The Borgia Bride (43 page)

‘How sick are they now?’ My questions were terse, urgent; there was no time to comfort him.

‘Father is worst off. Sometimes he doesn’t know where he is, or who is with him. But the retching, the bloody flux have stopped, and he was able to take some broth this morning. At the party, he took his wine neat—Trebbia wine, very strong—but Cesare poured some of his out after I brought it to him, and mixed it with water. He is sick as well, too weak to leave his bed—but not so bad as Father. He begged me to sit with him. He will recover, I know it…I finally excused myself, saying that I had to rest.’ He reached out and clutched my arms suddenly for purchase as his knees buckled; I dropped the velvet cape in my hands and helped him over to the bed, where he sat.

He covered his face with cupped hands. ‘I have failed you, Sancha. Now we will have to poison ourselves…’

In the face of his weakness, I might have grown angered, but instead I felt unnaturally calm. A conviction as unreasoning and mysterious as faith gripped me; I knew beyond doubt that Jofre had helped me take the first steps towards fulfilling my destiny. It remained for me to complete it.

‘No,’ I proclaimed forcefully. ‘No harm will come to us. I require only a little more of your help. Tell me their situation. Are they guarded?’

Jofre shook his head. ‘The only guards remaining now circle the Vatican. The rest have fled, as have most of the servants…But if they hear that Father and Cesare are improving, they might return.’

‘Then we must work swiftly,’ I said. ‘Who is with them now?’

‘Don Micheletto Corella was sitting with Cesare…’ Jofre grimaced with hatred. ‘Not out of loyalty. He waits like a hawk, ready to strike the moment Alexander dies, or Cesare worsens…and then he will steal whatever treasure and power he can. Father is alone except for the chamberlain, Gasparre, who truly grieves.’

For an instant, I was perplexed. Destiny required that the fatal blow be delivered by my hand—but Jofre could hardly take me past the guards as a visitor to the Borgia apartments without arousing suspicion.

I stared beyond the unshuttered window, at the tiny, distant bodies moving out in Saint Peter’s square, at the dark waves of heat rising from the cobblestones. It was summer, the time of Carnival, and I found myself suddenly transported to another vineyard, another party, where I had sat between Juan and Cesare, and had been intrigued by the appearance of a costumed guest.

I moved over to the black velvet cape I had dropped on the floor, and lifted it from the marble. It was hooded; it would hide my hair. I turned to my husband.

‘I need a mask,’ I said. ‘One that will cover my face completely, and a courtesan’s gown. The gaudier, the better.’

Jofre stared, uncomprehending.

My tone grew impatient. ‘You know such women. You can find such things. Hurry; we have until the sun sets.’

The mask Jofre brought was beautiful: leather cut and tooled to resemble butterfly wings, bronzed along the edges, and painted deep purple and blue green. It covered but half my face, revealing my lips and chin, so my resourceful husband had found a matching fan made from peacock feathers. The satin gown was bright, dazzling scarlet, cut immodestly low—nothing I ever would have worn. I asked Esmeralda to take a bit of fabric from the hem and create a small pocket—‘as you did for my stiletto.’ She complied without question; nor did she say a word as she helped me into the courtesan’s gown, then watched me tie the mask in place, and cover myself with the black cape. Once I drew the hood over my hair, and spread open the peacock fan to hide my lips and chin, my disguise was complete. Only one thing remained: I slipped the vial containing the rest of the canterella into my gown.

Jofre gaped at me with open lust; I was at once flattered and jealous, for his reaction reminded me of all the whores he had taken during our marriage. I stifled my anger and proffered him my arm.

‘Let us walk together, Don Jofre,’ I said coyly. ‘I am of the mood to take the night air of Saint Peter’s piazza.’

He tried to smile, but was too sick with fear; I noticed that he carried his dagger that night, sheathed at his hip, in case our efforts again failed. I held his arm tightly, comfortingly, as we walked out of the unguarded, silent Castel Sant’Angelo.

Given the gravity of what I was about to do, my senses had the peculiar keenness I had experienced during madness: each step Jofre and I took rang and echoed with excruciating intensity. There were few passers-by on the bridge, no doubt because most were at home, afraid of the crime and unrest prompted by the death of a pope. I watched the faint lights from the palazzos and the boats play off the dark waters of the Tiber; never had it smelled so swampish and foul, so redolent of a decade’s worth of rotting flesh.

