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1492

The crown glitters in the light of a thousand beeswax candles in silver sconces, and seems to be made all of a single sheet of shimmering gold and jewels and silver melted together to crown Rodrigo Borgia's head. He sat down a cardinal, and now he rises a pope, the Bishop of Rome, not least. His robes are white and stitched with silver and gold thread, sapphires and gems studded about his chest, his feet appear just through the folds of the robes, slippered in the finest leather dyed crimson, the soles scuffed beyond repair by just one day of walking. His fingers are stripped for once of all his worldly rings; he wears only the heavy papal ring of gold on the third finger of his right hand. Above the white splendour of his garb, his face is still and serious, sun-browned and healthy compared to the swamp of pale cardinals about and before him.

"What will his family call him now?" whispers Lucrezia into her brother's ear.

"Holy Father," replies Cesare, watching with absent interest the flames flicker shadows onto his sister's own little crown: one of pearls and silver lace that drapes the back of her head. He winds a skein of her golden hair absently by her hip next to his, until it shines bright as a ring about his finger.

"Holy Father." Lucrezia smiles. "That's easy . . . even I can remember that."

More words are said, soft intones of Latin that hang heavy as the smoke of incense smouldering amongst the pews. Lucrezia's hand creeps into Cesare's and they both gaze up at their father on the dais. She leans her head in again.

"And tell me, dear brother – "

"What, sis?" asks Cesare, impatiently, but he is grinning.

She narrows her eyes at him teasingly. "What must I call myself?" she whispers, still teasing. "Holy daughter?"

"You are still Lucrezia Borgia, my love," he replies, his smile smaller. "You'll only change your name when you marry." He whispers the last word, as if it hurts him.

"And when will I marry?" Her voice is thready with fear.

"Well . . . never, if I can help it." He stares straight ahead, but his hand clutches at hers a little tighter, and his thumb smoothes her skin.

She laughs quietly. "Surely it is good to marry, Cesare."

He turns his head at that as she now looks straight ahead, and he dips his lips to her ear to whisper quietly. He tightens his grip on her hand again, and spins the skein of hair about his other fingers.

"As the Pope's daughter, you will have every prince of Europe vying for your hand," he whispers. When still she does not turn, he grasps her chin and pulls her gently round till he is staring into her blue eyes. "They may care very little for your heart."

At that her eyes lose their glitter of laughter. "Perhaps I should do as you have done, brother," she murmurs. "Take holy orders, give my heart to God."

"That might be the safer option, my love." He smooths his thumb across her knuckles again, and draws her hand up to his mouth, rubbing it over his chin and then pressing it to his lips. "But not the right one for a girl as beautiful as you." Her eyes light on his as his lips travel along her knuckles.

"What is right, Cesare?" she whispers, watching now as her fingers glide between his lips. "To sell me as you would cattle?" As he makes to speak, she hushes him with her eyes. "I know my duty, dear brother. I was the beloved daughter of Rodrigo Borgia, and now I am the pretty way of obtaining Pope Alexander's favour." His dark eyes are bottomless pools as she says, "I know that."

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