I waited in the antechamber, the attendees for the consistory gathering in the audience chamber next door. I had just removed my cardinal’s robes and hat for the last time and dressed in a rich doublet of black velvet trimmed in gold, with gray hose.
The day had finally come. I would go into the consistory and announce my desire to renounce the ecclesiastical state in favor of a secular one, with the blessing of His Holiness. Many of the cardinals had not wanted to attend, afraid of the political repercussions, particularly from Spain. The pope had been forced to write them, not so subtly commanding their presence. And so, at last, most were here. I would leave this room the Cardinal of Valencia and reenter it as the Duc de Valentinois. Or, as the Italians were already calling me, Duke Valentino. I would go to France, leave behind my family—and Maddalena, and damn me if she would not be the hardest to leave—and come back a married man, and a man with an army. I could wield power as I had always longed to, and all Italy would fear and admire me.
Yet I found myself remembering my mother’s words to me just after Father’s election: It is a simpler life that I would wish for my children, if it were within my power to wish anything for them … the day will come when you will remember my words and realize I was right.
And as I looked in the large Venetian glass mirror that hung on the wall, I saw that simpler life. One where I had not been born a Borgia, or to a family of any importance. I was a man who was free to marry Maddalena Moretti, a woman so good and kind and who soothed my heart and soul even as she excited my body. What more did any man need than that?
Perhaps my mother was right.
But then I blinked, and refocused on my reflection in the mirror, and that impossible vision was gone. Instead a secular prince looked back at me. The man I had always wanted to be. The man I had always been destined to become.
I had expected to feel pride as I looked at my reflection, once I’d removed my cardinal’s robes and donned the clothing of a warrior, of a prince. A feeling of satisfaction and even elation at having finally accomplished the one thing I’d always wanted. Instead I felt hollow.
Was this happiness?
Father did not choose you to be his general because he feels you are the best man for the task, a malicious little voice—one I had not heard in a long while—whispered. He chose you because you are the only one left. Because there is no one else.
I was getting what I wanted. Why wasn’t that enough?
Maybe it would be, once I had been received at the French court and had wedded and bedded my royal wife. Once I returned to Italy at the head of an army, bent on conquest. When I proved to the world, to my father, and to myself that I could be another Giulio Cesare.
Yet all I could see in the silvery glass was the pain of the past and the doubt of the present, of too many futures dreamt, both possible and impossible, and I could not tell the difference between any of it. I had not been chosen. Father had not chosen me. But did that matter? Truly? A man could take his destiny into his own hands and forge it himself, forge it in blood and fire and steel and ruthlessness. A man did not wait for permission to conquer.
This was what I had always wanted. I was happy. I would be happy.
Maddalena’s words returned to me. Forgive me, but you do not seem happy.
I was. I would be, even if I had to allow her face to fade to the back of my mind.
I would do what I had set out to do. What I was meant to do. I would do it no matter what it cost. Whatever the price, I would pay it.
I would show them all.
And what if you can’t?
My hand slammed into the mirror, smashing it into hundreds of shards that cascaded onto the marble floor. And as I looked down, I saw my reflection again, mingled with my blood. This time the reflection was shattered into pieces.
You were not chosen.