was just a babe, her father, sitting in the living quarters with her upon his lap, had regaled her with exciting myths peopled by Olympian gods and Titans. Was he not Zeus, the greatest Olympian god of all? For his voice was the thunder, his tears were the rain, his smile was the sun that shone on her face. And was she not Athena, the daughter-goddess who sprang full-grown from his head? Or Venus, the goddess of love, herself?

Her father read, with flying hands and eloquent words, of the story of creation. And then she was both the beautiful Eve, tempted by the snake, as well as the chaste Madonna, who gave birth to goodness itself.

In the arms of her father she felt shielded from harm; in the arms of the Holy Father she felt protected from evil; and so it was that she never feared death, for she was certain she would be safe in the arms of the Heavenly Father. For were they not all the same?

It was only now that she wore the black veil of the widow that the dark veil of illusion had been lifted from her eyes.

When she had bent to kiss the cold, stiff lips of her dead husband, she felt the emptiness of mortal man, and knew that life was suffering, and death would someday come. To her father, to Cesare, to her. Until that moment, in her heart they were immortal. And so now she wept for them all.

Some nights she was unable to sleep, and in the day she spent hours pacing her chambers, helpless to rest or find a moment’s peace. The shades of fear and shadows of doubt seduced her. Finally, she felt herself losing her last remnant of faith. She questioned all she had believed. And so she had no ground on which to stand.

“What is happening to me?” she asked Sancia, as for days she fell into terror or despair. Then she stayed in bed and grieved for Alfonso, and grew frightened for herself.

Sancia sat on the bed next to her and rubbed her forehead. She kissed her cheeks. “You are becoming aware that you are a pawn in your father’s game,” her sister-in-law explained. “Not more important than the conquering of your brother’s territories for the advancement of the Borgia family. And that is a difficult truth to bear.”

“But Papa isn’t like that,” Lucrezia tried to protest. “He has always been concerned for my happiness.”

“Always?” Sancia said, with some sarcasm. “That is a side of your father, and the Holy Father, that I am unable to see. But you must get well, you must stay strong. For your babies need you.”

“Is your father kind?” Lucrezia asked Sancia. “And does he treat you with worth?”

Sancia shook her head. “He is neither kind nor cruel to me now, for since the invasion by the French he has become ill—gone mad, some say—and yet I find him kinder than before. In Naples he is kept in a tower in the family palace, with each of us caring for him. Whenever he is frightened, he screams, ‘I hear France. The trees and the rocks call France.’ Yet for all his madness, I fear he is kinder than your father. For even when he was well I was not his world, and he was not mine. He was only my father, and so my love for him was never great enough to weaken me.”

Lucrezia wept even more, for there was truth in Sancia’s reasoning that she could no longer deny. Lucrezia swaddled herself in her blankets again. And tried to discern the ways in which her father had changed.

Her father told of a God who was merciful and joyous, but the Holy Father was an agent of a God who was punishing and often even cruel. Her heartbeat quickened when she dared to think, “How could so much evil be for good, and for God?”

It was then that she began at last to question the wisdom of her father. Was all she’d been taught good and right? Was her father truly the Vicar of Christ on earth? And was the Holy Father’s judgment also God’s? She was certain the gentle God she held in her heart was very different from the punishing God who whispered in her father’s ears.

 

Less than one month after Alfonso’s death, Pope Alexander began the search for another husband for Lucrezia. Though it may have been heartless, he was determined to plan for her future, for in the event of his death he did not want her to find herself a helpless widow forced to eat from clay plates rather than silver.

Alexander called Duarte into his chambers to talk about the possibilities. “What do you think about Louis de Ligny?” Alexander asked. “He is, after all, a cousin of the king of France.”

Duarte said simply, “I don’t believe Lucrezia will find him acceptable.”

The Pope sent a message to Lucrezia in Nepi.

And received a message in return, which read, “I will not live in France.”

Next Alexander suggested Francisco Orsini, duke of Gravina.

Lucrezia’s return message read, “I do not wish to marry.”

When the Pope sent another message asking for her reasons, her reply was simple. “All my husbands are unlucky, and I do not wish another on my conscience.”

The Pope called again for Duarte. “She is simply impossible,” he said. “She is willful and irritating. I will not live forever, and if I die, only Cesare will be left to care for her.”

Duarte said, “She seems to get on well with Jofre, and Sancia too. She may need more time to recover from her grief. Call her back to Rome, and then you will have the opportunity to ask her to consider what you suggest. A new husband comes too close to the old, and Nepi is too far from Rome.”

 

The weeks passed slowly as Lucrezia tried to recover from her grief and find a reason to go on living. Finally one night, as she lay in bed reading by the light of her candles, her brother Jofre came to sit beside her bed.