Once we crossed the bridge, we entered Saint Peter’s square. The year I had come to Sant’Angelo—the year of Jubilee—it had been filled to overflowing with pilgrims; now it was empty, save for a few stragglers.

My heartbeat quickened as we approached the Vatican gates, where tired, surly-looking young soldiers eyed me warily; there were fewer now than there had been at morning. My grip on my fan tightened; I held it closer to my face. But upon recognizing Jofre, the guards immediately bowed and opened the gates without a challenge.

For the last time I ascended the steps to the papal palace.

It pained me to move through those familiar halls; the air was heavy with treachery and grief. When I entered the Borgia apartments, the surfeit of gilding and decoration no longer seemed breathtaking or glorious, but sinister.

I passed the Hall of the Sibyls, scrubbed clean of blood and restored to its previous luxury since I had last seen it; I averted my eyes, and summoned all the coldness in my heart.

‘In here,’ Jofre said, and led me to the Room of the Saints, the scene of much celebration. Now it had been turned into a hospital of sorts. A great bed with a canopy had been brought in; tables held basins of water and cloths, as well as flasks of water and wine, a goblet, and medicines. True to Jofre’s word, Alexander had been abandoned save for Gasparre, who sat sleeping in a chair at the pontiff’s bedside.

In the middle of the bed—beneath the brilliantly coloured fresco of Lucrezia as the sagacious Saint Catherine—lay the Pope. His skullcap had been removed, revealing a bald crown and a fringe of dishevelled white hair as fine and downy as an infant’s. He wore only a linen nightgown; sheets had been drawn up to cover his spindly legs and half his round, protruding stomach. He too dozed, though his eyes were slit open; the lids were puffed and blackened; his complexion was grey, and his cheeks sunken, giving him a skeletal appearance.

I let go of Jofre’s arm. He went over to Gasparre, put a hand on his shoulder to rouse him, then whispered something in the startled chamberlain’s ear. I know not what he said; I was only grateful that my husband’s lie worked, for Gasparre rose and left the room.

I turned to Jofre. ‘Husband,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you went, too.’

‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘I will see you safely out of here.’

I went over to the table and set down my fan, then poured a small amount of wine into the goblet. While Jofre watched the entrance, I withdrew the green vial, and poured half its contents into the liquid, then swirled it. It was a massive dose, enough for fifty men, but though I was cold enough to commit murder, I was not cruel. I desired that Alexander go quickly, not that he suffer.

When I was satisfied it was ready, I nodded to my husband.

He moved away from the door, sat on the edge of his father’s bed, and put a gentle hand on the old man’s arm. ‘Father,’ he said.

Alexander’s eyelids flickered; he gazed up at his averred son in confusion. ‘Juan?’

‘No, Father. It is I, Jofre.’ Tears gathered in my husband’s eyes; his face contorted with sudden grief. Holding the goblet, I moved behind him.

Alexander blinked and recognized me at once despite the mask that hid the upper half of my face. ‘Sancha?’ His voice was weak, reedy, but held a trace of good humour; he seemed pleased to see me. ‘Sancha, you have come to visit…Is it the season for Carnival already?’ It was as though he had forgotten my brother’s murder and my imprisonment. He spoke to me as he would have to Lucrezia, seeking feminine comfort. ‘Sancha, where is Juan?’

I stepped in front of my husband. ‘He sleeps, Holiness. As you should, too. Here. This will help.’

I held the cup to his lips; he drank, coughing at first, but then recovered, and managed to take several swallows. As I pulled the goblet away, he grimaced. ‘It is bitter.’

‘The most efficacious medicines always are,’ I replied. ‘Now rest, Your Holiness.’

‘Tell Jofre to stop that crying,’ he said peevishly, then sighed and closed his blackened eyelids.

With the back of my hand, I reached down and stroked his weathered cheek. The skin was soft, thin as parchment.

I sighed, too, and with the outflow of breath came a long, piercing pain in my breast, like someone withdrawing a sword. I knew then that I need accomplish no more: the canterella and I had both served our purpose.

‘It is done,’ I whispered to Jofre. ‘Without him, Cesare has no power. We can go.’

But Jofre took the sleeping pontiff’s hand and said, ‘I will stay with him.’

