The Borgia Bride

XXXIII

After Cesare left, I stood in the antechamber, too stunned and outraged by his deadly promise to move. Although my body remained still, my mind was active as never before. I knew beyond doubt that unless severe measures were taken, Cesare would kill my brother. I could no longer close my eyes to the truth and hope blindly for a happy outcome.

His words had an electrifying effect on my senses as well: I saw my surroundings with exceptional clarity, and for the first time, understood their significance.

This was the Hall of the Sibyls. On the walls before me, rendered in vivid crimsons, lapis lazuli and gold were the Old Testament prophets, most bearded in white, faces lifted towards Heaven, hands gesturing up at the judgment coming to strike men down.

Beneath them were the fierce-eyed sibyls, staring out at the same gathering doom.

I thought of Savonarola railing from his pulpit, calling Pope Alexander the Antichrist. I thought of Donna Esmeralda on her knees before San Gennaro, weeping because this was the year of the Apocalypse.

The face of one particular sibyl-she golden-haired and fair, not dark and veiled-caught my eye. In that instant, every word of the strega’s prophecy returned as if she had uttered it afresh, through the sibyl’s lips:

For in your heart lies the fates of men and nations. These weapons within you-the good and the evil-must each be wielded wisely, and at the proper time, for they will change the course of events.

And I had cried, I will never resort to evil! I had tried to convince myself once that the worst evil I had to face-one I had rejected-was marriage to Cesare Borgia.

The strega had replied calmly, Then you condemn to death those whom you most love.

She had shown me my fate again so clearly, the second time I had gone to see her. I had already wielded one weapon, she said; I had only to wield one more. I had always understood the meaning. I had simply not wanted to admit it to myself.

Standing in the Hall of the Sibyls, I realized that I had a choice. I could rely upon diplomacy, upon the Pope’s good graces, upon luck, upon the unlikely hope that Cesare’s threat had been empty, that he would not strike again.

And Alfonso would die.

Or I could accept the fact that destiny had placed in my veins the cold, calculating blood of my father and old Ferrante. I could accept that I was strong, capable of doing tasks that those with gentler hearts could not.

I made my decision then: for love of my brother, I chose to murder Cesare Borgia.

I moved about the rest of the day in a state of cold detachment, performing my nursing duties, smiling and talking with my brother and Lucrezia while I secretly pondered how best to move against the Captain-General.

Obviously, any attempt that could be traced back to us Neapolitans was out of the question, as was any that followed too soon on the heels of the attack on Alfonso; the Pope would be swift to blame my brother, and seize upon the excuse to have him executed. If my attempt failed, Cesare himself would do the honours. As much as I yearned to commit the deed with my own stiletto, as much as I yearned for vengeance to come quickly, subtlety was essential. We would have to wait. Best to strike when Alfonso was well enough to flee to safety.

The solution, I decided, was a hired assassin-one contacted through a series of channels, which would make it difficult for anyone to discover the source.

I did not even consider asking Jofre for help. As jealous as he might be of his older brother, he had neither the stomach nor the ability to hold his tongue. Nor did I ask Lucrezia, though she surely knew of such contacts; it was one thing for her to protect her husband, another to ask her to kill her brother. I did not want to test her loyalties too far.

There was one person who knew more people than any of us, who was tied to a network where she could obtain the most intimate knowledge of any event or person-and she was the only one whose integrity I trusted as much as Alfonso’s. She, I decided, would be the first link in my chain.

That night as Alfonso and Lucrezia lay sleeping near each other, I rolled gently onto my side and rose, then took a few steps over to the small mattress where a supine Donna Esmeralda slumbered.

I knelt beside her and whispered her name into her ear; her eyes popped open as she gasped and gave a start. I put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.

‘We must speak outside,’ I said softly, and gestured towards the doors which opened onto the small balcony.

Sleepy and confused, she nonetheless obeyed, and went out onto the balcony, where she waited while I closed the French doors silently behind us.

‘What is it, Madonna?’ she hissed.

I moved next to her, so close that my mouth grazed her ear as I whispered, my voice so low I scarce could hear my own words. ‘You were right that Cesare is evil, and the time has come for him to be stopped. Today, he told me outright that he intends to finish his crime-to kill Alfonso.’

She recoiled and made a soft sound of distress; I pressed a finger to my lips for silence.

‘We must be utterly calm about this. I am sure you know of servants who can contact someone…a man whose services we can buy.’

Her eyes widened; she crossed herself. ‘I cannot be a party to murder. It is a mortal sin.’

