Rome, January 1497
I heard the news directly from Cardinal Valentino—one of the many advantages of working for his sister was that I was among the best informed in Rome. No matter who Madonna Lucrezia had visiting—family members, Roman nobility, churchmen or politicians seeking a favor from her or Giulia la Bella—I tended to be present in the room. I was, I had come to recognize with pride, one of her favorite maids, along with Pantasilea, the maid who dressed and undressed her each day.
Juan Borgia’s disastrous attempt to besiege the castle of Bracciano was well-known to all in Rome. The castle looked like to hold forever, until a man named Carlo Orsini arrived with Vitellozzo Vitelli—the latter a fearsome name well-known to most in Italy—to break the siege. Or so Cardinal Borgia was saying.
“And so the fool marched north to Soriano and met them in open battle,” he was telling his sister. “They had no prayer of winning, not with the enemy’s numbers and Juan’s incompetence. Poor Montefeltro has been taken prisoner, we have lost all of our artillery, and five hundred soldiers were killed.”
“What would you have had our brother do?” Lucrezia asked softly.
“He should have surrendered,” the cardinal said bluntly. “If he had half a brain in his head he would have known he could never win, and so he should have lifted the siege and come home. That would have been a far better outcome.”
“Is it not shameful, to give up like that?”
“Not if you are preserving yourself and your men and your arms to fight another day,” the cardinal replied. He snorted. “No doubt the worst part for Juan is that he took a wound to his pretty face.”
I could not help a small smile.
“Oh!” Lucrezia exclaimed. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll be fine. From what I hear, he’ll have not enough of a scar to ruin his looks, but just enough of one to make him look like an actual soldier,” Cardinal Borgia said sarcastically.
Lucrezia shook her head. “You should not gloat, Cesare. He is our brother; his failures are our failures. We are all one family. You should have been praying night and day for his success.”
Praying was the one thing Cesare Borgia likely did not have time for at night.
He sighed, looking chastened, no doubt in a way only Lucrezia could effect. “You are right, as always, dear sister. I pray the next time we must bring punishment to our enemies, Father chooses a more worthy instrument.”
Lucrezia glanced over her shoulder. “Maddalena, run and fetch us some wine, won’t you?” she asked.
I curtsied and left to do her bidding, letting the grin I had been hiding spread across my face.
Finally, Juan Borgia was reaping some of the evil he had sown. I had no doubt that God was punishing him for his pride, for his lust, for all his sins, which were legion. And I well knew what I would pray for that night: for Juan to continue to pay for each and every one of those sins.
Yet my smile was soon enough wiped from my face. As I served the wine, Cardinal Borgia barely glanced at me; and later, when he passed me in the hallway, he gave me no more than a distracted nod. No more kind words or laughter; no more inquiries as to my well-being. Not since Sancia of Aragon had come.