Jofre’s thatched blond hair was hidden beneath a cap of green velvet, and his light eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Lucrezia knew he had begged to retire early, and therefore found it peculiar that he was dressed in fresh clothes as though he was going out. But before she had any chance to question him he began to speak, as though his words were being forced from his lips.

“I have done things I am ashamed of,” he told her. “And for those I judge myself. No God would judge me so. And I have done things for which our father would judge me, yet I have never judged him so.”

Lucrezia sat up straighter in bed, her own eyes swollen from weeping. “What could you have done, little brother, that our father could judge? For, of the four of us, you were the least attended to, and the sweetest of all.”

Jofre looked at her, and she was witness to his struggle. He had waited so long to confess, and of anyone he most trusted her. “I cannot bear to carry this sin on my soul any longer,” he said. “For I’ve held it far too long.”

Lucrezia reached for his hand, for in his eyes she saw such confusion and guilt it made her own misery seem less. “What is it that so troubles you?” she asked.

“You will despise me for this truth,” he said. “If I speak of this to anyone but you, my life will be lost. Yet if I do not unburden myself, I fear I will go mad, or my soul will be lost. And for me that holds an even greater terror.”

Lucrezia was puzzled. “What is this sin that is so terrible it causes you to tremble?” she asked. “You can place your trust in me. I vow no danger will befall you, for your truth will never pass my lips.”

Jofre looked at his sister, and fell into a stutter. “It was not Cesare who killed our brother Juan.”

Lucrezia quickly placed her fingers to his lips. “Do not speak another word, my brother. Do not speak the words I can hear within my heart, for I have known you since you were the babe I held. But I am desperate to ask, what could be so dear that it would call for such an act?”

Jofre put his head on his sister’s chest and allowed her to hold him gently as he whispered. “Sancia,” he said. “For my soul is bound to hers in ways I do not understand. Without her, my own breath seems to stop.”

Lucrezia thought of Alfonso and she understood. Then she thought of Cesare. How tormented he must be. Now she felt a great compassion for all those victimized by love, and in that moment love seemed far more treacherous than war.

 

Cesare could not continue his campaign for the Romagna without first visiting his sister. He must see her to explain, to ask for forgiveness, to regain her love.

When he arrived in Nepi, Sancia tried to keep him away, but he pushed past her to his sister’s chambers and forced himself inside.

There Lucrezia sat, playing a plaintive tune on her lute. When she saw Cesare her fingers froze on the strings, her song stopped in the air.

He ran to her and kneeled before her, placing his head on her knees. “I curse the day I was born to cause you such grief. I curse the day I found I loved you more than life itself, and I wished for just one moment to see you again, before I fought another battle, for without your love no battle is even worth the fight.”

Lucrezia placed her hand on her brother’s auburn hair, and smoothed it in comfort until he could lift his head to look at her. Yet she said nothing.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asked.

“How can I not?” she answered.

His eyes filled, though hers did not. “Do you love me still, above all else on earth?” he asked.

She breathed deeply, and found herself hesitating for just a moment. “I love you, my brother. For you too are less a player in this game than a pawn, and for that I pity us both.”

Cesare stood before her puzzled, but still he thanked her. “It will be easier to fight to gain more territories for Rome now that I have seen you again.”

“Go with care,” Lucrezia said. “For in truth, I could not bear another great loss.”

Before he left she allowed him to embrace her, and in spite of all that had happened she found herself comforted by him. “I am off to unify the Papal States,” he told her. “And when we meet again, I hope to have accomplished all I’ve promised.”

Lucrezia smiled. “With grace, someday soon we will both be back in Rome to stay.”

 

During her last months in Nepi, Lucrezia began to read constantly. She read the lives of saints, explored the lives of heroes and heroines, and studied the great philosophers. She filled her mind with knowledge. And she finally understood that there was only one decision she must make.

Would she live her life or would she take her life?

If she lived, she wondered, how would she find peace? She had already determined that no matter how many times her father traded her in marriage, she would never again love as she had loved Alfonso.

Yet to find peace she knew she must be able to forgive those who had wronged her, for if she could not, the anger she held in her heart and her mind would tether her to hate and rob her of her freedom.

Three months after she had arrived, she began by opening the doors to her palace in Nepi, to see the people, to listen to their complaints, and to construct a system of government that would serve the poor as well as those who carried gold. She determined to devote herself, and her life, to those who were helpless, who had suffered as she had. Those whose fate rested in the hands of rulers more powerful than themselves.

If she took the power her father had allowed her, and used the Borgia name for good as Cesare used his for war, she might find a life worth living. Like the saints who devoted their lives to God, she would from that day forward devote hers to helping others, and do it with such generosity and grace that when she met her death the face of God would smile upon her.

It was then that her father insisted that Lucrezia return to Rome.