The Borgia Bride

XXI

That night I sent Cesare a note saying I was ill. I was indeed sick of spirit; my instinct, that Cesare had disbelieved me because he was capable of treachery, had been correct. But I had never imagined the depth of his duplicity: he had spoken with such hurt, such outrage, of his father’s incest with Lucrezia, even while he was guilty of the same. Nothing Cesare had ever said could be believed.

Now, Alexander had been duped into believing Lucrezia’s child was his-when in fact, it was her brother’s. One thought repeated itself endlessly in my mind, as I stared from my balcony at the dark gardens:

What sort of monstrous family is this?

I could trust none of them; even my feelings toward Lucrezia became guarded. While she might have honestly liked me, and begged her brother to show me kindness, her notion of love and loyalty was twisted beyond comprehension. She had urged me to reconcile with Cesare even though she intended to remain his paramour.

I was so filled with grief that night, so near madness, that I clutched the vial of canterella in my hand and considered whether I should swallow its contents. I hated Cesare with my entire soul…and at the same time, I remained fearfully, violently in love with him. The realization filled me with hopelessness. How had I failed to detect his treacherous nature? Surely there must have been signs-a faint coldness in the eyes, perhaps, a fleeting cruelty in the lips…Of all people, I should have seen them, for I had found them before, in my own father’s eyes and lips; and though they were not outwardly visible in Ferrante, I had sensed them in his evil heart.

I left the balcony and stole silently through the bedchamber, where Esmeralda slept, out into the antechamber. There, carefully making my way in the darkness, I poured myself a goblet of wine, and with trembling fingers, struggled to open the glass vial.

An image, as if from a dream, coalesced before me in the shadows: my father’s body, hanging from a great wrought iron sconce, with Messina’s harbour as its backdrop.

My lips tightened; I straightened, and looked down at the vial with disgust. I swore to myself at that moment that nothing, no one-certainly not Cesare Borgia-would ever provoke me to take my own life. I would never become the coward my father had been.

For the rest of the night, I sat on the balcony, and cursed myself for not being able to control my feelings for Cesare. I knew not how long they would persist-but I was determined, for however long I lived, never again to indulge them.

In the morning, at first light, I wrote him a letter stating that, given the rumours surrounding ‘family members’ at the Vatican, it was best that we halt our trysts-at least for the time being, in order not to add to talk of scandal. I had Donna Esmeralda deliver it to one of his attendants.

He did not respond, in person or by letter; if he was wounded by my request, he did not show it in public, but treated me civilly.

For the next two days, I did not appear at the family suppers, and turned down Lucrezia’s invitations to visit her. I could not bear to see her after learning what she knew. I lay abed during the days, though I did not sleep. Nor did I find rest at night; instead, I sat outside in the darkness, staring out at the starlit sky, wishing for an end to my pain.

I continued such self-indulgent behaviour until, in the late hours, Donna Esmeralda emerged onto the balcony in her nightgown.

‘Donna Sancha, you must stop this. You will make yourself ill.’

‘Perhaps I am already ill,’ I said carelessly.

She frowned, but her expression remained one of maternal concern. ‘You worry me,’ she said. ‘You act like your father did, when the times of blackness came over him.’

And she disappeared back into the bedchamber.

I stared after her, thunderstruck. Then I looked back at the sky, as if searching for an answer there. I thought of Jofre, my husband, a person to whom I owed amends. Perhaps he was weak in character, but he remained sweet-natured in the midst of wickedness, and unlike his so-called brothers, wished no one harm. He deserved a good wife.

I thought also of Naples, and of those I loved there.

At last I rose. I did not go to the bed with hopes of sleep, but instead went out to the antechamber and lit a taper, then found quill and parchment.

Dear Brother,

It has been far too long since I have heard from you about life in Naples. Tell me, please, how you and mother are faring. Spare me no detail…

With regard to Juan, Cesare had been right in saying that it would not take long before he created an opportunity for the family to be rid of him.

