Father rose from the throne, his hands trembling as he took in those assembled in consistory. His face was pale and gaunt, and he had clearly lost weight in the few days he’d been shut up in his rooms. Still, he stood as tall as ever, and his voice, as always, commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
“The Duke of Gandia is dead,” he announced, “and nothing could have given us greater sorrow, for we loved him above all things. Had we seven papacies, we would give them all to have the Duke alive once more.”
He paused after this pronouncement. Shocked silence filled the room. “God has done this,” he continued, “perhaps to punish us for some sin, not because the duke deserved to be so cruelly killed. We do not know who murdered him and tossed him in the Tiber like so much trash. But we will find out. Rest assured, we will find out.”
After that, he seated himself, and the business of the consistory continued on as usual, with petitions and audiences and other church business.
Toward the end, the Spanish ambassador, Garcilaso de la Vega, approached the papal throne and bowed. “Your Holiness,” he asked, his voice ringing throughout the room, “can you put paid to the rumors that you blame the Sforza family for the murder of the Duke of Gandia? Specifically Giovanni Sforza and his cousin, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza?”
There were whispers throughout the room at this question, but not any true surprise. I had heard murmurings that the Sforzas were suspected of the murder; certainly they had no more cause to love Juan than anyone else, and what with Lucrezia’s impending divorce—now fairly common knowledge—it was not altogether out of the question that they might want to strike at us.
But according to the gossip Michelotto had brought me, the favored suspect in the streets and fine houses of Rome alike was me.
“I would assure Your Excellency that we know the Sforza family to be innocent of such a crime, whatever the gossip might say,” Father responded without missing a beat. “Lord Sforza is not in Rome at present and has not been for some time. And God and all the saints together forbid that we should ever entertain such horrible suspicions of Cardinal Sforza. We have always looked upon him as a brother, and he shall always be welcome in our presence whenever he sees fit to come.”
De la Vega bowed. “Well said, Your Holiness, if I may say so.”
Hushed voices broke out again among those assembled, and it seemed certain that this rumor, at least, had been put to rest. It had been some time since Ascanio Sforza had been comfortable in the halls of the Vatican, but I had no doubt as to why my father wanted to lure him back: he needed Sforza on our side in the matter of Lucrezia’s divorce.
After the consistory, I followed Father into his personal chambers. “We know for certain it was not the Sforzas?” I asked, careful to avoid any hint that I knew more than he did.
Father snorted. “Hmph. ’Tis a foolish rumor, which is why I put it to rest. They would have nothing to gain from it—quite the opposite. Ascanio Sforza knows his way back to power lies in working at my side once again.”
“And no doubt such a return to Your Holiness’s good graces can be bought at the price of a divorce from Cardinal Sforza’s cousin,” I said.
“Precisely. With the Sforzas looked upon with much suspicion by the rest of Italy after the French debacle, Ascanio and Ludovico cannot afford to lose the support of the Holy See by standing behind their cousin. They will tell him to do whatever we ask and hope that we will thank them for it.”
“Indeed,” I said. Lucrezia would be divorced and remarried before a year was out. “Let us give your verbal olive branch time to reach Ascanio’s ears. Then I shall send him a friendly letter inviting him to meet with me to discuss the matter at hand.”
Father smiled and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “An excellent plan.” He drew back and his face fell slightly, became haggard and a decade older in a mere moment, as though he had forgotten his loss for a few seconds only to have it come crashing back down upon him anew. “This business must proceed apace, but … Christ’s wounds, Cesare, I cannot rest until I know who killed Juan. I shall not.”
Father sent agents out into the city again, questioning people, scouring for any trace of who may have been behind Juan’s assassination. As the days passed and nothing was found, I grew more and more uneasy. Surely someday soon, someone would trace the murder back to Jofre. Or someone would come forward who had seen me. Then what?
My confession to Maddalena had lifted some of the weight from my soul, but not all of it. Not when my father could never know the truth.
As I was returning to my rooms one night, my father’s chamberlain approached. “Your Eminence,” he said, bowing, “His Holiness has sent for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Let me wash up quickly, and I shall attend him.”
“With respect, Your Eminence, I think you should come now,” the man said. “He is in quite a state, pacing his rooms and muttering. It is like it was in the days … right after,” he finished uncomfortably.
I frowned. “Very well,” I said. “I shall come directly.”
I followed the chamberlain back to Father’s rooms and stepped into his private sitting room, closing the door behind me. He looked up, startled, at the sound of the door closing. “Cesare,” he said. “You are here.”
“Father,” I said, taking a few steps closer. “What is amiss? Your chamberlain told me you were in a right state. It is late. You should get some sleep.”
“I cannot,” he said. “I cannot sleep, damn it. Do you know what happens when I sleep?”
I waited.
“In my dreams, every night, I see Juan,” he said, tears filling his eyes. “I see him standing at the foot of my bed, silent and pale, stab wounds and blood all over his body, his face. He simply stands there and stares. He does not speak, but he does not need to. I know what he means to say, what he would say if he could. He cannot rest until I find his killers. He cannot rest until I have punished those responsible. And because he cannot rest, I cannot rest.”
“Father,” I said, gingerly taking his arm, “these are ravings. Nightmares and evil dreams, nothing more. You need to pray, and sleep, and then you shall not dream such things.”
He wrenched away from me. “No! You do not understand, Cesare.” He began to weep. “My son, my son, they took my son! How could anyone be so filled with malice?”
I said nothing.
“You will help me, Cesare, won’t you?” he demanded, ceasing his crying. “You will help me find those responsible. I know you and your brother were often at odds, but he must be avenged, surely you can see that?”
When I spoke, I spoke softly. “That would depend upon whom would be suffering your vengeance.”
He froze, facing me, a look of almost comical horror and disbelief on his face. “You … no,” he whispered. “You … could not have. Tell me it isn’t true, Cesare. Tell me what they are saying is wrong, is spiteful rumor, nothing more.”
I bowed my head.
“Did you kill your brother?” he suddenly shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“I am responsible for his death,” I said quietly, “but I did not kill him.”
“What … what the devil can that possibly mean?” he demanded, sounding as though the very words were strangling him. “You are responsible … you … who killed him, Cesare? Who? Damn you, tell me!”
“I am responsible,” I said again. “That is all you ever need to know. You wished to know, so you might have peace? Now you do.”
He took a sudden step back, all color draining from his face until it was as gray as ash. “You … you are protecting someone,” he whispered. “Who?”
I said nothing.
“Who was it, Cesare? Who are you protecting?”
Still I did not respond.
He sank wearily into one of his large chairs. “Never mind,” he said. “Never mind. I do not want to know.”
The next day, Father recalled all his agents who were scouring the streets for any mention of Juan or his killers. I do not know what he thought, who he believed was behind it all, but he never spoke of it again.