Jeanne Kalogridis - The Borgia Bride

I observed this dully, without comment. I would have preferred more brutal surroundings to reflect my grief. I found no comfort in this luxury, this familiarity.

I turned to find Micheletto smiling at me.

‘Donna Esmeralda will be joining you, of course,’ he said. ‘She is gathering a few more of your things. Please feel free to request whatever you wish. Given the recent terrible events, all we ask is that, if you wish to stroll the grounds, or visit your husband at Santa Maria, you request an escort.’

‘Who arranged this?’ I demanded.

A corner of Micheletto’s mouth quirked even higher. ‘In all confidence, Your Highness: Don Cesare. He regrets the demands of politics, and any sorrow they have caused you. He has no desire to cause you further despair.’

Be kind to Sancha , Lucrezia had said. Cesare, she claimed, still loved me.

But I did not want his kindness. I wanted but one thing: revenge-and barring that, oblivion, if I could find within myself the courage to seek it.

Donna Esmeralda and a group of servants arrived bearing more of my belongings, as promised; I endured the commotion in silence. Meanwhile, I determined to take my life with the canterella that very night, to protest my brother’s death-though I knew it would separate me from him forever, if the stories about the afterlife were true. He was surely in the highest circle of Heaven, while I, a suicide, would be consigned to Hell.

I did not know what quantity of the poison would be needed, how many men my little vial was capable of putting to death; therefore, I decided to ingest the entire container. Perhaps that way I would go swiftly, without too much of the legendary suffering the powder produced. I would have to wait until Donna Esmeralda was distracted, and I could block my actions from both her and the guards’ view by going out onto the balcony.

I spent the rest of the day sitting in the chair in the antechamber, stroking the soft blue velvet of my brother’s slipper while the servants put my rooms in order. At dusk, a fine supper was delivered to my door. I could not eat, despite Esmeralda’s coaxing; she had what she wanted of my portion and her own, then servants bore the platters away.

But I asked for wine, and kept a flagon and goblet beside me. As she had each night since Alfonso’s death, Esmeralda beseeched me to come to bed; as always, I refused, saying I would come when I was tired. Fortunately, she was weary after all her work, and fell asleep early. When I heard her rhythmic breath, I knew my hour of opportunity had come.

I filled my goblet and rose casually, mindful of the guards outside my door, then slipped through the bedchamber where Esmeralda lay sleeping. She had left a candle burning for me; I took it out onto the balcony, and set it upon the ledge so that I could see in order to accomplish my final task.

I set my goblet down as well, then with trembling fingers found the vial of canterella hidden in my gown. I drew it forth, and held it up to the light.

The glass glinted brilliant and green as an emerald; I stared at it for a moment, transfixed, overcome by the gravity of what I was about to do.

And as I stared, an image formed within the glass, tiny but perfect and complete in detail.

It was my father’s corpse, hanging from its medallion-laden noose.

I screamed. I cast the vial from me; it clattered to the ground without breaking, and rolled away. My surroundings whirled: arms flailing, I fell to the floor, in the process knocking the taper over the ledge, so that I was suddenly in total blackness.

And in that blackness, my father’s corpse loomed larger than life. It swung before me, there on the balcony; its cold, stiff legs brushed against my shoulders, my face, and I scrabbled away on hands and knees, sobbing.

Once backed into a corner, I cringed and tried to shield myself with my hands. ‘You must promise me, Alfonso!’ I shrieked. ‘We must take a solemn oath never to be apart again…for without you, I will go mad!’

Before me stood my brother, just as he had been the day he came to Rome to marry Lucrezia, young and handsome and smiling, dressed in pale blue satin. ‘But Sancha, your mind is perfectly sound.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘With or without me, you need never fear madness. You have simply tried to kill the wrong man.’

I screamed again, and ran staggering back into the dark bedchamber; a stout figure caught me. I struggled to break free until I realized it was Donna Esmeralda, shouting:

‘Sancha! Sancha!’

I sagged against her and sobbed; she clutched me with fierce tenderness. ‘I tried to be a murderess,’ I gasped into her soft, sturdy shoulder, ‘and instead, killed my own brother.’

‘Hush,’ Esmeralda commanded. ‘Hush. You committed no crime.’

‘God is punishing me…’

‘This is foolishness,’ Esmeralda insisted. I could not see her face in the night, but my cheek lay against her collarbone, and I felt the vibration of her firm voice within her chest, the solidity of her conviction. ‘God loved Alfonso. He knows it is not fair that your brother should die while Cesare lives. Judgment is coming for the Borgias, Donna. Do not weep.’ I calmed at her words; she paused, then spoke her mind. ‘Savonarola was right…this pope is the Antichrist. Alexander always intended to let Cesare kill Alfonso; he knew it even when he came to the Hall of the Sibyls and swore otherwise. He is as guilty as his son-perhaps more so, for he could have stopped all this evil at any time.’

She led me to the bed, and tucked me in, fully dressed as I was, then lay down beside me. ‘Here. I shall not leave your side. If you grow frightened, simply reach for me. I will be here. God is with us, Donna. He has not forsaken us.’

After she fell asleep, I sat up in bed, terrified, convinced I was a girl back in Naples, and that the surrounding darkness held the mummies of my grandfather’s museum. I shivered beneath the covers as an image formed before me: that of the leering, leather-faced Robert, his painted marble eyes gleaming, a thin hank of auburn hair hanging from his puckered skull, as he gestured sweepingly.

Welcome, Your Highness…

I wept. I wanted no welcome; I did not want to enter Ferrante’s grisly kingdom of the mad and the dead.

As the sky lightened before dawn, I crept out to the balcony and recovered the vial of canterella, then hid it with my jewels before Esmeralda woke. Soon, I told myself. Soon, I would be strong enough to use it.

I remained in a state of perpetual twilight. During the days, followed at a courteous distance by a guard, I wandered through the labyrinthine gardens until I reached a state of exhaustion. At night, I sat in a chair out on the balcony and stared hard into the darkness, at times overcome by panic because I could not see Vesuvio. I told Esmeralda I dozed outside in my chair-but I slept not at all, and my mind took on the frightening clarity and swiftness of a madman’s.

I was frantically pacing through the gardens one day when I heard the bells of Saint Peter’s toll…and at once, Donna Esmeralda’s words seized my fevered consciousness and would not let go. At that moment, I received a divine revelation, the knowledge of how to bring judgment down upon the Borgias. But subterfuge was called for. I stopped in mid-stride and waited for my panting guard to catch up to me.

‘I shall go up to the loggia now,’ I said sweetly. ‘I should like to look out at the city.’

I made my way quickly back into the building and up the stairs, until I reached the great loggia that overlooked the Castel Sant’Angelo Bridge. The broad street was filled with pilgrims and merchants, all of them close enough so that I could easily toss something for them to catch; they were well within earshot.