‘The guilt is mine alone. I am ordering you to do this; God knows you bear no blame.’ I paused. ‘Don’t you see, Esmeralda? At last, we are doing Savonarola’s work. We are stopping evil. We are the avenging hand of God against the Borgias.’

She grew very still as she contemplated this.

I gave her a moment, then pressed my case again. ‘I vow before God; I entreat Him. This blood is on my head alone, and no one else’s. Think of the sins Cesare has committed-how he murdered his own brother, how he has raped Caterina Sforza and countless other women, how he has brutalized Italy and betrayed Naples…We are not the criminals here. We are the instruments of justice.’

Again she was silent. At last, her expression hardened; she had made her decision.

‘How soon is this to be accomplished, Madonna?’

In the darkness, I smiled. ‘When Alfonso is well enough to make an escape. Let us say one month from this very day-no later.’ I knew that Cesare was bound by the same restrictions as I; if he attacked my brother again too soon, even if by surreptitious means, everyone would know him to be the guilty party. And Naples and Spain would raise an outcry so great that Alexander would not be able to ignore it.

‘One month, then,’ she affirmed. ‘May God keep us all safe until then.’

Two weeks passed; July gave birth to August. During that time, Donna Esmeralda made the necessary arrangements, though she shared with me no details, for my protection. A trusted maidservant retrieved a jewel from my chambers; this was used to pay our unknown assassin.

Despite the steamy Roman heat, Alfonso developed no infections, no fevers-the result of the fastidious nursing he received from me and Lucrezia. In time, the deep slash in his thigh healed well enough for him to walk very short distances; he spent much of his time walking to and from the balcony, where he stared out at the lush Vatican gardens. Eventually, we pulled cushioned chairs out onto the balcony, with ottomans so that he could prop up his wounded leg; he sat there often and took the sun.

He and I were sitting there one afternoon conversing; Lucrezia had yielded to stress and exhaustion and lay fast asleep on her little mattress back in the bedchamber. The sun was setting, sinking down between columns of clouds that glowed deep coral-red. ‘I was a fool ever to return to Rome,’ Alfonso admitted bitterly. His natural cheerfulness was a thing of the past; these days, whenever he spoke, there was a hardness in his tone, a note of defeat. ‘You were right, Sancha. I should have stayed in Naples and insisted Lucrezia join me there. Now we are all endangered on my account.’

‘Not Lucrezia,’ I countered wearily, ‘or little Rodrigo. The Pope would never allow harm to come to one of his own blood.’

Alfonso regarded me, his eyes filled with a hollow matter-of-factness. ‘The Pope no longer controls Cesare. You forget, he could not stop him from killing Juan.’

I fell silent. I had not shared with him the fact that I had set into motion a plot against Cesare’s life; he would never have approved. Only Esmeralda and I shared the secret.

One of the guards-quietly, mindful of the fact that Lucrezia was sleeping-stepped out onto the balcony and bowed to us. ‘Donna Sancha,’ he said. ‘Your husband, the Prince of Squillace, has asked permission to visit you. He waits now at the door to the apartment.’

I hesitated, uncertain, and glanced quickly over at Alfonso.

In all this time my husband had not communicated with me. I knew that he had not supported Cesare’s action-he doubtless deplored it. But I also knew that he was by nature reluctant to anger his older brother.

‘Search him,’ Alfonso ordered.

‘We have already taken the liberty, Duke,’ the soldier offered. ‘He carries no weapons. He says he merely wishes to be permitted inside to have a word with his wife.’

I rose, motioning for my brother to remain as he was. ‘I will speak to him.’

I left Alfonso and the balcony and passed noiselessly through the bedchamber into the antechamber. The latter was not as full as it had been in the first days after the attempt on Alfonso’s life. The Spanish and Neapolitan ambassadors had gone, leaving behind their representatives; but the Neapolitan doctors rested there, always on call.

As I approached the now-open doors, the guards blocking them parted so that I could see Jofre.

‘Sancha, please,’ he said, his expression forlorn. ‘May I see you for just a little while?’

‘Shall I come out?’ I asked. Alfonso was the target; I was not afraid for myself.

My question made Jofre visibly nervous. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It will be more comfortable for us in there.’ He nodded at the antechamber.

I considered this. For the merest instant, I entertained the thought that Cesare had sent his little brother in the role of the world’s unlikeliest assassin; then I dismissed it at once. I knew Jofre’s heart; it might often grow faint, but it was incapable of malevolence.