Only a few days after I sent Cesare the letter saying we should no longer meet, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza-brother of Ludovico Sforza, ruler of Milan, of relation to the maligned Giovanni Sforza-gave a great reception at the Vice-Chancellor’s Palace in Rome. Many distinguished guests were invited. Lucrezia was still closeted at San Sisto, but Jofre begged me to attend with him. Wanting to be an obedient wife, I agreed-even though the guest list included two men I wanted to avoid-the Duke of Gandia and his brother, the Cardinal of Valencia.

The Vice-Chancellor’s Palace was undeniably grand: the estates were so large that we were obliged to ride up to the entry in carriages, and we entered the Great Hall-larger by thrice than the Castel Nuovo’s-announced in turn. We Borgias arrived together, and were presented in order of our importance to the Pope: Juan first, removing his feathered cap and waving it at the crowd to the sound of cheers for the Captain-General; then Cesare, silent in black; and at last Jofre and me, the Prince and Princess of Squillace.

The surroundings were breath-taking; a large, three-tiered indoor fountain had been created. It was bordered by hundreds of flickering candles, whose light painted each drop of water golden. The floors were festooned with rose petals, perfuming the air; this effect was outdone only by the aroma of the food, borne on golden trays by servants. So vast was the room that even the large white marble statuary-of glorious naked men and women, apparently ancient Romans-seemed small in scale.

I summoned unfelt smiles and greeted those dignitaries I already knew, and let myself be introduced to those I did not. Mainly, I did my best to avoid Juan and Cesare.

As I strolled arm-in-arm with my husband through the assembly, we were met by Giovanni Borgia, the Cardinal of Monreale, who had witnessed our wedding night. The cardinal had grown even portlier, and the fringe of hair beneath his red skullcap had turned almost completely to grey, but his fingers sparkled as always with diamonds.

‘Your Highnesses!’ he cried, with an enthusiasm that reminded me of his cousin Rodrigo. ‘How good to see you both!’ He slyly scanned my bosom, then winked at Jofre and nudged him with an elbow. ‘I see the roses are still blooming.’

Jofre laughed, a bit embarrassed by the reference, but replied, ‘She has become even more beautiful, has she not, Your Holiness?’

The cardinal grinned. ‘She has. And you, Don Jofre, have become a real man…no doubt because you have a real woman for a wife.’

I smiled politely; Jofre chuckled again. We were on the verge of moving on through the group to acknowledge the others when Cesare-much to my dismay-joined us.

‘Don Giovanni,’ he said warmly. ‘You are looking as hale and hearty as ever.’

The Pope’s nephew smiled. ‘Life agrees with me…as I can see it does with both of you brothers. But Jofre’-his tone lowered and grew conspiratorial-‘feed your wife some delicacies. She has grown a bit thin. Are you riding her too hard, my boy?’

Taken aback, Jofre opened his lips to reply; fortunately, the cardinal was at that moment distracted as our host, Ascanio Sforza, called to him.

My husband looked at me; he had been concerned for my health of late, kind and solicitous. ‘I shall do that,’ he declared. ‘Let me find a servant to fetch you some food.’ And he was off, leaving me alone with Cesare.

I tried to wander towards another group, but Cesare blocked my path, forcing me to stand alone with him.

‘Now it is you who are unkind to me, Madonna,’ Cesare said, his tone that of the pining lover. ‘I understood your letter, and appreciate your desire for discretion, given the circumstances with my sister, but-’

I interrupted him. ‘It is more than that. Juan spread rumours about us; we must do what we can to dispel them.’ I tried to keep my expression controlled; I fought to pretend that I was doing this for our good, and not because I despised him.

Yet at the same time, another part of me yearned for him-a fact that filled me with shame and self-loathing. I looked upon him, so handsome, so self-possessed, so elegant and so evil.

He took a step closer; instinctively, I moved back, thinking of him winding his arms about Lucrezia’s waist and proclaiming, And you shall be my queen…

‘If there are already rumours, why should we suffer? Why not go on as we had before? We have had only one night together since our reunion…’ He paused to lower his face, then let go a sigh and lifted it again. ‘I know you are right, Sancha, but it is so difficult. Give me hope, at least. Tell me when I can see you again.’

Blessedly, Jofre was returning; I turned eagerly towards my husband as he proffered me a plate of sugared almonds and sweetbreads. I addressed myself to the food and did my best to avoid Cesare’s gaze.

