The Borgia Confessions Read online

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  For Lindsay Fowler, who has been listening to me talk about this story in one form or another for years now. Thank you for everything, always.

  Prologue

  CESARE

  Rome, August 1484

  The day I learned of my father’s plans for me, I was but nine years old. In many ways, it was my first memory to take firm root. I remember other days, ones in the nursery with my younger siblings: countless mock sword fights with Juan, who always cried to our nurse when he lost; little Lucrezia showing me each of her dolls; and lessons, endless lessons in endless languages, as well as in mathematics, philosophy, history, politics, and geography. However, these memories do not hold the same cold, cutting clarity.

  From then on, the memories of my childhood would take on a different cast, as though viewed in a darkened room. That day was the first memory of a young man who was no longer a boy.

  It may be telling that this crucial piece of information was gained by subterfuge. I had gotten into the custom of eavesdropping on my parents during my father’s visits; after coming to see us in the nursery, he would adjourn to one of the sitting rooms in my mother’s palazzo, where she would have a meal laid out, and they would have a long, private conversation. Eager to hear what was said about me, I had begun to secretly listen in, only to be disappointed: most of their talk was idle gossip about people in Roman society whom I did not know or talk of Vatican politics I did not yet understand. (Though I did ascertain that several very favorable reports of my progress in lessons were given to my father, much to his approval and my secret pride.) But on the day in question, I finally heard something of interest. And I would almost instantly regret it.

  I tried to steal quietly out of the nursery to follow my parents, but Lucrezia—even at the age of four—missed nothing. “Cesare,” she called, poking her head out into the hallway. “Where are you going?”

  “Shhh,” I hushed her. “I am going to follow Father and Mother.”

  She stepped out into the hall, clutching one of her ever-present dolls tightly. Her golden ringlets fell unrestrained past her shoulders. “Why?”

  I sighed. “I want to hear what news Father has,” I said.

  “I want to hear, too!” she answered immediately, her eyes shining. She adored our father without reserve.

  I sighed again, knowing that taking a four-year-old on what I considered a daring espionage mission would not aid me in remaining undetected. Yet I could deny my little sister nothing. “Very well, if you promise to be very, very quiet!”

  She nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing.

  I took her hand and led her through the halls to the sitting room where our parents usually closeted themselves. My mother, Vannozza, was no longer Cardinal Borgia’s mistress by this time—the meaning of which I was only beginning to grasp—and was rather happily married to Giorgio di Croce, a secretary to His Holiness Pope Sixtus IV. But my parents maintained an easy and affectionate friendship and were firmly united in their ideas of how their children ought to be raised.

  As we approached the door, I could hear my mother’s low voice, my father’s louder rumble. “He cannot last much longer,” my father was saying.

  Turning to Lucrezia, I put my finger to my lips. She nodded again, minding her promise. I crept closer to the door, and she pressed close behind me.

  “… if you think you can,” I heard my mother say.

  “I mean to become pope at this conclave, Vannozza,” my father said. The words took me by surprise, though they should not have. I was no fool, and my penchant for eavesdropping meant that most of my father’s ambitions were known to me. But the finality, the conviction in his words, made me understand in a way I never had before: my father could become the pope, the leader of all Christendom, the sacred and somewhat distant figurehead of Rome.

  I stole a glance at Lucrezia; her large gray-blue eyes were wide with wonder, but bless her, she made not a sound.

  “I have been waiting for this moment for years,” my father went on. “I must not fail.”

  “And what of della Rovere?” my mother asked. “If he has enough support to block your election?”

  “I must not fail,” he repeated. “I will win della Rovere’s supporters to my side, whatever the cost.”

  “And yet if he—”

  There was a loud, sharp sound, as though the cardinal had slapped his large hand down on the lacquered wooden tabletop. “There can be no ‘if,’ Vannozza,” he said.

  “Even so,” she said, her voice soft yet firm. “It does not do to underestimate one’s enemies and thus be caught unawares and unprepared.”

  “To plan for failure is to admit it is a possibility, and once you have done that, you are undone,” my father said, his voice louder than before. “Everything depends on this, everything! You would plan less than the best for our children?”

  “Surely there are other ways for you to give them what you dream, even if—”

  “No,” he bit out. “It is for them as much as for myself that I must succeed. You know what must happen, Vannozza. I will become pope; Cesare shall follow me into the Church; Juan shall wield the military might of the Holy See; and Lucrezia will marry to the best advantage of the family. We will become the first and greatest family in all of Italy, and no one shall dare spit on the name of Borgia ever again.”

  My mother made some reply, but I did not hear it, nor did I care to. My father’s words rang loudly in my ears. Cesare shall follow me into the Church …

  The words were like a death sentence to a boy who loved to ride, to wrestle, to play at sword fighting; a boy who devoured his lessons in military history like life-giving nectar. I had always loved the tales of that great Roman conqueror, Giulio Cesare, whose name I shared. In my mind, to be a soldier, a conqueror, was the finest occupation for a man. I was aware of the considerable power my father wielded as a man of the Church, yet it was a different sort of power altogether, and not what I would have chosen for myself.