I kissed his head in reply, and left him there. I had intended to return at once to the Castel Sant’Angelo…but strangely, my feet sought a familiar path, up the stairs, on a journey I had made surreptitiously, at night, so many years before—to Cesare’s apartment.

The doors to both the inner and outer chambers were open. I kept the fan close to my face; I expected to confront Micheletto Corella there, and had prepared the alibi that I was a courtesan friend of Cesare’s, so enamoured of him that I had to reassure myself he would recover.

But the suite was empty, save for the man upon the bed. Corella, fittingly, had deserted his master.

Cesare was naked and moaning, his long legs and torso tangled up in the linens; his feet were dark purple, swollen to almost twice their normal size. A single taper burned on the nearby table, but even that feeble light pained him; he squinted and clutched his head in agony.

I entered silently and stood before the bed, uncertain why I had come. I had never seen the man so helpless, or deserted; either servants or Corella had taken advantage of his condition, for his tapestries, fur rugs and gold candelabra were all missing. Any item of value, in fact, had been taken; only the gilded ceilings and frescoes remained. Yet I felt no pity…only amazement that I had ever loved a man so wicked, amazement that I had been so fooled.

At last his tortured gaze—black, shadowed eyes in a ghastly white face, framed by dark hair hanging in damp, tangled strands—fell on me. He struggled to cover himself, to regain some dignity despite his weakness; he tried to lift his head and failed. I understood why it was not necessary to kill him: it was greater torment for him to survive, stripped of power. Without the backing of the papacy, none would remain loyal to him. With his cruelty, his treachery towards his own men, he had hanged himself—just as surely as King Alfonso II had swung from the great iron sconce in Sicily.

‘Who are you?’ he rasped.

I spoke from behind the fan, my voice muffled. ‘You are undone,’ I told him. ‘Your father is dead.’

He let go a groan—not of grief, but of great inconvenience.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded again. ‘Who speaks?’

I lowered my fan, drew back my hood, and lifted the mask to fully reveal my face; I showed him a regal haughtiness worthy of my father at his coronation. Bereft of supporters, he was no more than a whimpering coward.

‘Call me Justice,’ I said.

I moved swiftly down the staircase and returned to Jofre; he sat, shoulders slumped with guilt and grief, beside the motionless form of the Pope. I glanced at Alexander: his eyes were half-open now, dulled and sightless, fixed on a far-distant spot beyond the walls; his lips had been forced open by his violet-black, swelling tongue. His great broad chest had at last fallen still, and rose no more.

Around us, two servants—a man and a woman—were busily stuffing exquisite gold-threaded tapestries into a sack; others, I knew, would soon join them, and Alexander’s quarters would soon be as bare as Cesare’s. Yet neither I nor my husband made any move to stop them.

I took Jofre’s hand. His own remained limp; he did not return my grip, and I let his fingers slip away from mine. He spoke in a tone devoid of feeling, his gaze fixed on the body of the man who for so many years had owned him as son. ‘Gasparre has gone to tell the cardinals, and make preparations. Someone will come to wash him, then take him for burial.’

I stood silent for a time, then said gently, ‘I am going home.’

He grasped my tacit meaning and turned his face away. I understood from the gesture that he had decided to return to Squillace; from that time on, we would live apart. He was not strong enough to remain with the one who had lifted the final dose to his father’s lips, not strong enough to live in the presence of our shared guilt.

I leaned down, placed a gentle kiss upon his head, and left him.

By the time I arrived once more at the Vatican gates, most of the guards had fled; those few who remained let me pass without jeering. An odd silence fell over them at the sight of me, as if they sensed my power.

I walked through the gates onto the cobblestone piazza of Saint Peter, unafraid of the darkness despite being a woman unarmed. My spirit felt light—like Rome, the Romagna, the Marches, finally free of the Borgia curse. My brother’s ghost had been avenged, and could rest at last. Ironically, Cesare had finally given me those things he had promised in the heat of love: my native city and a child.

In the distance, on the other side of the Tiber, stood the Castel Sant’Angelo, with the Archangel Michael spreading his wings over the stone keep; several of the tiny windows—those of Cesare’s madwomen—glowed yellow. I smiled, knowing that Rodrigo and Donna Esmeralda awaited me there.

Behind me, the bells of Saint Peter’s began their dolorous toll.

I stepped onto the bridge and crossed the dark river; this time I smelled only sweet brine. My heart was already in Naples, where the sun gleams off the pure blue waters of the bay.