As I ate, our attention was drawn by a loud, drunken shout from another corner; I recognized the voice as we all turned towards the source of the disturbance.

‘Behold the lounging gluttons!’ Juan slurred. Accompanied by one of his captains-who at the moment, was trying to quiet him-he gestured extravagantly at one of the guests: the corpulent Antonio Orsini, a relative of Giulia’s husband and also of Cardinal Sforza. Orsini sat at a table beside his plump wife and two sons-both bishops-and was, at that instant, stuffing as much as he could of a roast duckling into his mouth. He was exceedingly rotund-so much so his hands could scarce clasp each other atop his huge belly; his face, puffed and fleshy, possessed no fewer than three folds beneath his chin, which even his dark beard could not hide.

‘Perhaps, Don Antonio,’ Juan called, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the entire assembly, ‘if you did not linger over-long at the tables of your wealthier relatives, you would not be so fat!’

Some snickered.

Don Antonio set down the remaining piece of cooked flesh and waved his thick, grease-coated fingers dismissively. ‘Perhaps, Don Juan, if you did not run so swiftly from your enemies, you would not be so lean.’

Many in the crowd oohed.

Juan drew his sword and staggered towards his mocker. ‘You shall pay dearly for your insult, sir. I would challenge you to a duel-but, being a gentleman, I cannot take advantage of one so grotesquely incapable of physical exertion.’

Don Antonio rose and stepped forward; even this slight effort left him short of breath. ‘I am perfectly capable of responding to your challenge, sir-but you are no gentleman. You are nothing more than a coward and a common bastard.’

Juan’s eyes narrowed with rage-the same uncontrolled fury that had once been directed at me. I expected him to lash out; instead, white-faced and speechless, he whirled on his heel and strode from the palace.

Orsini laughed loudly. ‘As always, a coward. See? He runs again.’

Ascanio Sforza, eager as a host to ease any unpleasantness, signalled for the musicians to play. Dancing commenced; I received several invitations, but refused them all. Soon I whispered to Jofre that I was tired and wished to return home. He sought Cardinal Sforza, that we might make our farewells.

But we were interrupted by a loud commotion at the chamber entrance: to the assembly’s amazement, a contingent of a dozen armed papal guards marched inside, swords drawn, their expressions menacing.

‘We seek Don Antonio Orsini,’ the commander announced.

Cardinal Sforza rushed forward. ‘Please, please,’ he told the commander. ‘This is a private residence, and a private dispute between two guests-and a minor one at that, provoked by wine. There is no call for such an extreme response.’

‘I am here at the pleasure of His Holiness, Pope Alexander,’ the officer replied. ‘Both the Captain-General and His Holiness have been slandered. Such a crime cannot be overlooked.’

He led his troops past the astonished cardinal; as the rest of us watched, they seized the hapless Don Antonio. ‘This is an outrage!’ he cried, as his wife wailed and wrung her hands. ‘An outrage! I have done nothing for which I can be imprisoned.’

But taking a prisoner was not the soldiers’ intent. Instead, they dragged their victim outside onto the estate grounds, where a pair of their fellows had already secured a length of rope to an ancient olive tree. Two large torches burned on either side: this event was intended to be witnessed. We guests followed, stunned.

At the sight of the noose that awaited him, Don Antonio fell to his knees and let go a shriek. ‘I apologize! Please, enough! Tell the Captain-General I beg his forgiveness, that I shall make whatever public apology he wishes!’

This will certainly stop this foolishness, I thought. But the commander said nothing, merely nodded to his troops. Don Antonio was prodded, moaning and trembling, to his doom. With difficulty, the soldiers helped him up onto a footstool beneath the tree.

Even to the last instant, I did not believe it would happen; I think none of us did. I clutched Jofre’s arm, Cesare at my other side. We three stared, transfixed.

The noose had to be loosened to slip around Don Antonio’s thick neck; he sobbed shamelessly as it was retightened.

Abruptly, the commander gave the signal for the stool to be kicked aside.

The crowd gasped, disbelieving. Only Cesare made no sound.

Don Antonio swung before us in the cool night air, his eyes wide, bulging, lifeless. So silent did our gathering become that for a time, the only sound was the creaking of the branch as the heavy body swayed back and forth.

