Chapter Text
He went to her first, after he’d done it.
He’d kept Micheletto at his side immediately after, making provisions for a future that had recently been greatly altered, even if nobody except him and Micheletto knew it. When eventually they started going in circles, Micheletto left him, even though they’d both noticed the pointlessness of their discussions long before Micheletto excused himself.
It’s not that he felt guilty: he considered guilt a sentiment for God-fearing people, and he did not fear God – or his Father. But there was a restlessness in his breast that kept him from sleep. He could feel that what he had done would change the game entirely, yet he did not know how: who would be the star players, what were the new rules? It was important that he knew, and he ought to know – but for once he didn’t.
He thought that that might be because of his Father: it all still depended too much on his Father. That would not change as long as he was a Cardinal, he knew that. The skirts confounded him and they mocked him. They’d mocked him after Juan had lost the battle at Forlì and he could do nothing but watch, when Lucrezia walked up to the altar to that Sforza pig and he could do nothing but watch, and in this very moment, when he had brought about such fundamental change, had grabbed Fortune by its throat and squeezed, and still he could do nothing but watch.
But all this had been true before the murder, too, and he had thought that out carefully: nurtured the plan like a babe. Fratricide was a delicate thing, and a long time coming.
Then why did he feel so restless, and dare he say it, nervous? Did he have doubts about whether or not it had been the right thing for the Church, for Italy? Perhaps there was an element to the murder he hadn’t foreseen, after all. Perhaps he’d missed something.
That frightened him, though he would never admit that to anyone, least of all himself.
He didn’t know when he made the decision to go to her, but it was long after Micheletto had gone, and many hours into the night. A sleepy Mila let him in, looking only faintly surprised. She didn’t enter the bedroom with him, because she knew better.
She was sleeping soundly. Lying on her side, her golden head on the corner of her cushion instead of on it, and her hands clasped below her chin: small and fragile and precious like an angel. He wanted to sit beside her and hover over her like a protective shield, but he just sat down at the end of her bed, careful not to wake her.
He sat like that for some time, working himself into a trance-like state. Finally he felt a merciful serenity descend on him, and he thought that if he put his head down now, stretched himself out on the space beside her, he might fall asleep.
He leaned his head back against one of the wooden pillars that supported the bed’s canopy and closed his eyes.
He did not quite fall asleep, but his thoughts were an incoherent tangle for a while. He only knew that he hadn’t been focused because he noticed that she’d turned on her back. He shook his head to pull himself together again; wondered if he should leave.
She frowned and fretted, and he stayed.
‘Hm,’ she said.
She woke gently then, her eyelids peeling away layers of darkness one by one until they framed another kind of darkness, sitting there at the foot of her bed. He didn’t smile at her, or feel like he had to.
She didn’t show any signs of having been caught off guard, only gave him a tiny, sleepy smile – giving the impression almost that she’d known he was there.
She reached out for his hand, which lay on his lap, just out of her reach. He didn’t return the gesture immediately, so she let her arm drop down heavily on the bed and looked at him with inquiring blue eyes. He avoided her gaze and looked longingly at the empty space next to her. He was so very sleepy now, but he wouldn’t let himself go to sleep. He had the distinct feeling that he didn’t deserve it anymore.
‘I dreamt about you,’ she said in a soft voice. Her eyes closed and he thought she might fall asleep again.
‘You did?’ He whispered, watching her with something close to envy. He really longed for sleep; he was more tired than he had ever been in his life.
‘Yes,’ was her reply. ‘An ordinary sort of dream. Quite unremarkable. But so lovely, Cesare.’
‘Why?’
‘We were dancing in a meadow at the break of dawn. The light was beautiful.’
