The sensation that seized me that morning-the twentieth of May-as I sat on my velvet cushion beside the Pope and stared down at the man standing beside my husband, was swift, irrevocable, and violent, like a dagger plunged into the heart. I trembled. I did not want it; I did not seek it; yet there it was, and I was at the mercy of it. And I knew nothing of the man who had just stolen my soul.
I had come into Pope Alexanders household wishing to make a favourable impression, to be a good wife to his son, Jofre, and now I was utterly lost.
XI
After our official greeting, Jofre and I, along with our attendants and belongings, were led into the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, next to the Vatican. It was a graceful structure with large arched windows to let in the Roman sun, and had been built for the purely carnal purpose of housing Pope Alexanders feminine entourage. The main floor contained a loggia which overlooked the vast gardens; Alexander had spared no expense for his women. Lucrezia lived here, as did Alexanders young mistress, Giulia Orsini, and his middle-aged niece, Adriana, procurer of his lovers. Other beauties who caught His Holiness eye were housed here from time to time, and it gave my heart no ease to be led into this building, knowing its reputation-even though Jofre accompanied me.
I was even less encouraged to discover my husbands bedchamber was located in a different wing of the palace from mine, which was close to both Lucrezia and Giulias suites. Under normal circumstances, a wife would not find it so troubling to be housed near others of her sex-except for the fact that Alexander seemed to have a peculiar penchant for married women. Even the extravagantly lovely Giulia Farnese did not arouse his passion sufficiently for him to bring her to the Vatican-until he married her off to his niece Adrianas son, the unfortunate, redundantly-named Orsino Orsini. His Holiness took special pleasure in violating the sanctity of other mens marriages.
Thus, when Jofre and I turned away from each other to go to our separate suites, I stopped, turned back, and put a hand to his still-smooth, boyish cheek. He faced me, smiling brightly, still flushed with the exhilaration of his grand return to his native city. He was fifteen years of age, and finally my height, with his hair still long and curling; as I held my hand to his warm cheek, I swore I would never let his own father make him a cuckold.
At the same time, I prayed I would never again set eyes on the striking young cardinal whose glance had aroused such a tide of passion in me.
It was a prayer like all the others: one that God would not answer.
We rested for a time after our journey. I tried but could not sleep, though the bed, with its pillows of brocade and velvet, its fine linens and fur throws was sumptuous, finer than any I had lain on in the Castel Nuovo. The Borgias were not timid about showing their wealth. As my ladies were unpacking and placing my belongings about the room, I spied a small, worn leather book in Donna Esmeraldas hand. Before she could put it down, I snatched it from her, settled upon a cushion, and began to read.
It was Petrarchs Canzionere, his love poetry dedicated to the mysterious Laura; the hand-sized tome had been a gift from Onorato. I had always been of two minds about Petrarch: on one hand, I found it achingly amusing that he should make such proclamations of maudlin sentiment, describing love as an arrow that had pierced him through the heart, yet blessing the day that such emotional injury had occurred. He always spoke of pain, burning, and chills. At times, I would read his poetry aloud to my ladies, in exaggerated tones and with such great sarcasm that eventually, I could read no more, and all of us would be overcome by laughter. Poor Petrarch! I would sigh. I think he suffers not so much from love as the ague.
Some, however, would not laugh quite as loudly, and said timidly, There is such a thing. One day, Madonna Sancha, it might happen to you.
How I mocked them! Yet privately, I wondered whether they were right, and yearned secretly to experience such magic; was Petrarch serious when he spoke of being riveted by a single gaze from his Laura, and from that moment forever bound? Eyes it was with Petrarch, always the eyes.
Yet at midday on the twentieth of May, I sat and began reading with my customary mocking tone to my ladies as they bustled about the room. When I came to the line:
I fear, yet hope; I burn, and am ice.
My voice failed. Abruptly overwhelmed by emotion, I turned my face away; I closed the little book and set it down beside me on the cushion. The words described precisely what I had felt when I had locked gazes with the handsome cardinal; once again I experienced a helpless rush of feeling. Memory summoned the image of my mothers face, the sound of her voice, for once defiant: You speak as though I had a choice. At last, I understood what she meant.
The women slowed their movements, each in turn looking away from their work towards me; their smiles changed into expressions of concern.
She is homesick, Esmeralda said knowingly. Donna Sancha, dont be sad. Jofre is with you, and all of us, too; your heart will soon be here, as well.