I looked away-at Jofre first, whose gentle features were frozen in an expression of pure horror. And then I glanced at Cesare.

The cardinal’s gaze was intent, pensive, that of an ambitious mind at work. He was staring directly at Don Antonio’s body-yet he saw right through it, at an opportunity that lay beyond.

A week after, in mid-June, when Lucrezia had been at San Sisto scarcely a fortnight, Vannozza Cattanei threw a family party in honour of her sons. Jofre and I attended, along with Cesare and Juan in all his arrogant glory, as well as Cardinal Borgia of Monreale.

The setting was outdoors, to take advantage of the lovely weather, in a vineyard Vannozza owned. A great table had been set up to accommodate us and our courtiers; it was adorned with flowers and golden candelabra, flanked by many torches-though the celebration began in the afternoon, it was intended to continue past nightfall.

I held Jofre’s arm as we were escorted onto the property. While he still indulged in courtesans and much wine, I turned a blind eye to such behaviour; instead, I focused on his goodness, and had decided to devote myself to pleasing him as best I could, for I knew not how else to give life meaning.

Once we had arrived at the party site, I was introduced to his mother for the first time. Vannozza was a handsome woman, auburn-haired and serenely confident; child-bearing had left her a bit thick-waisted, but she still possessed an attractive shape, with a full bosom and long, delicate arms and hands; her eyes were as pale as Lucrezia’s. Her face was Cesare’s-strong-jawed, with sculpted cheeks and a straight, prominent nose. On this day, she was dressed in dove grey silk, which accentuated her eyes and fiery hair.

I let go of Jofre’s arm and took Vannozza’s proffered hands; she studied me with a manner that was both calculating and warm. ‘Your Highness. Donna Sancha.’ We embraced, then she drew back to study me and waited until Jofre had moved out of earshot to say, ‘My son loves you very dearly. I trust you are being a good wife to him.’

I returned her gaze openly, sincerely. ‘I am doing my best, Donna Vannozza.’

She smiled with proud satisfaction at her three sons, as Jofre met Juan and Cesare and received a goblet of wine from a servant. ‘They have done well for themselves, have they not?’

‘They have, Donna.’

‘Let us join them.’

We did so. I noticed at once that Cesare was dressed, not in his habitual black priest’s frock, but in a magnificent scarlet tunic embroidered with gold thread; Juan was, as usual, dressed gaudily, in rubies, gold brocade and bright blue velvet, yet the Cardinal of Valencia looked far more striking.

I moved next to Jofre, and directed the requisite smile and nod at his two older brothers. ‘Your Holiness,’ I said to Cesare, averting my eyes as he kissed me on each cheek, as familial relations required. ‘Captain-General,’ I said to Juan. To my surprise, there was no gloating in the Duke of Gandia’s eyes, no challenge, no guarded anger; his kiss was polite, distant. He behaved as one who had been chastened.

I greeted the other guests. When the time arrived to make our way to the table, Vannozza took my arm and said firmly, ‘Here, Sancha. I have chosen the places for everyone.’

To my dread, she sat me directly between Juan and Cesare.

Fortunately, at the beginning of the dinner, we were all distracted by toasts, led by the matriarch, Vannozza. Juan was saluted first. ‘To the Captain-General,’ Donna Vannozza proclaimed, with gusto, ‘who shall bring us all peace and prosperity.’

This brought cheers from Juan’s grooms; he bowed grandly, like a gracious sovereign.

‘To the wise and scholarly Cardinal of Valencia,’ Vannozza proclaimed next. There were some polite murmurs, and then came the final toast.

‘To the Prince and Princess of Squillace.’ This was greeted with silent smiles.

Dinner, though interminable, did not go as badly as I had feared. Juan said not a word to me: he addressed himself to Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, who sat on his right. As for Cesare, he occasionally caught my gaze, his own dolorous, pleading. Once he tried to speak in my ear while the others were distracted, but I gently pushed him away, saying, ‘The time is not right, Cardinal. Let us not cause ourselves further pain by speaking of our situation.’

He pressed back, and whispered, ‘Look at you, Sancha-your face is drawn, you have grown thin. Admit it: you are as miserable as I. But I see how you cling now to Jofre; do not tell me you would let something as ridiculous as guilt destroy our love.’