  And to make a soldier, a general, out of that weakling Juan! It was too much to be borne. In one foolish moment—the culmination of my shock and anger and envy—I found myself pushing open the heavy wooden doors of the room and barging in.

  “Cesare,” my father said in surprise.

  “Father, please … tell me it isn’t true!” I cried. “You don’t truly mean to send me to the Church, do you?”

  “Cesare, for shame!” my mother scolded. “Were you listening at the door? That sort of behavior is fit for servants, not a young nobleman!”

  I ignored her, knowing punishment would come no matter what. Keeping my gaze fixed on my father, I pressed on. “I don’t want to be a priest, Father! Make Juan go into the Church, and let me be your general! I can do it, I know I can!”

  “Cesare, get back to the nursery this instant!” my mother said, advancing on me. “It is not your place to—”

  Finally my f
ather spoke, causing her to break off mid-sentence. “This was decided long before you could even speak,” he said. His tone was not angry; rather, it was perfectly even. He was stating a fact, not presenting an argument. “I shall become pope, and you shall someday become pope after me.” He stared hard at me, his usual jovial good nature gone. “Do you not wish to become a man to whom others turn for counsel, a man who accomplishes great things on behalf of Holy Mother Church? Do you not wish to make your family great?”

  When he spoke, it was as a man speaks to another man, not as a man to a child. I had never been spoken to in such a way before, and it did much to soothe my impetuous anger. I stood a little straighter. “I do.”

  “Good. Trust me when I say I know what’s best for our family.” A note of condescension had slipped back into his voice, but it did not break his spell over me. “Now, get yourself back to the nursery.” His stern countenance slipped as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And take your sister with you.”

  I jerked my head back toward the doorway, but Lucrezia was not to be seen. She must have darted out of sight. I nodded, turned, and left the room, closing the door behind me.

  “Mother is angry with you,” Lucrezia pointed out from her hiding place against the wall.

  “Yes, I know.”

  She took a couple of steps toward me. “Are you going to be punished?”

  “I don’t know, Crezia.” I started in the direction of the nursery, as I’d been bidden, my sister trailing behind.

  “Cesare,” she said, after a few silent seconds had passed, “why are you so sad? Because you have to become a cardinal?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” The spell my father had cast had yet to fully wear off, but the sense of disappointment was still palpable. I considered the machinations of my nine-year-old brain far too advanced for little Lucrezia, however, so I didn’t elaborate.

  “And I must be married?” she asked. “That’s what Papa said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like Mama and Signor di Croce?”

  “Yes, only…” I trailed off as I considered Lucrezia’s fate. More dread curdled my insides. “Only Papa will choose your husband, and you will go live with him.”

  Lucrezia’s angelic face looked troubled at this, and I regretted causing her worry. “Papa would never let me go away, would he?” she asked. “I don’t want to live anywhere without him and you and Mama and Juan and Jofre.”

  “You’re a girl, Crezia,” I said, the best explanation I could muster. “Girls are supposed to marry.”

  She considered this. “Can I marry you, Cesare?” she asked eagerly. “Then I wouldn’t have to leave you!”

  I couldn’t help but look down at her and grin, despite my strange haze of disappointment mingled with pride. My first marriage proposal. “No, Crezia,” I said patiently, taking her hand. “Brothers and sisters cannot marry. It is against God’s law. Besides,” I added, “if I am to be a cardinal, I may not marry anyone.”

  She frowned in concentration as she thought this through. Joy dawned on her face as another idea quickly formed. “We could switch!” she announced triumphantly. “I shall become a cardinal in your place, and you can marry!”

  I laughed aloud, and impulsively bent down to hug her. “Oh, sister. They do not let women become cardinals. They must be men, like Father.” I squeezed her tightly. “Though I’m sure that you are clever enough to be a cardinal, if you were allowed.”

  Lucrezia hugged me back without reservation. “I love you, Cesare,” she said in my ear. “I don’t ever want to leave you.”

  I pulled away so I could see her face. With all the confidence and arrogance of a privileged young boy, I made her a promise that would haunt me mercilessly in the years to come. “I’ll never allow you to be sent away,” I vowed, “husband or no. I swear, by the Holy Virgin herself.”

  Already a pious child, Lucrezia’s eyes widened at this oath. “Then we must pray to her, Cesare,” she whispered almost fearfully. “Pray to her to never let us be parted.”

  She took my hand and dragged me to the small chapel within the palazzo. Once there, she threw herself onto her knees, crossed herself, squeezed her eyes shut, and began to pray in earnest. I knelt beside her, moved by her fervent devotion, and tried to pray myself.