‘Let him pass,’ I told the guards.

Jofre entered and embraced me at once. His grip contained true passion and sorrow as he whispered in my ear, ‘Forgive me. Forgive me for not coming sooner. Cesare threatened to kill me if I came, and even Father forbade me to visit. I tried before, without success, but I was determined to see you.’

I drew back from him a bit and studied him. In his voice, his face, his every gesture, was nothing but sincerity, and I believed him.

Believed him, which was not the same as trusting him. He meant well, but was not strong enough to be allowed access to secrets. I resolved to say nothing of our plans to smuggle Alfonso to Naples as soon as possible, or of our secret correspondence with King Federico. Certainly I would never reveal to him my terrible plot against Cesare. But the concern in his eyes made me draw him further into the apartment, away from the eyes and ears of the guards and the ambassadors, past the sleeping Lucrezia, out onto the balcony where Alfonso sat.

‘Don Alfonso,’ Jofre said at the sight of him. ‘Dear brother, forgive me for the sins of my kinsman. It has been whispered often enough that I am not a true Borgia-no, do not protest, Sancha, I have heard all the rumours. Neither of my brothers was ever known for their kindness; they have insulted me mercilessly on that account. Perhaps it is just as well, for I want no blood in my veins capable of such a foul crime.’

Alfonso had stared at him with mistrust before he began his speech; but once my brother heard Jofre’s words, his expression softened, and he extended his hand. Jofre caught it and squeezed it firmly, then turned back to me.

‘Sancha, I have missed you so. I do not like being apart from you. I cannot stand to see you or your brother prisoners within your own home.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘What can we do?’

‘Cesare listens to no one’s counsel, of course. He continues to have nothing but contempt for me. I have tried speaking to Father, but it is of no use. In fact…’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have come to warn you.’

Alfonso snickered sarcastically. ‘We are quite aware of the danger that faces us.’

‘Hold your laughter,’ I said. ‘Let us hear what my husband has come to say.’

‘I wish to know nothing of your plans, to hear nothing of them,’ Jofre told us. ‘I have come only to tell my Sancha that I love her and will do anything for her; and I have come to tell you, Alfonso, what I heard my father say to the Venetian ambassador.’

Alfonso became immediately sombre. ‘What did you hear?’

Venice was a friend of Naples and enemy of France. ‘During an audience with His Holiness, the ambassador mentioned that he had heard rumours that Cesare was responsible for the attack on you,’ Jofre answered. ‘“Indeed,” Father said. “Well, we are Borgias. People are always creating idle gossip about us.”

‘To which the Venetian ambassador replied, “That is true, Holiness. But I am curious to know whether you believe it is merely a rumour…or a fact.”

‘My father’s face turned quite red at that point, and he demanded, “Are you accusing my son of attacking Alfonso?”

‘No,’ said the Venetian. “I am asking you whether the Captain-General did attack him or not.”

‘Finally,’ Jofre reported, ‘my father cried out in exasperation: “If Cesare attacked Alfonso, then certainly Alfonso deserved it!”’

We considered this for a long moment.

At last, my brother said softly, ‘So. Now we know where His Holiness stands.’

I felt a thrill of fear. If the Pope secretly supported Cesare and was merely pretending to assist Lucrezia out of a desire to manipulate her, then perhaps we could not afford to wait to assassinate Cesare. Yet if he were killed now, the Pope might well retaliate against my brother…It seemed an impossible situation.

‘I wanted you to know,’ Jofre said.

Despite my fright, I was impressed by Jofre’s loyalty. ‘What you have done took a great deal of courage,’ I told him. There, on the balcony, I kissed him put of gratitude.

He could not stay; I realized that his life might be at risk. I held his hand and escorted him back to the door, where we whispered our goodbyes.

‘I want only to be with you again,’ Jofre said. I did not hurt him by telling him the truth: that I yearned, not for him, but for Naples, and would never breathe easy again until Cesare was dead and Alfonso and I were home, truly home, by the sea.

Alfonso reluctantly told his wife what Jofre had relayed to us concerning her father. The news disturbed her greatly at first; but then, she admitted that she was not surprised by Alexander’s inconstancy.