I looked at him, stricken. I could not deny my sorrow-but its cause went far deeper than Cesare suspected. I turned from him.

We said nothing more to each other. At last the sun set, and the tapers and torches were lit.

It was at this time that a stranger joined our group, a tall, lean man, his face entirely covered by a ceramic mask painted brightly in the Venetian style. With holes for the eyes and a slit mouth, it displayed a solemn expression; its forehead was inscribed with the symbol of the scales. His hair and body were draped in a full hooded cloak, further hiding his appearance. Our visitor knew everyone in our group, and greeted them by name, but he disguised his voice by deepening it; intrigued, we tried to guess his identity. It was the time of Carnival, with many masquerade parties being thrown in the city; we all assumed our guest had come from such a function.

Vannozza welcomed him to the table, and the servants brought a chair for him; I was delighted when it was placed between me and Juan, further separating us.

Juan was quite taken by our surprise visitor, and spent a great deal of time questioning him in an effort to guess his identity. The stranger completely charmed him, for as the night wore on, the two put their heads together and I overheard them making plans for further adventure after the party. At one point, Juan left to relieve himself of an overabundance of wine, and Jofre and I chose to make our farewells and return home.

But before I stood, I turned to the unknown man beside me and asked, sotto voce, ‘I am leaving, sir. I am curious: will you confide in me your name? I promise, I will tell not a soul.’

He glanced over at me, and I saw an odd light flicker in the dark eyes behind the mask. ‘Call me Justice, Madonna,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘For I am here to put things aright.’

His answer evoked an odd chill in me. I regarded him in silence, then rose and hurried to my husband’s side. As we embraced and kissed Vannozza during our leave-taking, Juan returned to the table and decided it was time for him and his mysterious friend to go in search of amorous women.

As the two left abruptly, without saying farewell to their hostess, I turned and glanced at Cesare.

The cardinal was just lifting his goblet to his lips, but I could see his eyes. They were focused on Juan and the stranger, with the same detached intensity they had directed at the corpulent body of Antonio Orsini, swinging from the olive tree.

None of us-His Holiness included-noticed Juan’s failure to return the following morning. It was his habit, when he woke in a strange woman’s bed, to wait until cover of evening to return to the Vatican.

But evening turned to night. Jofre and I had been invited to sup with the Pope, and listened to Alexander’s worries. While we were at table, Juan’s captain appeared, and announced that the Captain-General had failed to attend to pressing business that day.

Alexander wrung his hands. ‘Where can he be? Why would he want to cause his poor father such worry? If something has happened…’

Jofre rose from his place and put a hand upon Alexander’s shoulder. ‘Nothing has happened, Father. You know how Juan is when he has found a new woman. He simply cannot deny himself another night of love…but I am sure he will return come morning.’

‘Yes, yes…’ Alexander murmured, eager to seize upon such comfort.

I said nothing, but could not erase from my thoughts the image of the masked stranger called Justice.

With His Holiness sufficiently calmed, we retired and went to our separate beds. Some hours later, I was summoned from sleep by an armed soldier and led to the Vatican. The Pope was not sitting on his throne waiting for the traditional greeting of a kiss on his slipper; he was pacing, glancing out the window at the torches in the piazza below. I did not know it then, but these were the Spanish guards, patrolling the streets in search of their missing commander. Jofre stood beside Alexander, trying to keep an arm on his restless father’s shoulder by way of comfort.

Only later did it occur to me that Alexander had not called on Cesare to console him.

‘What is it, Holiness?’ I asked; the situation did not lend itself to formality. ‘What has happened?’

Alexander turned his face toward me, his great, broad brow deeply furrowed. Unshed tears shone in his eyes. ‘Juan has disappeared. I fear the worst.’

‘Father,’ Jofre soothed, ‘you have made yourself sick with worry. Juan has simply forgotten himself with a woman-as I said, he will certainly be home by morning.’

‘No.’ Alexander shook his head. ‘I am the architect of this. I struck out foolishly at Ascanio Sforza’s guest-I should never have had him hanged. God is punishing me by taking my favourite son.’

To his credit, Jofre did not even wince at his father’s last two words.