How could I tell her that my heart already was here-but not at all in the way that I wished?
Angry at permitting myself to be so easily smitten by a stranger, I rose, and stalked out onto the balcony, where I stared fiercely out at the gardens.
In the late afternoon, Jofre and I attended a feast thrown by His Holiness in our honour. The affair took place in the papal apartments. Flanked by guards and my ladies-in-waiting, we strolled together like young lovers, arm in arm, from the palazzo; the spring weather was beautiful, and the sun, now lower in the sky, cast a golden glow upon the great piazza and the shining white marble buildings that encircled it. Jofre smiled at me with pride. I clung to him-out of affection, the dear lad thought, and returned my tight grasp with a squeeze and a gaze-but it was out of trepidation. Only part of my concern was how I should handle any amorous advances from the Pope; my greatest worry was my attraction to the mysterious cardinal.
We made our way to the Borgia apartments. From the entry, I could look behind me and see, beyond the imposing Castel SantAngelo, greenery-carefully tended gardens and vineyards-stretching unbroken to distant mountains, and rows of orange trees dotted with evergreens. Flowers scented the cooling air.
We were announced, and entered, followed by our attendants.
The apartments were not vast, but the adornments were splendid; the ceilings were gold, the walls freshly painted with the enamel and gilt frescoes of Pinturicchio, with scenes both pagan and Christian. Beneath the frescoes hung tapestries of silk, and the floors were covered with carpets from the Orient. Everywhere were places to sit: plump cushions of velvet and brocade, stools and chairs.
The Pope, his broad shoulders covered with a robe of pure white, stood smiling at the entry to the dining chamber. Unlike Jofre, he was a large man, and filled the doorway, his arms spread wide in greeting; his broad shoulders, neck and chest made me think of a powerful bull. My children! he cried, smiling, without a trace of pomp. Jofre, Sancha, come!
He embraced first his son, then me, kissing me on the lips with troubling enthusiasm. Jofre, take your seat for supper. As for you, Your Highness, he said to me, let me give you a tour of our apartments.
I dared not protest; Alexander encircled my waist with an arm, then led me into a separate room where we were alone.
This is the Sala dei Santi, he announced, where our Lucrezia was married. He did not bother to mention the groom.
I stared at my surroundings and did my best to suppress a gasp; I felt as overwhelmed as a simple commoner, for the first time glimpsing the interior of a palace.
The Castel Nuovo, which until that time had represented my idea of royal luxury, was furnished after the Spanish style, with whitewashed walls, arched windows and ceilings decorated with mouldings of dark wood. Adornments consisted of carpets, dull paintings, statuary. I had thought the furnishings ornate.
But as I entered the Hall of the Saints, my eyes were as dazzled as if I had stared directly into the sun. Never had I seen such intense colour, such profusion of decoration. The vaulted ceiling was covered with countless paintings, each separated by gilded mouldings, some contained within lunettes; the background colour was the deepest blue I had ever seen, from pure crushed lapis lazuli, against which were rich reds, yellows, greens, and more pure gold. Each wall bore a different fresco, representing a different saint: I noted Saint Susanna, haloed in a draping blue gown, accosted in front of a fountain by two lecherous old men; in the foreground were rabbits, symbols of lust.
We paid Pinturicchio a pretty sum for the work. Beautiful, is it not? my host asked quietly; then, with a leer, added, Though not so beautiful as you, my darling.
I pulled away from him, and walked across flecked pastel marble toward a rendering of Catherine, disputing with pagan philosophers before the Emperor Maximilian; in the background, the Arch of Constantine was visible. The young saint, dressed like a Roman noblewoman in red and black, her golden hair flowing down to her waist, was unmistakably familiar.
Why, it is Lucrezia, I remarked.
The Pope chuckled, pleased. It is indeed. There was naught of piety to him, only an earthy love of life. Appropriate, that he had taken the papal name of Alexander-not the name of a Christian, but of the Macedonian conqueror.
I gazed up at the ceiling. There were other tableaux-the martyred Saint Sebastian, Saint Anthony visiting the hermit, Paul-but the dominant painting was that of a pagan man and woman gesturing at a great bull. I noticed then that smaller pictures of the bull were repeated everywhere, interspersed with the symbol of the papacy, the tiara atop the crossed Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.