He smiled to himself, because he knew that she loved dawn; she’d said once that that was the most beautiful kind of light there was. It had been night then, and the moon had been full and luscious and luminous. He’d looked at the way the moonlight created a ghostly halo around her, making her blonde hair look silver. “Don’t you think?” She’d asked, mistaking his attentiveness for scrutiny. “I much prefer the moonlight,” he’d replied, and he’d lifted her chin so her head would face the moon. “But come break of dawn, I think I shall prefer that.” And she’d smiled.
‘You were holding Giovanni high up in the air,’ she went on now. ‘And twirling around. We were all laughing, and there were flowers everywhere. Pointless dream, isn’t it?’
But he didn’t think it was pointless at all. In fact, he knew exactly why she had had that dream, and he didn’t like that he’d been the one to star in it, instead of a drunken Juan – even if his presence had seemed harmless. He looked down at his hands, expecting them to turn up bloody. He didn’t mind, usually, but he didn’t want her to see.
‘Have you dreamt, Cesare?’ She asked. Her eyes were open again and set on him, he could feel it.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dreamt that I drowned a cat.’
He didn’t know why he said that. Maybe because there was truth to it and because he wanted to see what she would think. He looked up at her and saw that she didn’t look disapproving.
‘What sort of cat?’ She asked.
‘A stray. He was quite miserable.’
‘Perhaps death was a kindness, then.’
He was glad that she didn’t reject him or his dream, but it was a perverted kind of joy, because she wasn’t supposed to think that death could be kind, or gentle, ever.
‘Do you think I am kind?’ He asked her, hoping that she would say yes but thinking that it ought to be no.
‘When you want to be,’ she answered. She stretched out her hand again, and this time he took it into his own. She interlaced her small fingers with his large ones and squeezed. He looked at the tangle of flesh.
‘Do you want to be?’ She asked him. He met her eyes, big and blue and searching, and for the first time, he felt guilt. He wasn’t sure about what, but he assumed it was because of the stray cat.
He untangled his fingers from hers and stood up from the bed. He felt how her eyes followed his movements and he wished they wouldn’t.
To get away from them, he went into the adjoining room where Giovanni lay in his cradle. The child was sound asleep and angelic as his mother, though he could scream frightfully when awake. One simply had to hold him vertically along one’s body and press his little head to one’s breast, just about at the height of one’s heart. The sound apparently soothed the child.
He thought it might be better not to touch the babe, knowing the cacophony would wake the entire palace, but he couldn’t keep himself from sticking out his finger and stroking the little white cap Giovanni wore to keep his head warm. He bowed down to lean on the side of the cradle and look at the sleep of the innocent. The blanket had been pulled down a little, and he readjusted it. Then he just had to feel the child’s chubby cheek and he leaned in further to place a kiss on its head, as light as a feather.
Two arms reached around his waist and joined in the middle to form a tight circle around him. He hadn’t heard her come in and gripped the side of the cradle more firmly in his surprise. She folded herself against him, fitting her torso against his bent back and laying her head between his shoulder blades. She noticed that she’d startled him and he felt her smile through his shirt. She lifted her head and blew on his neck. ‘Poor baby,’ she said.
‘I don’t know, he does not appear overly dissatisfied to me,’ he answered stoically.
She smiled again, retracted one arm and stroked the back of his head. There appeared to be some confusion as to who the child was, but he didn’t mind.
‘Are you very unhappy, Crezia?’ He asked her.
‘What makes you say that?’ She asked, her breath and hands both caught in his hair.
He stayed silent, and she understood what he meant.
‘Sometimes I forget about it,’ she said after thinking a while.
He understood and he knew that it had been getting harder to forgive and forget, with his brother spiralling further and further out of control.
‘It will be better,’ he told her brusquely.
‘Can you see the future, brother? Or will you speak to God for me, and ask him to make sure the future is good?’ She teased him, and tickled his neck.
‘Oh, I have spoken to him already, last night in fact. I said that it was monstrous, the way he has been handling our lives. He agreed to be more gentle with them in future.’
‘My brother the Cardinal,’ she mused.
