Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

The Pope’s expression once again grew forbidding; he narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Talk of death over food,’ he said shortly, ‘is bad for the digestion.’

Not long after little Rodrigo’s baptism, Alfonso and I received a formal request from Captain Juan de Cervillon for an audience. I was more than happy to grant it, for he had been so kind to us, and of such great service.

We received him in Alfonso’s antechamber on a bright, sunny winter morning, and I could not help but think of the meeting we had had that past summer, in Naples. I hoped the news he brought was as good, for as long as Alfonso and I had de Cervillon for a friend, I knew he would always work ceaselessly on our behalf to maintain the best possible relations between Naples and the Pope.

He appeared before us, once again dressed smartly, his sabre sheathed at his hip, his dark hair streaked with silver, and bowed to us as we sat before him.

I smiled and proffered my hand for him to kiss. ‘Captain, you are cheerful this morning. I hope you bring happy news.’

‘Both happy and sad,’ he said, but with a gaiety he could not entirely mask, despite his formal military manners.

‘Speak, dear friend,’ Alfonso said, curious.

‘Your Highnesses, I wished to take my formal leave of you before I depart for Naples.’

‘Ah!’ Alfonso replied. ‘Then you are visiting your family for Christmas?’

‘It is not a visit,’ de Cervillon said. ‘His Holiness has given me permanent leave to return to my native city.’

I felt two separate emotions: an honest sorrow to see the good captain go, and a selfish fear. With de Cervillon gone, who would be our champion?

My brother’s face showed only sadness over the loss of a friend. ‘Dear Captain,’ he said. ‘I am sad for our sakes, as we will miss you; but I am happy for yours. You have spent too many years away from your wife and children in the service of His Holiness.’

De Cervillon acknowledged this with a nod. ‘I have petitioned King Federico, that I might serve him.’

‘Then Naples has a lucky king,’ I said at last. ‘And the Pope has lost one of his finest men.’ Despite my best efforts, I could not entirely hide my disappointment. De Cervillon saw it and said:

‘Ah, Your Highness, I am so sorry to make you sad.’

‘I am both sad and happy, as you said,’ I told him, forcing a feeble smile. ‘I will miss you, but it is not good for any man to be away from his family. Besides, I am sure we will meet again; you will visit Rome, and I will some day visit Naples.’

‘That is true,’ de Cervillon acknowledged.

My brother rose; echoing our last meeting in Naples, he said, ‘God be with you, Captain.’

‘And with you both,’ de Cervillon responded. He bowed once again, then left. We stared after him a time in silence.

‘We will never see him again,’ Alfonso said finally, giving voice to my thoughts.

My brother’s words were prophetic, but not in the way I envisioned. Here is the tale as told by Esmeralda:

That very evening, before his scheduled departure the following morning, the captain attended a celebration thrown by his nephew. As he walked home through the streets, warmed by wine and thoughts of home, he was accosted.

If there were witnesses, none ever came forth: his bloodied body, pierced several times through by a blade, was found lying on the street. The attack had happened quickly; I am convinced that whoever attacked de Cervillon was known to him, and in fact considered a friend-for the captain’s sabre had never even been withdrawn from its sheath.

Like other Borgia victims, Church officials seized control of the corpse. Once again, the customary viewing of the deceased was not permitted; in fact, de Cervillon was buried within an hour after his discovery.

For a full day, I grieved for him and would not eat or drink. Indeed, I grieved for all of us.

On the eve of the year 1500, a great feast was thrown in the Sala dei Santi, the Hall of the Saints; the family and many powerful cardinals and nobles were invited. A massive table had been brought in to accommodate the guests and a surfeit of delicacies; enough spiced wine was poured to fill the River Tiber. I had become inured to the excessive grandeur of the papal palace, but on this night, it seemed once again impressive, even magical. The mantel and table had been swathed in evergreen garlands, and decorated with orange pomanders, all of which gave off a sweet scent; the walls and lintels bore swags of gold brocade. The great fireplace had been lit, along with more than a hundred candles, filling the place with such a warm glow that our golden goblets, the gilded ceilings, and the polished marble floors danced with light; even Saint Catherine’s blond hair sparkled.

His Holiness was in an exceedingly jovial mood, despite his frailty. He had aged noticeably of late: his eyes had yellowed with jaundice, his hair had turned from iron grey to white. The folds of skin beneath his weak chin had grown pendulous, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with broken veins. Yet he was dressed resplendently in a mantle of gold-and-white brocade studded with diamonds, and a skullcap woven from pure gold thread, created especially for the event.

As he lifted his goblet, his hand shook slightly. ‘To the year 1500!’ he cried, to the large assembly gathered about him at the table. ‘To the year of Jubilee!’

He smiled, the proud patriarch, as we echoed his words back to him. He then sat, and gestured for us all to do the same.

Since this was such a momentous occasion, Alexander felt compelled to deliver a small speech. ‘The Christian Jubilee,’ he announced, as if we were not already familiar with the term, ‘was instituted two hundred years ago by Pope Boniface VIII. It is based on the ancient Israelite custom of observing one sacred year out of every fifty-a time when all sins were forgiven. It is not,’ he added, with a waggish air of pedantry, ‘from the Latin word jubilo , “to shout”, as most Latin scholars assume, but rather from the Hebrew, jobel , the ram’s horn used to mark the beginning of a celebration.’ He spread his hands. ‘Boniface extended the fifty years to one hundred…and here we are, only hours away from an event most never live long enough to experience.’

His tone grew prideful. ‘All of the hard work we undertook last year-the widening of the roads, restoring gates and bridges, repairing damages to Peter’s basilica-is now worthwhile.’ Here, he paused as the cardinals, many of whom had been involved in overseeing the work, applauded. ‘Rome is ready, as we all are, for a time of great joy and forgiveness. I have issued a bull proclaiming that those pilgrims who visit Rome and Saint Peter’s during this Holy Year shall have all their sins forgiven. We expect more than two hundred thousand souls to make the journey.’

I listened, smiling, as I sat alongside my brother and Lucrezia, for it was difficult not to be swayed by the feeling of excitement and anticipation that filled the crowd; but my joy was tempered by worry, my desire to forgive thwarted by hurt. I knew not what the year might bring, because at that very moment, Cesare Borgia fought alongside the French in Milan. I glanced over at Alfonso beside me, and he took my hand and squeezed it by way of understanding and reassurance.

As for Lucrezia, she did not notice my or Alfonso’s concern. She was listening to her father with an expression of rapt enthusiasm; now that she had both her husband and baby, she had immersed herself in happiness. I do not think she permitted herself to consider the possibility that her brother might interfere; she had so long been denied a normal life that I could not blame her for wanting to remain ignorant. Her contentment showed that night in her appearance: I had never seen her look so beautiful as she did during those days with Alfonso.