Soon our secret arrangements with King Federico of Naples were confirmed: in the hours before dawn, Alfonso and Lucrezia would both be led by a contingent of our soldiers down to a rarely-used side entrance which opened onto an alleyway. The papal guards at that entry-men in the employ of the Pope, who might sound an alarm-had already been smuggled into our apartments by Lucrezia, who had shown them the incredible jewels from her collection, jewels which would be theirs so long as they held their tongues and cooperated. The nurse who cared for little Rodrigo-who spent his nights in the nursery, away from his parents-was allowed to have her choice of Lucrezia’s gems, and chose the most precious ruby. In return, she would bring the child to his parents on the appointed night.

Once Alfonso, Lucrezia and child were outside the Vatican, a group of two dozen armed Neapolitan men would be waiting with horses and a carriage, and escort them out of Rome before Cesare or the Pope discovered their disappearance.

I had already resolved to go with them and to take Donna Esmeralda with me, though I said nothing of this to Jofre.

The escape was planned to take place in a week-assuming Alfonso continued to improve.

As hopeless as I had felt, being confined to a single suite in the Vatican, surrounded by guards and constantly fearing for my brother’s life, the realization that our imprisonment would soon end buoyed my spirits. Lucrezia’s mood, too, began to lighten as the time approached, especially as it became clear that Alfonso would be well enough to travel.

I stared often at the portraits of the sibyls, especially the one with the hair of gleaming gilt. She scowled fiercely, her forbidding gaze focused on a distant, terrifying future.

In the interim, we were, visited by the Venetian ambassador himself, who confirmed the story Jofre had told us. He kindly offered his assistance; we thanked him, and said we would call upon him when the need arose.

No doubt his presence in our chambers prompted concern in His Holiness, for Lucrezia was soon summoned to an audience with her father.

She returned from it shaken but resolute. Alfonso asked the question with a mere glance.

‘My father told me himself of his conversation with the ambassador,’ Lucrezia said. ‘He claimed that he lost his temper because of the aggressive, heated tone of the man’s questions, and misspoke himself.’ This surprised me not at all, for the Pope was aware of the Venetian’s visit. ‘He regretted his statement that Alfonso deserved whatever blow Cesare dealt him. In fact, he asked me to relay his personal apology to you.’

‘If His Holiness wishes to apologize to me,’ Alfonso countered coldly, ‘why does he not do so himself?’

Lucrezia looked to her husband, and I caught the flicker of anguish in her eyes. Despite her outrage at the murder attempt on her husband, a part of her-that part that craved normal paternal affection-wanted badly to believe her father. I felt a pang of despair. ‘Perhaps he is ashamed of Cesare,’ she offered. ‘Perhaps he has not come because he is embarrassed.’

‘Lucrezia…’ Alfonso began, but she interrupted him hurriedly.

‘He pointed out as well that we are guarded by his soldiers, and no harm has come to us in all this time. He is hurt to think that we believe he supported any attack on you. He has offered us any assistance we desire.’

‘You cannot trust him, Lucrezia,’ Alfonso said tenderly.

She nodded, but her expression revealed inner torment.

The following day-as if he had heard Alfonso’s words-the Pope appeared. The soldiers parted without questioning our visitor, or announcing him; they did, after all, serve him.

Surprisingly, Alexander arrived without a single attendant-and when Alfonso, Lucrezia and I looked up at him from our seats in the antechamber, in the company of the Neapolitan doctors Galeano and Clemente-he held up a large, gnarled hand and gestured for us all to remain seated. Out of respect, the doctors rose, bowed, and took their leave.

‘I have not come as a pope,’ Alexander said, once they had gone, ‘but as a father.’ And with a slight groan and a great sigh-for age was continuing to take its toll upon him-he sat across from us three and leaned forward, his palms resting upon white satin-covered knees.

‘Alfonso, my son,’ he said. ‘I asked Lucrezia to offer my apologies, and to explain my hasty words to the Venetian ambassador. I realize in retrospect how they might be misconstrued. I wish to make it clear that, while Cesare is my son, and also the Captain-General of my army, we are often at odds with each other. I have reproached him severely for his involvement in the attack upon you-though he continues to deny any part in it. Cesare is a soldier, and cold-hearted, nothing like me.’ He focused his yellowed eyes intently upon my brother and said, ‘You must understand, I could never raise a hand against my own blood. It is not in me; nor would I ever support it. My heart was broken-once again-to hear what Cesare had wrought against you.’

With that last phrase, he was indirectly admitting to Cesare’s guilt in Juan’s death. I knew the old man had been truly grief-stricken by Juan’s murder-and for the first time, it occurred to me that Alexander might be telling the truth. Perhaps he had no foreknowledge of the assassination attempt on my brother. He had, after all, done everything Lucrezia and I had requested. If he truly supported Cesare, all he needed do was refuse to call for his doctor, and refuse to grant Lucrezia soldiers to guard the doors to the apartment. He could have forced us all to watch Alfonso bleed to death.

