Medina del Campo Prison
Valencia, Spain
1507


My son, you are going to be executed tomorrow. Don’t you wish to confess your sins to almighty God and beg for his infinite forgiveness? droned the prison chaplain in a rehearsed, high pitched monotone. He was standing at a safe distance from the cell door. His soft, plump hands were folded over his rounded belly that strained against his water-silk sash. Sweat ran down his plump, peach fuzzy cheeks. He was too young and too inexperienced to be in a place like this he thought. Let the devil have them.

He expected the prisoner to curse him and send him away, but there was only silence. The smell of mold and human excrement made his head spin. The priest fought hard to hold down his breakfast of fried eggs and pork smothered in gravy He noticed the guard fidgeting like a little boy who had to urinate, but was too embarrassed to ask to be excused.

The priest had started serving as the prison chaplain two weeks ago, but this was his first time in the maximum security dungeon located in the bowels of the Medina del Campo Prison. The sound of dripping water echoed off the stone walls of the cell. In the far corner, two rats were fighting over a piece of moldy bread, but the sound of heavy breathing made the priest move back a step. The bars were as thick as a man’s arm.

“My son,” he repeated, “tomorrow morning you’ll be standing before God, the almighty and all-knowing and he will judge you. Are you ready?” He tried to turn his cowardice into self-righteousness.

A snort came out of the darkened cell. The prisoner had recognized the hollow ring of religious poetry recited without feeling. He had heard it thousands of times. “With all the respect that is due your high and mighty office, Father, you’re the one who’s not ready. You’re not even 30. You’re much too pure to hear my confession.”

“What do you mean, my son? ‘Eye has not seen nor ear heard ...’”

“Stop calling me your son. You’re not my father.” The sound of shuffling feet moved toward the cell door. “And if God is all-knowing ... well ... I think that even he wouldn’t feel worthy to judge me.

The priest swallowed the bile of his breakfast and quickly covered his nose with a perfumed handkerchief. He could see the outline of a man getting up from a bed. Leg irons scratched across the stone floor.

“Father, pull up a stool and have a seat. I want you to hear my confession. It will do you more good than me.”

The guard shoved a wooden stool against the bars and mumbled his exit, slamming the hallway door in his haste.

Slowly the priest’s eyes began adjusting themselves to the dark. He could make out the shadow of a man, his hair and beard hadn’t been groomed in months. The smell became more pungent as the prisoner moved a chair next to the bars. Despite the filth and smell, the prisoner stopped to wipe the dust off the chair before sitting down.

Almost a minute of silence passed before the priest began, “May the Holy Ghost be in your heart and on your lips so that you might make a worthy confession.”

Another minute went by before the priest said, “My son, uh, I mean ... my ... you can begin to confess your ...”

“’Sins’, Father?” whispered the prisoner, spilling out words as if he became lighter for doing so. “I’ll confess to you my sins. You see, I started sinning before I was born. I began sinning before I came into this world.”

“What do you mean? No one can commit a sin unless he is conscious of ...”

“Father, my life started because of a sin. My father was Rodrigo Borgia and my mother Vanessa Catanei. And my mother was his whore. I ... I was their son.”

The priest sat up straight and almost fell from his stool. He steadied himself by grabbing onto the bars of the cell. “Then ... you’re ... you’re Cesar Borgia.”

“Yes. I’m Cesar Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI.

“Cesar Borgia,” the priest repeated. “Cardinal and Captain – General of the Pope’s Armies.”

“Yes, Father. Now for my sins ... and when you’ve heard my confession, I want you to tell me if the sins are really mine, Father.

The question hung in the air like the smell of decay and rotten corpses. But the priest was hypnotized by images of war, papal ceremonies, whoring, bloodied armor, orgies, palaces, battle fields, parties, murder, laughter, women and gold. He could remember his father bragging to him about the havoc the Spaniards were causing in Rome. Only Spanish blood could turn Europe upside down his father would always say.

Cesar continued by answering his own question, “I really don’t know and I’m not sure if even God knows whose sins they are. But if I am not responsible for my coming into this world, how can I be guilty of the sins you want me to confess? Father, I am to blame, am I not?

“You’re Cesar Borgia.” was all the priest could say. “You ...” The priest felt numb from the conflict of emotions the name had caused in him. He was about to hear the confession of a legend.

“If I’m not to blame for being the pope’s bastard,” continued Cesar, answering again his own question, “then I should start from the beginning of it all. Or was it the end of it all?”

“I can still remember the day. It was a summer day. Everything had to be perfect for my mother’s visit. I was a student at the University of Perugia.” Again, a low sarcastic chuckle. “And I was studying law of all things…”


University of Perugia
Perugia, Italy
1492


“Cesar, when are you going to tell your mother about us?”

“What’s there to say? I love you and you adore me and that’s the end of the story.”

“You know what I’m talking about!” Sancia Aragona


Bad news can make anyone lose their appetite.

interruptions while eating, but the news couldn't wait. "Your highness, your orders have been carried out to the letter," whispered Johannes Burchart. Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia's secretary .



The wooden mallet came down squarely