"If by some grave misfortune my brother was to die…" Juan began casually during breakfast with his father, "what will become of his things? Who inherits?"
"Inherits?" his father asked with an innocent, deep frown. "Cesare belongs to the church. He has no worldly possessions. You know this…"
Juan nodded, conceding the point and taking a few moments to rethink his question. His father, he had no doubt, was fully aware of what he was trying to ask. He was only being difficult. His mother carved into her runny eggs with a butter knife, fixing her attention on the soft yellow mess in her plate. "Yes… But if he was to renounce the church… and say he was to marry… In the sad circumstance of his death, what would become of his wife? What does the church have to say in regards to a situation such as that?"
"She would become a widow, I daresay," his father answered drawling out the words.
"Would I be required to marry her?"
"Not in these times, my boy. She would be provided for until the end of her days or until she chose to remarry of her own choosing. Marrying the widows of our dead brothers is not Borgia tradition."
"What if the woman is unhappily married? What if she cries herself to sleep and wakes drenched in her tears? Then one day the husband passes and she seeks solace in the brother of said husband. The two develop a mutual affection and respect for one another, and she expresses the desire to remarry… What then?"
His father grinned lazily. Spitefully. Sat back in his chair and pouted… "Sound suspicious… the timely demise of the brother. In order for me to support such a union, the husband would need die of an illness so that I could be assured in the lack of foul play."
"Illness?"
"The plague. Dysentery… Something of the sort. Satisfied?"
"It's been weeks since I've been properly satisfied, father, and I think you know it," he answered, dropping his forks with a clatter.
"Whatever do you mean, my poor, misguided son? Confess to your earthly father what bears so heavily against your soul."
Juan sighed. "My brother –"
"Which brother? Last I knew you had two."
"The little one. The runt. The wet nosed brat–"
"Geoffrey?"
"That one. He has something that belongs to me, and I need it." He plastered butter roughly over a torn piece of bread, having no interest in actually eating the food. He'd buttered at least half the basket of bread already. He'd broken his fast on a bottle of ancient wine at sunrise.
"What thing?" his father asked.
"It was a gift that I gave him, too hastily, before I discovered I had use of it myself. It was mine before it was his and I want it back."
"A gift?"
"A trinket. A little jewel. Nothing a man of your holy station would ever notice–"
"That you gave away."
"If a baker gives a man a cake, and that man chooses to offer the cake to his brother, is he not still entitled to a slice? A taste?"
"But to kill your flesh and blood over cake?"
"I never said I'd kill him, God knows I love him like… like a brother… but if he were to die, in a sad, tragic accident–"
"You want the cake back."
"Cakes rot and spoil if you put it on a shelf. Pastries… Delicacies deserve to be eaten whilst they are still fresh. Whilst they are still moist."
His mother coughed.
"You've had a sample of this delicacy?" the pope sipped from his cup, "I assume you must have since you seem so convinced of its goodness."
"Only with mine eyes, father."
"Have I ever told you that you're a poor liar? That is why I have Cesare handle all our business. Cesare can lie better than men can tell the truth, but when you try it… When you try to lie, you use that cherubic face of yours. Your eyes get larger than a new-born kitten's, and you smile as though you've found a basket of puppies. The last time you were truly that innocent, you were six."
"Fine then, father. I've had a sample. With my eyes. With my lips. With my tongue… and other parts."
"And how was it?"
"Divine."
"Good enough to kill for?"
"I've killed for lesser things. I've killed for pennies. I've killed for strangers. Why not for something in my own interest? Why not for something that is mine?"
"Because it's not yours."
"It was."
"It wasn't. You didn't want it."
"Well, I want it now. I need it now."
"He's your brother."
"Must I love him more than I love myself? I know it's written somewhere that I should, but is it practical to expect that of me?"
"I've stopped expecting anything of you, Juan," his father sighed. "A long, long time ago. I seek only to understand, the way I try to understand the suffering of men, and the myriad pestilences of the world. I can't begin to guess at what it is you want, exactly. You've had your taste. Geoffrey has an innocent soul… keeps his pantry unlocked so I daresay you can scamper about and sneak a taste whenever you like. What more can you want?"
Just then, the doors to the kitchen burst open, and in walked the little boy with his hair tussled and bedclothes askew. He kissed his mother, his father, nodded to his brother and settled himself in a chair while one of the servants fixed a plate for him. "You would never believe what Sancia and I did last night," he said with a grin.
Juan's fist tightened around the jewelled handle of a butter knife. "We don't need to hear your private business," he said through a forced grin.
"We played at cards!"
"All night?"
"Yes. She's very good."
"For money?" their father asked.
The boy shook his head. "No, kisses!"
If I kill him now, do I condemn myself to an eternity of hellfire? "Kisses?" Juan felt his face tighten to the point where he wasn't sure if he was smiling or snarling.
"Yes. Each time I lost, she kissed me. So I didn't mind losing too much. It was a new game she was teaching me. One that they play in Naples. The rules are fairly simply, but she was too good for me."
"And still is, I don't doubt. You've no skill at cards and less with women, yet fortune favours you. God has blessed you, my little brother. My heart swells with envy."
"I know. And I know that I should be grateful, but…"
"But what?"
"I don't understand what she says half the time, and when I have to do my studies, she gets bored."
"Impossible!" he teased. "Bored with arithmetic? Geometry? You must draw pretty shapes for her, Geoff. I'm sure she'll love that."
"You could talk to her, Juan. She might like that, hearing your stories about fighting and whatnot."
"Far be it from me to entertain other men's wife. Especially my brother's. It would be unseemly."
"You suppose? You'll only be talking to her…"
"I know that, and while my intentions will be nothing but pure and noble…" he shrugged. "How about you and I spend some time together instead? I could teach you how to swordfight. Then you can have a duel or two in the streets. Sancia would love that… Hot blooded women like her appreciate bloodshed in their name."
"You'll teach me to fight?"
"You'll be second only to myself by the time I'm done with you."
"Cesare says that only ruffians duel."
"I duel at least once a week, so what does that say about me?" he flashed one of his smiles at his father and made it intentionally smarmy. "I'm not a ruffian in the least. I'm a decent fellow, aren't I?"
"A duel?"
"You're too young now… I'll give you another year or two to grow. Then you and I shall take to the streets until the canals run red."
"Against who, though? Aren't proper duels supposed to be between lords? I'd have to challenge someone–"
"No…" Juan laughed. "Any random person will do. You need not know his name or his face. A masked man might walk up to you and challenge you right out of the blue–"
The teacups rattled as their mother shot out of her seat gracelessly. "Rodrigo…" she smoothed out her dress, as she hurried from the table, the heels of her shoes clicking angrily on the marble floor, "When you pray for Rome, remember your children. Pray for them as well."