No, I told myself, horrified that I was beginning to actually be swayed by Alexander’s argument. No, he is doing this because he realizes he is losing his daughter, and he will say anything to try to keep her in Rome.

He paused; none of us spoke, for we were all startled into silence by his frank speech.

‘I pray every night that God might pardon my son for his actions,’ Alexander continued sadly. ‘And I pray God might take pity on me for being such a foolish old man that I did not find a way to stop terrible things from happening. I hope, Alfonso, that someday you will be able to forgive me for my negligence. In the meantime, know that whatever protection, whatever assistance you require while under my roof, I will gladly grant.’ He rose, again releasing a little groan. Alfonso stood as well-prompting His Holiness to gesture for him to retake his seat. ‘No,’ Alexander insisted. ‘Sit. Rest.’

But Alfonso remained stalwartly on his feet. ‘Thank you, Your Holiness, for your visit and your words. God be with you.’ His tone was undeniably courteous, but I knew my brother. He had not believed a word of the Pope’s speech.

‘And with you.’ Alexander blessed us all with the sign of the cross, then left.

After her father’s visit, Lucrezia grew and remained visibly saddened. Perhaps she had finally realized that she would be breaking with her family forever by leaving for Naples, and would certainly never see her father alive again. I was sorry for her, but at the same time, I could not repress my growing joy at the thought of soon being free from the treachery of the Borgias; indeed, I looked forward to the moment I heard news of Cesare’s death.

We were to leave in the pre-dawn hours of the twentieth of August.

Two days before, the eighteenth of August, began as a quiet morning-a content one for me. In my own mind, I had already left behind the possessions I had acquired in Rome. I dared not risk asking Jofre to bring me anything to take to Naples. He would be hurt by my abandonment-but if he truly loved me and wanted to follow, he could find a way.

In the meantime, I was content to travel to Naples with nothing more than the two gowns I had with me. I cared not if I ever saw my jewels again.

And so that morning I was cheerful, Alfonso restless, and Lucrezia sombre, for I think she had already begun to miss her family and Rome. We behaved as naturally as we could so that no visitor would guess our time in the Hall of the Sibyls was coming to an end. Lucrezia asked to have little Rodrigo brought to our apartment, and we played with him all morning: he proved a fine distraction for us, for he was crawling now, and we had to chase him all over the apartment to keep him out of mischief. At last, the little boy fell asleep in his father’s arms, and Lucrezia stared for an hour at the two with a love so profound I was moved.

By lunchtime, however, she sent little Rodrigo back to the nursery to be fed, and we were left with nothing but our own thoughts to entertain us.

In the afternoon, drowsy after a sleepless night filled with thoughts of Naples, I went with Lucrezia to the bedchamber, where we both collapsed upon our mattresses. I fell asleep almost at once, though I doubt Lucrezia did; I remember, just before drifting towards slumber, hearing her toss restlessly.

I was wakened by the sound of footsteps, marching, and a man’s voice, calling a command-then the sound of more footfall, of soldiers leaving. The sound provoked such anxiety in me, even before I was fully conscious, that my heart pounded fiercely. I scrambled from my bed and rushed into the antechamber.

The papal guards who had protected us were gone; in their place was a squad of unfamiliar soldiers, and a dark-haired, red-caped commander with a dignified military bearing that reminded me of the deceased Juan de Cervillon.

Most of the soldiers had drawn their blades. As I watched, a pair of them went over to Don Clemente and Don Galeano, and secured the doctors’ hands behind their backs with chains.

‘Madonna Sancha,’ the commander said politely, and bowed low. ‘May I inquire as to the location of your brother, the duke?’

‘I am here,’ Alfonso said.

I turned. My brother stood in the doorway, one hand upon the wall. In the other hand he held his dagger, and in his eyes was the look of a man ready to fight to the death.

Lucrezia rushed from the antechamber to stand in front of her husband. ‘Don Micheletto,’ she said, with unmasked contempt. ‘You had no right to dismiss our guards-they were there on His Holiness’ orders. Call them back at once, and take your men with you.’

I recognized the name, though not the face-Micheletto Corella was Cesare’s second-in-command.

