I arose early one January morning and climbed up to the Terrazzo dell’ Angelo, to watch the sun rise over Rome and to pray in sight of the statue of Saint Michael. Since he had come to me in my dream, this had become my custom. It was as much comfort as I could find in these uncertain times.
I had yet to hear from Federico, though I had begun to hope he would find a way to get a message to me, or even come to the Castel after all. His was the face that now haunted my dreams, his fate the one I worried over most. The guilt that had slid into my heart with deadly aim that day outside the stables continued to fester. Federico and I might both be safe and together had I not been so selfish, so full of sin.
That is my fault. My fault. And there was nothing I could do but pray.
When I reached the terrace, I was surprised to find I was not alone; someone stood in my usual spot, gazing out over the Eternal City. When the figure turned to me, it was as though my dream had come to life in earnest, for before me stood Cardinal Cesare Borgia.
All thoughts fled as I stared at him in dumbfounded surprise, our eyes locked, before I knelt hastily. “Your Eminence,” I murmured, eyes cast down on the stone walkway beneath me. My heart pounded, racing with joy and delight. He was here! We were saved. “Forgive me; I did not expect to see you here.” But I had, hadn’t I?
“Rise, Maddalena,” he said, his voice low and intimate in the early dawn light. When I met his gaze again, he was smiling slightly. “You did not expect to see me up so early, or you did not expect to see me at the Castel Sant’ Angelo at all?”
“Both,” I replied. “I have been coming here many a morning, for quiet reflection and prayer. I have yet to find anyone else doing the same. And I thought … I assumed Your Eminence would remain at the Vatican with His Holiness.”
“His Holiness is here as well,” he said. “We arrived late last night.”
“And have you come to—” I broke off, embarrassed. Have you come to tell us we are saved, and can return to Santa Maria in Portico? I wanted to ask. But that was a silly question. The Pope of Rome and his son the cardinal need not come to the Castel Sant’ Angelo in person to tell the pope’s women they might go home.
But surely they—surely Cardinal Borgia—were here to liberate us?
My face flushed, and the cardinal looked at me expectantly. “Yes?” he prompted. “You may speak freely.”
My face heated even more. “I … I only meant to say … to ask if you have come to tell us we are saved,” I said at last. “Surely the pope has reprimanded the French king, and he will be leaving Rome soon?”
Cesare sighed heavily. “Would that that were the case, Maddalena,” he said. “No, sadly, we have come for no such happy purpose. The French king is as much ensconced in Rome, and in Italy, as he was before. His Holiness and I are now inmates of the fortress as well.”
I could feel my face fall, though I tried not to show my disappointment. How had my dream so misled me? Were not such dreams sent by the saints to guide us?
And had not Cardinal Borgia proven to be my savior before?
Listen to yourself, Maddalena, a small yet caustic voice within me chided—a voice suspiciously like my mother’s. The saints sent a heavenly portent in a dream to you, so lowly and unworthy a woman?
Cesare Borgia was only a man, after all, not an avenging angel. I would do well to remember that.
He seemed to correctly interpret my crestfallen expression, for he hastened to explain. “We have not given up,” he tried to assure me. “Neither I nor His Holiness nor Naples. We shall not let the French have Italy. This is simply a more … defensible and strategic position.”
He hesitated as he spoke the last words, almost as if he did not believe them. Yet I was more astounded that he felt any need to explain himself.
“Of course,” I said, hurrying to reassure him in my own fashion. “I understand. His Holiness is guided by God and Christ Jesus, and so will only do what is best for his people. For all his people.”
“Yes,” the cardinal said, though he sounded even less sure. “But I am glad to see you, Maddalena,” he said, changing the subject. “I had hoped you were safe with Adriana and Donna Giulia. You are looking well.”
Warmth spread within me at the realization he had been thinking about me, anxious over my welfare. “I thank you, Your Eminence. I am as well as anyone can be, under the circumstances.”
A smile, albeit brief, broke across his handsome face, and it dazzled me more than the sun then rising over the buildings and churches and fields of the Eternal City. For a moment, it was as if we were two equals, two friends. “I can certainly understand that,” he said. “Is there anything you want for, Maddalena? Anything you need?”
“I do not think so, Your Eminence,” I said. “Madonna Giulia and Madonna Adriana brought the best of their food stores and wine, and—”
“I did not ask about Giulia and Adriana,” he interrupted. “I asked if there is anything you want or need, Maddalena.”
I paused, taken aback. That Cardinal Cesare Borgia should concern himself with my desires … “Oh, I … Your Eminence is too kind, but…” I mumbled, bowing my head.
“Come, Maddalena,” he said, smile back on his face, and once again it was as though I were speaking to a friend, to someone comfortable teasing me and being teased by me in return. “Surely there is something I can do for you. To reward your staunch loyalty in serving my family.”
Before I could think better of it, my smile rose to match his, and I said, “If I were to be completely honest, Your Eminence, there is much I would do for some fresh cheese.”
He laughed brightly. “Fresh cheese? Then you shall have it. Surely the pope’s son can have some fresh cheese sent to the Castel Sant’ Angelo for a pretty maid with a smile like the sunrise.”
I was struck, almost physically so, by both the compliment and the way his words so closely mirrored my own thoughts of him. “Your Eminence is too kind, truly,” I said again. This time I met his eyes and widened my smile, letting him see how happy I was.
He closed the distance between us and took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “A man would do much more than fetch you some fresh cheese for that smile of yours, Maddalena,” he said. And, before I could summon a reply, he turned and was gone, descending the stone stairs back into the fortress.
I remained frozen there after his departure, my smile stuck to my lips, face upturned to catch the early rays of the wintry Roman sun. His words had warmed me more than any fire could on this winter day. His words that surely meant more to me than they did to him, to a prince of the Church, the son of the pope. A man of God, I reminded myself. A man who had risen high in the world and in God’s eyes and so was not free to treat me as a man treats a woman, a man whom it would be a sin to think of as a man. And I a betrothed woman!
Yet I could not bring myself to extinguish the flame beneath my breastbone. And so I had one more thing to add to the litany of guilt in my prayers.