The Borgia Bride

XXXVIII

I moved swiftly down the staircase and returned to Jofre; he sat, shoulders slumped with guilt and grief, beside the motionless form of the Pope. I glanced at Alexander: his eyes were half-open now, dulled and sightless, fixed on a far-distant spot beyond the walls; his lips had been forced open by his violet-black, swelling tongue. His great broad chest had at last fallen still, and rose no more.

Around us, two servants-a man and a woman-were busily stuffing exquisite gold-threaded tapestries into a sack; others, I knew, would soon join them, and Alexander’s quarters would soon be as bare as Cesare’s. Yet neither I nor my husband made any move to stop them.

I took Jofre’s hand. His own remained limp; he did not return my grip, and I let his fingers slip away from mine. He spoke in a tone devoid of feeling, his gaze fixed on the body of the man who for so many years had owned him as son. ‘Gasparre has gone to tell the cardinals, and make preparations. Someone will come to wash him, then take him for burial.’

I stood silent for a time, then said gently, ‘I am going home.’

He grasped my tacit meaning and turned his face away. I understood from the gesture that he had decided to return to Squillace; from that time on, we would live apart. He was not strong enough to remain with the one who had lifted the final dose to his father’s lips, not strong enough to live in the presence of our shared guilt.

I leaned down, placed a gentle kiss upon his head, and left him.

By the time I arrived once more at the Vatican gates, most of the guards had fled; those few who remained let me pass without jeering. An odd silence fell over them at the sight of me, as if they sensed my power.

I walked through the gates onto the cobblestone piazza of Saint Peter, unafraid of the darkness despite being a woman unarmed. My spirit felt light-like Rome, the Romagna, the Marches, finally free of the Borgia curse. My brother’s ghost had been avenged, and could rest at last. Ironically, Cesare had finally given me those things he had promised in the heat of love: my native city and a child.

In the distance, on the other side of the Tiber, stood the Castel Sant’Angelo, with the Archangel Michael spreading his wings over the stone keep; several of the tiny windows-those of Cesare’s madwomen-glowed yellow. I smiled, knowing that Rodrigo and Donna Esmeralda awaited me there.

Behind me, the bells of Saint Peter’s began their dolorous toll.

I stepped onto the bridge and crossed the dark river; this time I smelled only sweet brine. My heart was already in Naples, where the sun gleams off the pure blue waters of the bay.