‘Donna Lucrezia,’ he said, again with the same mild courtesy, as though his men bore gifts of fruits and flowers rather than swords, ‘I am afraid I cannot obey. I have orders from my master, the Captain-General, and I am bound to follow them. I am to arrest all the men here, including the duke, on charges of conspiracy against the House of Borgia.’

A sickening sensation, cold and burning, consumed my entire being. The plot against Cesare had apparently been discovered-and attributed to my brother.

‘This is a lie,’ Alfonso said, ‘a fact of which you are well aware, Don Micheletto.’

Micheletto failed to react with defensiveness. ‘I am merely doing my duty, Don Alfonso. I have been told that you, along with other conspirators, are planning to assassinate both Don Cesare and the Holy Father. I am to escort you to the prison at the Castel Sant’Angelo.’

‘My father will never support this!’ Lucrezia countered. ‘He has guaranteed Don Alfonso his protection. Moreover, he has already stated his opposition to Cesare on this matter, and would be furious to know that you are here, attempting to arrest my husband. If you lay a hand on him, it will cost you your life! I will see to it myself!’

Micheletto considered this quite seriously; uncertainty crept into his expression. ‘I have no desire to disobey His Holiness, for he is my ultimate commander. I would be happy to wait should you wish to consult him.’ This was not unreasonable, as Alexander was at the moment only two doors away. ‘If His Holiness dismisses us, I am willing to go without my prisoners.’

Lucrezia headed for the now-unguarded, flung-open doors. As she passed me, she caught the crook of my arm. ‘Come,’ she commanded. ‘Between the two of us, we will convince my father. I am sure he will come and speak to Don Micheletto directly.’

I pulled free of her grasp, shocked by her naiveté: Did she, clever Lucrezia, really believe it safe to leave Alfonso unattended, with only a dagger and some unarmed servants to defend himself against a squad of Cesare’s men?

‘I will stay,’ I insisted.

‘No, come,’ she said. ‘The two of us together can persuade him.’

She tried again to catch my arm.

She is mad, I thought. Mad, or more foolish than I ever knew. I backed away from her and said, ‘Lucrezia, if one of us does not remain with my brother, he is lost.’

‘Come,’ she repeated, and this time, her tone rang hollow. She reached for me again, and this time, understanding the game with a sense of unspeakable betrayal and fury, I felt for my stiletto.

Panic seized me then: The protection Alfonso had bestowed on me so long ago was missing. Someone-when I was asleep, or otherwise diverted-had stolen it from me, someone who knew that Corella was coming, and that this very scenario would unfold.

But only three people knew of the stiletto’s existence: Alfonso, who had given it to me, Esmeralda, who dressed me…and Cesare, who had rescued me the night I used it against his drunken father.

I gazed upon Lucrezia with unspeakable fury at her betrayal; she looked away.

I lunged between Micheletto and my brother. I could do no more than try to shield Alfonso with my own body.

At once, a pair of soldiers was upon me. Together, they pushed me forward, past Don Micheletto and his men, out into the corridor. I went reeling and fell hard against cold marble.

Tangled in my skirts, I struggled to rise; I succeeded only after Lucrezia had stepped outside the apartment.

The doors closed behind her with a slam that echoed down the long Vatican corridor.

As they did, she sank slowly to her knees, to the sound of the bolt sliding into place on the other side of the thick wood.

I glared at her, unable to comprehend the monstrousness of her actions, but she would not meet my gaze. Her eyes, focused on some far-distant spot, were dead-devoid of any light or hope.

I screamed at her, with such volume, such force and fury that my lungs were left burning, my throat ragged, raw.

‘Why?’

‘WHY?’

I lurched forward and sank to her level; if I had still possessed my stiletto, I would have killed her. Instead, I pummelled her with my fists-feebly, for grief had devoured my strength, leaving my limbs heavy, numb.

She reacted limply, like a corpse, making no move to defend herself.

‘Why?’ I screamed again.

She returned to herself as though from a great distance, and whispered, ‘Rodrigo.’

With the release of that single word, she began to weep-silently, without expression, like ice melting.

At first, I thought she meant the Pope, and recoiled in disgust: was this some conspiracy she and her lover-father had planned?

And then, seeing the purity of her grief, I understood with sudden horror that she meant her child.

The baby. Cesare must have threatened her with the only thing that could possibly make her betray her husband, for there was only one in all the world Lucrezia loved more than Alfonso.

At the moment that I hated her most, I understood her best.

Shrieking my brother’s name, I raised my arms and beat vainly against the heavy doors until my hands were bruised and aching, while Lucrezia softly wept.