  God, and Holy Mother Mary, whoever is listening … help me keep my promise to my sister. And please, try to change my father’s mind. It’s not that I don’t wish to serve you, I added hastily, fearful of offending some holy personage on high. But I can do so better as a soldier, leading armies in Your name.

  I could think of nothing else to add, so I sat back and watched Lucrezia finish her prayers, her lips moving silently, her brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled at me. “The Virgin shall hear our prayers,” she said confidently. “Don’t worry, Cesare.”

  I smiled at her innocent, childish devotion. “If you say so, it must be true.”

  PART ONE

  The HOUSE OF BORGIA

  Rome, August 1492–October 1493

  Chapter 1

  MADDALENA

  Rome, August 1492

  The bells of St. Peter’s—indeed, all of Rome—tolled incessantly to announce the death of the pope. Pope Innocent’s death was not unexpected; far from it. The Holy Father had been very ill of late, and the sweltering summer certainly had taken its toll on him—as well as on the people in the crowded streets of Rome, God bless them.

  I hadn’t attended to His Holiness directly—not a lowly maid like me—but everyone in the Vatican knew it had been a hard illness of many days, a violent and unrelenting fever. And we knew the rumors, the claims that the Holy Father believed drinking the blood of young boys would restore him to health, and that his physician had procured such for him. No one could say whether the story was true, but His Holiness’s physician had been observed carrying a goblet of something into his master’s bedchamber every night for a week.

  Still, guilty of such a ghastly deed or no, he had been the pope, and it wasn’t for me to question the doings of Christ’s vicar on earth. On hearing the bells I went directly into the servants’ chapel to pray for him, that he might be greeted at the pearly gates by his predecessor San Pietro with a welcome worthy of God’s highest servant.

  Upon leaving the chapel, I ran into Federico Lucci, the footman whom I counted as my closest friend among the other servants. He was kind to me, helping me learn my duties and my way around the vast palazzo when I first arrived, and told me all the gossip. He thought I didn’t know he made eyes at me when I wasn’t looking, but he had very fine and handsome light brown eyes, so I couldn’t say I minded. “May as well come with me,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Oh? To where?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

  “The Sistine Chapel. It’s got to be cleaned and made ready for conclave. I’ve been told to round up any servants I see for the task.”

  Joy sparked in my heart. I would be in the palace for the next conclave. I would be in the same building when the next pope was chosen. When history was made. And I would be a witness to it. What more could I have hoped for in coming to the Holy City?

  My dear uncle Cristiano, God rest his soul, had often told me: God’s will shall always find a way. A priest himself, he would have been proud to see me serving in the Holy Father’s house. I wished I could tell him that I would be present—in a fashion—for the election of the next pope. Perhaps, then, it was God’s will that had brought me to Rome after all, that I might bear witness to His workings through His Church—no matter what my mother had said about my coming here.

  Surely a prideful thought, to believe that God himself had brought me to the bosom of His Church. I quickly crossed myself and returned my attention to Federico.

  “A large task, then?” I asked. “Readying the chapel?”

  Federico whistled through his teeth. “Indeed. All those cardinals will be shut up in there for days, weeks even, though they’ll all likely bri
ng their favorite furniture and trappings and such. All of them sleeping and eating and shitting in the same place until they can agree on a new pope.”

  I crossed myself at the blasphemy. “But surely God comes to them, to guide them,” I said as we reached the heavy wooden doors that led to the chapel. “They are not agreeing on a new pope; they are listening and waiting for God to make His will known to them, sì? And the man God chooses is the man they must all cast their votes for.”

  As we stepped into chapel, astonishment overtook me. I had never been inside before. Paintings more beautiful and colorful than any I had ever seen lined the walls. They depicted scenes from the Bible, but with people so lifelike I thought they might step right down from the wall and begin to converse with us. The simple village church where I’d attended Mass growing up certainly had nothing like this; and since coming to the Vatican I had not had opportunity to be in any of the truly fine rooms. Even if I had, never would I dare to linger to look at paintings or any of the cardinals’ fine things. Yet now I had a moment I might take advantage of. I stepped as close as I dared to one of the scenes, depicting the temptation of Christ. He stood with the devil atop a temple in the center of the image, looking down at the throngs of people below that he might rule over. I marveled at the way the robes of the people in the crowd appeared to fold and tumble about them like real cloth; at the detail of the gold embroidery on the robes of the priest; at the texture of hair and skin, so real I wanted to touch it to see if it was truly naught but paint; at the lifelike angles of heads and limbs; at the way all the many figures in the painting seemed to be moving, somehow. Looking up, I found the blue ceiling was dotted with painted gold stars, as though to represent the very heavens themselves.

  A few paces away, Federico was shaking his head at me, albeit with a smile. “The man God chooses,” he repeated, and I was pulled back to our conversation. “I forgot you haven’t been in Rome very long, mia dolce Maddalena. You’ll learn how the Vatican really works soon enough.”