He sighed deeply and stroked the cheek of the child again. He wasn’t careful enough this time, so that Giovanni woke up from the touch. He stared up at Cesare for a moment with a perplexed, curious look on his young face. Then he opened his pouty mouth and started bellowing.
She felt his muscles tense through his shirt and rubbed his back the way she might do with her wailing child. He reached into the cradle and took Giovanni into his arms, making the baby scream even louder. ‘I have upset him,’ he said, almost more upset by this than the child was, despite its loudness.
She tsk-ed. ‘No you haven’t. He is hungry.’ He felt the warmth and pressure of her body against his decrease and then she was gone from his back. He shivered and bent himself over the crying child, rocking it and saying non-sensical things. The wailing became less insistent and died down to a trickle of miserable sobs after a minute.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her re-enter the room, and he turned to give her a triumphant look. She had left to put away her robe and undo the lacing on her shift. Her exposed breast was cream-coloured and heavy.
At that moment, a female voice came from the adjoining bedroom: ‘Oh, my,’ it said.
He’d had his back to the doorway and had to turn around to see who it was. Another servant, Estelle, had been awoken by the child’s screams and stood looking at them, visibly uncomfortable. When she saw the child in his arms, some little muscle around her mouth relaxed and she recovered herself, saying ‘My lady.’ That slight change in her face and voice irritated him so much that he thought Giovanni might feel the rise in his heartbeat and start crying again.
His sister didn’t seem to register Estelle’s reaction. ‘Estelle,’ she said, with a little nod. ‘I’m sorry that Giovanni woke you.’
‘Not a bother, my lady,’ Estelle said.
Cesare was still irritated, though, so he focused on the child in his arms again. He found the crying considerably less bothersome now.
‘Thank you for looking in. Go back to sleep, now,’ she said to the servant.
‘My lady, my lord Borgia,’ Estelle replied, and then she retreated.
Slowly and careful so as not to re-alarm the baby, he carried Giovanni over to where his sister stood. She was leaning against the right wall and seemed entirely unaware of her exposed breast. He leaned in to transfer the baby to her arms. She took Giovanni from him and turned the boy against her breast so that he could latch on to her nipple. He watched as the baby fed, mildly intrigued.
‘He can be vicious. Bites me, the little monster,’ she said, when she saw him look.
He chuckled and then turned his eyes away from her and the baby. ‘I’ll leave you to it, sister. Forgive me for waking him up. And you,’ he said. He wanted to walk over to kiss her cheek, but decided that it would be impractical now and headed for the doorway instead.
‘Ces,’ she called after him. ‘Is there somewhere you need to be?’
He frowned. ‘No. Only my bed,’ he said. He noticed then that it was already dawn and that he would sleep half the day away. It didn’t really bother him; he did that often enough. But he grinned at her and told her: ‘Good night, sis.’
‘Ces,’ she said again. She repositioned Giovanni and he glimpsed the creamy skin and the pink nipple.
He blinked and quickly turned away from her, ready to go far away from whatever was in the little nursery room. ‘What, Crezia?’
‘If you have no pressing matters, I would speak with you about something. Will you wait for me? Only a few more moments, I think.’ She nodded down at Giovanni.
He thought he should leave, but then he couldn’t ever refuse her anything. So he felt himself nod, and then he went back to her bedroom to wait. He sat down on the bed, where the bedcovers were pushed to the side and her robe lay, discarded without thought. The sheets were still warm.
He waited for more than five minutes, but he never called out to her: he could hear her softly singing to the baby, so he knew she was there, and besides, he didn’t mind waiting. When the moments passed by, and the songs went on, he sighed and lay back on the bed, with his feet still touching the ground. Then he grew cold, and sleepy, and without thinking about it – in fact, he wasn’t really thinking about anything anymore – he kicked off his boots, pulled his feet onto the bed and pulled the bedsheets close around him. He was asleep within seconds.