I could not avoid Juan, much as I wanted to. Our mother invited us—along with several other Roman nobles and churchmen—to dinner one June night at her villa in the country. Despite Juan’s loud and largely false stories bragging of his exploits in battle, it was a pleasant enough night. I had not seen much of my mother of late, and it was a joy to speak to her at length, though she was much occupied by her guests.
“You are not working too hard, are you, Cesare?” she asked after the meal had ended. “I know you wish to be a help to your father, but you are making time to enjoy life as well, yes?”
I smiled, thinking of Maddalena. “I am, Mama. I promise.”
“Good.” She kissed my cheek, sighing. “I worry about you and your brothers, Cesare. And Lucrezia. Is she much upset about the divorce?”
“She is … coming around to the idea,” I said. Lucrezia had grown weary of trying to resist, and had ceased arguing. She was still not happy, but she would be once she had a new husband who could truly appreciate her—and his connection to the Borgia family. “You must come and visit her soon.”
“I shall. It has been too long.” She paused. “And what of you and Juan? Word in Rome is you are quite at each other’s throats.”
“They gossip about this?” Michelotto had either omitted this deliberately, or simply thought it beneath my notice.
“You know how Romans are, Cesare. And the two of you hardly make any secret of the enmity between you.” She sighed again. “It wounds me, my son. I am sure your father feels the same.”
“He does,” I said tightly. “But we are grown men, and Juan continues to make decisions I cannot help but despise. We are too different, Mother. I am sorry this pains you.”
“I can only pray someday you will both feel differently.”
“If God wills it,” I said, wanting to placate her.
She smiled. “My son, the cardinal. Who could have believed it?”
I laughed. “You doubted it? When it was what Father planned all along?”
“I suppose I should have long ago ceased to be surprised at the force of Rodrigo’s will,” she said. “But what is most important to me, my son, is this: are you happy?”
Happy. What was happiness?
Could I ever be truly happy watching Juan receive every accolade and honor—including our father’s highest regard—I had ever craved for myself? Could I ever be happy knowing the one woman I had ever loved had left me for him? Had betrayed me with him?
Could I ever be happy knowing I would never lead armies to victory in battle, as I was certain I’d been born to do?
I thought of Lucrezia’s smile when I came to visit her, the way she called me her favorite brother in the words of our native Catalan. Of the power I wielded with cardinals and statesmen and ambassadors. Of Maddalena and the pleasure she gave me, the way her touch could rouse me, and the satisfaction I got from pleasing her in return. And how, with her, I found more than simple physical release—there was an emotional one, too, a clarity when I was with her that I could not find anywhere else.
“I am happy enough,” I answered.
As dusk was falling, Juan and I rode back to Rome together, Michelotto a few paces behind us. “It was lovely to see Mother,” Juan said. “She is looking well.”
I was somewhat surprised at this overture of civil conversation from him, but mindful of my conversation with our mother, I decided to reverse my previous decision to ignore him all night. “She is indeed,” I said. “Country life suits her, though I miss when she was closer to us.”
“Who could blame her for escaping the stench of Rome in summer?” Juan asked.
“True,” I agreed. “She spoke of coming to visit Lucrezia soon.”
“Ah,” Juan said fondly, and I was reminded that, for all his faults, he did truly love our sister. “She will be pleased. I visited her yesterday, and she has been missing Mother.”
We rode through the streets of Rome, and when we reached the Ponte Sant’ Angelo—the Castel Sant’ Angelo looming above us in the growing darkness—Juan pulled up his horse. “This is where I leave you, Cesare.”
“What, here?” I asked. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve an appointment to keep.”
“Michelotto and I can ride with you, if you like.”
He laughed. “I am a man grown. I do not need my elder brother’s protection. And this is an appointment I must keep alone.”
“Do you truly think it wise to roam the streets of Rome alone at this hour? A man in your position, richly dressed, who clearly has coin on his person?” And given the number of enemies you’ve accumulated, I thought.
“I will be fine.”
“His Eminence is right, Your Grace,” Michelotto said, pulling up next to us. “At least return to the Vatican with us and fetch one of your men to go with you.”
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your concern, but I am late. I must be off.” Juan tipped his cap to us and rode off in the direction of the Jewish Ghetto.
Michelotto and I exchanged uneasy glances. “Does his foolishness know no bounds?” I asked.
“It would seem not.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Of course, my lord. Where do you suppose he is going?”
“To meet some woman, no doubt.” Suddenly I was struck with inspiration. I should follow and catch him in the act. It would be amusing, at least, to throw in Sancia’s face. “I’m going to follow him.”
“Is that wise, my lord?”
“Why not? I want to know what he is doing.” I turned my horse in the direction Juan had just gone. “Follow me at a distance. If he looks back he might get suspicious to see two men behind him. He may not look too closely at one.”
“Yes, my lord.”
I set off after Juan at a distance. He led me through narrow, twisting streets, until we were in the depths of the Ghetto, no place for a young nobleman after dark.
I soon lost sight of him, cursing myself for a fool. Michelotto caught up to me. “My lord?”
“Here,” I said, dismounting and handing him the reins of my horse. “Wait here. I will try to follow on foot.”
“My lord, I don’t know if—”
“Just wait here!” I called over my shoulder, walking off toward where I thought Juan might have gone.
I had walked perhaps two minutes when I heard a scuffle in an alley up ahead. I quickened my pace and turned down the alley toward the sounds.
I squinted against the darkness, barely making out the shadowy shapes of a few men. A struggle was ensuing.
I drew near cautiously, aware of the danger. This may have nothing to do with Juan. Yet as I got closer, the scene before me resolved itself. My body tensed.
A group of men, wearing dark cloaks and masks, had fallen upon Juan. They had pulled him from his horse—the beast had panicked and run off—and had borne him to the ground, where they were struggling to subdue him even as he shouted and fought to get away. But there were too many of them.
I saw a flash in the dim light as one of the men drew a dagger and I heard Juan’s scream as it was plunged into his flesh. The other men—I counted four total—had drawn their daggers and were stabbing them into whatever part of him they could reach.
One of the men shifted, and I saw Juan’s face, twisted with screams and crumpled in agony. He opened his eyes and saw me standing there, watching the horrific scene before me. “Brother, help me!” he called. “Please!”
I started toward him but stopped. I saw my mother’s face, pleading with me to end my feuding with Juan.
I also saw Juan mocking me, insulting me; Juan failing at every task set before him and being honored anyway. I saw our father beaming with pride at everything Juan said and did. I saw Juan trying to rape Maddalena. I saw Juan making love to Sancia, the woman I had thought I would love forever.
I saw Juan taking everything I had ever wanted for himself, as though it were his right. I thought about what it might be like if he no longer stood in my way.
Juan’s eyes, locked on mine, widened in shock and despair, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Brother! Cesare! Help me!” His cries were weak, and blood bubbled from his mouth, muddling his words. He began to choke on it.
I turned and walked away.