A cold certainty settled over me. Juan was indeed dead, but not for the reason Alexander believed.

I struggled to find compassion in myself: Alexander had summoned me here for comfort. Lucrezia was no longer here to provide the soft, feminine presence that soothed his soul; and Jofre was gentle, unlike Cesare. How could I do what I had been called to do?

Following my husband’s lead, I set a hand softly on Alexander’s other shoulder. ‘Your Holiness, this is now in the hands of God. Worry is fruitless; we will know Juan’s fate when the time is right. Jofre is right: we must not be concerned until morning.’

He turned toward me. ‘Ah, Sancha. I am glad I called for you; you are most wise.’ He clasped both my hands inside his great ones. Tears spilled from his eyes onto my skin.

‘Perhaps we should pray the rosary for Juan’s sake,’ Jofre suggested quite seriously. ‘Whether harm has come to him or not, it can only do his soul good.’

Both the Pope and I regarded him with scepticism; I realized, studying Alexander, that he believed no more than I in the efficacy of prayer. Yet such was his desperation that he hugged his son. ‘You pray on my behalf, Jofre. My heart is too troubled, but it will do me good to hear you.’

Jofre gave me a questioning glance. I gave him a look that made it clear I did not wish to join him. Even if I had been a good Christian, I could not have engaged in the hypocrisy of praying for the likes of Juan; a part of me still desired revenge against the man.

Upon realizing that no one wished to join him, Jofre produced a rosary from his tunic-a fact that surprised me-and began to pray in all earnestness:

O Vergin benedetta, sempre tu

Ora per noi a Dio, che ci perdoni

E diaci grazia a viver si quaggiu

Che’l paradiso al nostro fin ci doni.

‘O blessed Virgin, always pray for us, that God might forgive us and give us grace to live so that we might be rewarded with heaven upon our death.’

The situation was too grim for me to show any astonishment, but I was surprised to hear my husband repeat the Vergin Benedetta preferred by the common people, rather than the Latin version, Ave Maria, gratia plenia, which had been approved by his own father as the ‘correct’ version. Unlike the Pope, Jofre apparently believed in God; the prayer had obviously been taught him by a pious servant, and he had chosen it over the one he had been required to learn during his study of Latin.

If Alexander noticed the difference, he did not show it; he walked back over to the windows and continued to pace.

Over and over, Jofre repeated the prayer; it has been said that Saint Dominic recommended one hundred fifty repetitions a day, and certainly, Jofre must have come close to it before he was interrupted. The soothing, monotonous sound of his chanting brought me and Alexander a measure of calm, for at last His Holiness came back to his throne and sat quietly.

Sadly, it was shattered by the appearance of one of the guards, his uniform smeared with blood. We turned to regard him with horror.

‘Your Holiness,’ he uttered breathlessly, and knelt to kiss the pontiff’s foot. Unable to speak, Alexander frantically gestured for the man to rise and give his report.

‘We have found the Duke of Gandia’s groom,’ the guard said, ‘in an alley near the Tiber. He has been pierced several times with a sword; he is dying, unable to give witness.’

Alexander put his head in his hands and slid from the throne to his knees.

‘Leave us now,’ Jofre commanded. ‘Come back when you have news of the Duke.’

The soldier bowed and left, while we two went to the weeping Alexander and tried to wrap our arms about him as he swayed in misery on the steps. I did what was expected of me, as a good daughter-in-law-yet I was surprised to discover that, at the same moment I despised him, I could not help feeling pity for the old man’s genuine suffering.

‘This is my doing, O God,’ he cried, in a voice so wrenching, so heartfelt I had no doubt it ascended straight to Heaven. ‘I have killed my son, my beloved son! Let me die now-let me die in his stead!’

His wailing continued onwards for an hour, until another papal guard entered the room, accompanied by a peasant.

‘Your Holiness,’ the guard called out. ‘I have here a witness who says he has seen suspicious activity relating to the Duke’s disappearance.’

Alexander seized control of himself with a will admirable to behold. He rose-refusing Jofre’s and my assistance-and with consummate dignity, went up to his throne and settled there.

