Rome, June 1497
Before long, all of Rome knew Sancia of Aragon and Juan Borgia were lovers. Michelotto said people gossiped about it openly in the streets. He heard no rumors of my and Sancia’s relationship, so at least I was spared the public embarrassment of losing my lover to Juan. That did not mean no one had ever found out; I knew servants gossiped, and there was no telling who might have heard, or seen us. But in the wake of this newest scandal surrounding the Borgia family, my name was not mentioned, and for that I was grateful.
However, even if I was not being laughed at, the same could not be said for Jofre. The entire city knew the cuckold’s horns had been affixed to his head, and by his own brother. Worst of all, Jofre knew. At least I had been discreet about bedding his wife, though this reasoning often proved cold comfort.
At one family dinner at the Vatican, the tension seemed obvious to all, save for Father. I did not deceive myself that he knew nothing of what was going on; he simply did not wish to acknowledge it. Sancia sat between Juan and Jofre and spent most of the meal speaking quietly to her lover beside her, the two of them giggling like country peasants in love. Jofre would try to win her attention every chance he could, and each time she responded perfunctorily to him and turned back to Juan, he looked as if he’d been slapped. Lucrezia, every so often, would glance at the two of them and purse her lips disapprovingly. She loved them both, but she too could not countenance the pain they were clearly inflicting on Jofre.
I sat at the table fuming, draining my goblet of wine nearly as fast as the servants could fill it, and for once I did not care if anyone noticed. Let them think I was angry on Jofre’s behalf—strangely enough, that was part of it—or let them guess the whole truth. It no longer mattered to me.
“I’ve two appointments to make in consistory tomorrow,” Father said one evening in early June. He had summoned me to his private apartments before I retired, and I had obeyed, hoping it would be a quick meeting. I had not been sleeping much of late, albeit for pleasurable reasons.
I had expected something like this. The consistory was to be secret, so no doubt he had something ambitious in mind.
“I am appointing you papal legate for the coronation of Federigo of Aragon,” he said, eyeing me with a pleased look.
I blinked in surprise. I had hardly expected this honor, being one of the youngest and newest cardinals in the college. But when had such a thing ever stopped Father?
Poor Ferrantino had recently died, quite unexpectedly, of an illness, and so his uncle Federigo had succeeded to the throne. Wanting no half measures or ambiguity should the French decide to invade again, Father had announced he would be sending a legate to Naples to crown the new king, making the blessing of the pope—and therefore God—on the new ruler unquestionable.
I was delighted to learn it would be me, once my surprise had waned. “You honor me, Holy Father,” I said, bowing my head. “I shall endeavor to represent the Holy See with all the honor and dignity it deserves.”
“I have no doubt,” he said.
“And the second appointment?”
“Yes,” he said. “I shall bestow upon your brother Juan the duchy of Benevento.”
In an instant, I had leapt from my chair. “The duchy of Benevento?” I demanded. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“I have not.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “I hope this is not the ‘honor and dignity’ with which you will be representing the Holy See in Naples, Cesare.”
But I would not be cowed by his scolding. “Father, believe me when I tell you that I say this not out of jealousy,” I said. Though what, indeed, had Juan done to deserve such an investiture? I wondered bitterly. But that didn’t matter; I needed to convince my father that he was making a grave political error. My initial response should have been a more measured one, but it was too late. “Think about it. Benevento has long been a papal fief, not in the keep of any one man or family. If you gift it to Juan, you will be seen as stealing it for the benefit of your family. No other pope has dared to give away the papal lands like this before. It will be a great scandal.”
“I am the pope. I can do as I wish with the lands in my keeping.”
“Not this,” I argued. “You cannot do this. Politically, it will be a disaster. Everyone will say we have reached too far. That we have risen too far.”
“We have risen far,” he thundered, drawing himself up to look at me eye to eye—as I’d entered my twenties, I had finally become as tall as he. “And shall rise farther. I’ll have none question our power. This is what my ascendency to the papacy has been for, Cesare. To make our family great.”
“They can question us, and they will,” I asserted. “Have you forgotten the ring of cardinals who allied themselves with the French, with the hope of dethroning you? Do you wish them to try again?”
“They would set themselves against God’s chosen over a parcel of land in the south of Italy?” Father asked scornfully. “To what end?”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Had he truly forgotten all the politics and scheming, the money changing hands that had put him on St. Peter’s throne? Not for the first time, I wondered if he had fooled himself into believing it had truly been God who put him there.
“To protest the overreaching of the papal power,” I said. “The papacy is not dynastic, and they will resist any attempts to make it so.”
He snorted. “That is precisely what we are doing,” he said. “We shall make of the papacy a Borgia dynasty. First it was my uncle, then me, and someday it shall be you.”
“Perhaps, but you cannot show your hand,” I said. “There will be outrage, and it can only be harmful to us.”
“Let there be outrage. Let them try to harm us.”
I threw up my hands in futility. “Has your foolish adoration of Juan so blinded you?” I exploded. “You would risk your position and the position of our family just to further ennoble him?”
“I risk no such thing!” he shouted. “You are once again blinded by your malice and petty jealousy.”
“Not this time, Father,” I shot back. “This time, you know I am right. You just cannot admit it, not to yourself, and especially not to me.”
I stormed from the papal chambers without waiting to be dismissed. Michelotto had been lounging against the wall outside, and he stumbled to attention as I came bursting out.
“Send a man to Santa Maria in Portico,” I told him tersely. “Have Maddalena Moretti come to my chambers directly.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.”
He peeled off to do my bidding—a more menial task than I usually entrusted to him, but he did not complain—and I walked to my rooms, slamming the door behind me when I reached them. I paced angrily in my bedchamber, the blood pounding through my veins, waiting for Maddalena to come to me.
And sooner than I would have thought possible, as though she had sensed my desperate need, there she was in the doorway. I stopped dead in my pacing and beheld her, her auburn hair tumbling loose about her shoulders, her cloak just barely closed over her thin shift. And I realized how much I had come to depend on her, as other men depended on alcohol or potions to dull their minds. She was the only thing that could take my mind from my troubles.
We did not speak, merely removed our clothes and fell to the bed together, where I lost myself in her, and enjoyed the losing.