I thought I would never sleep that night, but after I sent Maddalena away I fell into a sleep from which I did not wake until morning. Once again she had soothed me and calmed my mind when I needed it most.
As I rose and dressed for the day ahead, I knew it would be much waiting: waiting for someone to ask what had become of Juan; waiting for someone to discover what had happened. I was not concerned anyone would know of my part—or rather, lack thereof. There were only two people who knew I had been there. One was dead and the other would not betray me.
It was not until evening that I received the summons I had been expecting all day. I went to the pope’s apartments and was admitted immediately.
“Cesare,” Father said, pacing in his private audience chamber. Burchard was present, as were a few servants. “I have heard something most disturbing.”
I made sure my face was neutral. “What might that be, Holy Father?”
“Two of the Duke of Gandia’s servants came to me,” he said. “They have not seen their master since yesterday afternoon. He never returned home last night and is nowhere to be found.”
“I trust they’ve checked his usual … haunts?”
“Yes, and he has not been seen at any of those establishments.” He looked questioningly at me. “Did you return to Rome with him from your mother’s villa? When was the last time you saw him?”
“We did ride back into the city together, and at the Ponte Sant’ Angelo he said he had an appointment to keep and insisted on riding off alone,” I said. It was the truth, after all.
“And you let him go off alone?”
I spread my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Michelotto and I both tried to persuade him otherwise, and suggested he at least ride back to the Vatican with us to get a guard to accompany him. But he insisted he was late and must go alone. How was I to stop him?”
“Hmph,” Father snorted. “At times I think that boy hasn’t any more sense than God gave a common rabbit in a field.”
Finally, we agreed on something where Juan was concerned. “He will turn up,” I offered. “Likely he is ensconced at the house of some Roman lady and can’t be bothered to stir forth or send word to his household.”
“Hmph,” Father said again. “No doubt you are right, though my understanding is that he has not needed to stray far from home in order to find such companionship.”
It was the first time I’d heard him acknowledge the affair between Juan and Sancia. “My understanding is the same,” I allowed.
“If you hear from him, let me know, won’t you?” he said. “I shall be sure to give him a good dressing-down when he returns, for worrying us so.”
I wondered whether Father would be quite so unsettled if I disappeared for a day, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. “Of course, Holy Father,” I said, bowing. “Should I hear anything, you will be the first to know.”
When there was still no trace of Juan the next morning, Father sent men to every corner of Rome to search and inquire. Michelotto reported that the city was buzzing with news of the Duke of Gandia’s disappearance. Shops had been closed and the Orsini and Colonna had fortified their palaces in the city, fearing violence would break out.
For the first time I pondered: who had arranged Juan’s death? Clearly he had been lured there so he might be assassinated, but who was behind it? The Orsini seemed likely. They had particular reason to hate our family after the military campaign that had been launched against them, and no doubt knew the best way to strike against Pope Alexander would be through his favorite son, who was certainly stupid enough to be led to his death. That the Orsini had the money, connections, and influence necessary to carry out such an assassination was not in doubt.
His body would be found eventually, I was certain. And my part in the matter would remain unknown. While many would likely suspect me of my brother’s murder, and while they would not perhaps be entirely wrong, I had not sent the hired thugs after him. That culprit would be found, and attention would be turned away from me.
I was a Borgia, and the pope’s son. What could truly be done to me?
On Friday afternoon, the members of the papal court were hastily summoned to the audience chamber. The pope’s agents had found a man who had seen something the night Juan had disappeared, and they were bringing him to the Vatican to make his report to the Holy Father in person.
The man looked nervous as he was escorted in before the papal throne, and after he paid the pontiff the proper respects, Father waved a hand eagerly. “They tell us you have news of the Duke of Gandia, good sir. Pray, tell us your name and what you know.”
“I am Giorgio Schiavi, Your Holiness,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I am a timber dealer, and many a night I keep watch on my wares as they are unloaded from the boats to prevent theft. That is how I came to be out on the Tiber on the night in question.”
“And what did you see?” Father pressed.
“At about the hour of two, I saw two men come out of an alley at the point of the river where refuse is thrown in. They looked around and retreated back down the alley. Two more men appeared, and when they did not see anyone, either, they signaled to their companions. A rider on a white horse came, with a body slung across the saddle behind him.”
There were gasps from those assembled, and Father’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of the throne. When he did not speak, the man went on.
“The horseman turned so the rump of his horse faced the river, and one of the men took the body by its hands, the other by its feet, and they flung it into the river. The man on the horse asked if the body had sunk, and they replied it had. Then saw what appeared to be the man’s cloak floating on the water. He asked what it was, and his companions said, ‘Sir, the cloak,’ and so the man on the horse threw some stones at the cloth to make it sink. Then they all retreated back up the alley the way they had come.”
Father’s face had gone white as a slab of marble. He was struggling for words. “Good sir,” I asked, “why did you not report this incident to the authorities as soon as you witnessed it?”
He bowed in my direction. “Your Eminence, in my life I have seen more than a hundred bodies thrown into the Tiber at that same spot, and no one had ever troubled themselves about any of them before.”
“Thank you for bringing this information forward,” Father managed, his voice sounding slightly strangled. He rose and looked over at his captain of the guard. “Captain. See that the river is searched. I want the fisherman, all the tradespeople with boats to be out searching the Tiber for the Duke of Gandia. Tell them there shall be a reward for whoever may find something.”
The captain bowed. “Right away, Your Holiness.” He left swiftly to carry out his order.
“You are all dismissed,” Father said abruptly, and left the chamber with me on his heels.
“You heard this man Schiavi,” I said, once we were safely in Father’s private rooms. “He sees bodies thrown into the Tiber all the time. We do not know that it was Juan.” Except it must be. Schiavi had seen four men, and one on horseback. I had seen four men setting upon Juan. No doubt the horseman had been waiting at another spot to help them dispose of the body and ensure the task was done. If I was right and the Orsini had ordered Juan’s murder, the man on horseback may well have been a member of that family.
Father turned to me, haunted and grief-stricken, as though he had seen something he could never forget. “But if Juan is not dead in the river, then where is he, Cesare?” he pleaded. “If he was alive and well, he would surely know by now that I am tearing the city apart trying to find him.” He shuddered. “If this body in the Tiber is not Juan’s, I am afraid it is only a matter of time before his body turns up elsewhere. And I…”
He trailed off and sank into a chair, burying his head in his hands. I sat beside him, in silence, ready to offer comfort, and all the while wondering if it would be better or worse if I told him the truth. At least then he would no longer need to wonder.
Before long Juan’s body was found. A fisherman pulled him up in his net, fully dressed, and with his purse containing thirty ducats still attached to his belt, making it clear that robbery had not been the motive for his murder. Whoever had hired these men for the deed wanted it known that Juan had not been a random target. A total of nine stab wounds were located on his body, from his head to his legs.
His body was taken to the Castel Sant’ Angelo to be washed and dressed, and Father locked himself in his rooms and refused to see anyone. Not even me. Maybe especially not me.