The witness-a middle-aged man with a dark matted beard and hair, dressed in a torn, dirty tunic whose vile smell marked his profession as a fisherman-removed his cap and, trembling, ascended the steps to kiss the proffered papal slipper. He then descended and, twisting his cap in his hands, jumped when the Pope commanded, ‘Tell me what you have seen and heard.’

His story was simple. On the night Juan went missing, the fisherman had been in his boat on the Tiber, close to the shore. Half-hidden by fog, he watched as a man riding a white horse approached the river from an alleyway. This was not in itself cause for interest, but what caught the fisherman’s eye was the body thrown across the horse, carefully held in place by two servants. As the rider reached the river and manoeuvred the horse sideways, the two servants took the body and slid it into the river.

‘Is it under?’ the man on horseback asked.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ one of the servants replied.

But the body failed to cooperate; the servant had scarcely answered before the corpse’s cloak ballooned with air, and pulled the body back up to the surface.

‘Do what must be done,’ the lord commanded. His servants pelted rocks at the body until it at last disappeared beneath the Tiber’s black surface.

I kept my arms wrapped tightly around Jofre as he listened, horrified. As for His Holiness, he heard all of it with a hardened expression.

When the tale was done, he demanded of the fisherman: ‘Why did you not report this at once?’

The man’s voice trembled. ‘Your Holiness, I have seen more than a hundred dead men thrown into the Tiber. Never has anyone shown any concern over one of them.’

As astonishing as this statement seemed, I did not doubt its veracity. At least two or three murders were committed each night in Rome, and the Tiber was the favourite repository for the victims.

‘Take him away,’ Alexander ordered heavily. The guard complied, escorting the fisherman off. When they were gone, the Pope again buried his face in his hands.

Jofre traversed the steps up to the throne. ‘Papa,’ he said, encircling his father with an arm. ‘We have heard of a murder. We still do not know if it involved Juan.’

None of us dared mention that Cesare’s favourite horse was a white stallion.

‘Perhaps not,’ Alexander muttered. He looked up at his youngest son with a flicker of hope. ‘Perhaps all our grieving is for naught.’ He gave a tremulous laugh. ‘If it is, we must think of a terrible punishment for Juan, for troubling us so!’

He vacillated between hope and despair. So we remained with him another hour, until a third papal guard appeared.

At the sight of this soldier’s expression, Alexander let go a howl. Jofre burst into tears; for the dread in the young soldier’s eyes revealed what he had come to announce. He waited until the sounds of grief subsided enough for him to be heard.

‘Your Holiness…The Duke of Gandia’s body has been found. They have taken it to the Castel Sant’Angelo, where it will be washed for burial.’

Alexander would not be restrained, would not listen to reason: he insisted on going to see Juan’s body, even though it had not been prepared for viewing, because he would not believe his son dead otherwise.

Jofre and I accompanied him. We flanked him as we entered the room where the women were gathering to wash the corpse; they bowed, astonished at the sight of His Holiness, and quickly left us alone.

Juan’s body had been draped with a cloth; Jofre drew it back reverently.

The stench assaulted us at once. The body had been in the river a night and a day, at the height of summer.

Juan was grotesquely recognizable. The water had bloated his body to twice its size; his clothes were torn, his belly bulged out from beneath his tunic. His fingers were thick as sausages. It was hard to see him thus: swollen tongue protruding from between his teeth, eyes open, covered with a milky film, hair plastered to his face with mud. He had been stabbed repeatedly, drained of blood, his skin the colour of marble. Worst of all, his throat had been slit from ear to ear, and the gaping wound had filled with mud, leaves, and bits of wood.

Alexander screamed and collapsed. The combined efforts of Jofre and myself could not restore him to his feet.

Because of the heat, Juan was buried as soon as he was washed and redressed. The coffin was carried by members of the Duke’s household and his closest men, followed by a contingent of priests. Jofre and I watched from the papal apartments as the torch lit procession headed for the cathedral at Santa Maria del Popolo, where Juan was interred beside the crypt of his long-dead brother, Pedro Luis.

The Pope did not attend-but he cried out so loudly that Jofre and I could not hear the other mourners. We stayed with him that night-unable to convince him to eat, drink, or sleep-and we never made any comment, then or later, about the conspicuous absence of Cesare.