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the cathedral of Imola, not far from the Mountain Gate. Thus I assured myself that he could not wait for me along the route back to the Palazzo Machirelli, as my lodgings were in the opposite direction.
    Even so, I still could not cross the moat. No longer Lethe, the dark water before me had become a river of remembrance.

    Summer, the night of 14 June, anno Domini 1497, more than five years ago as I write this. I was still in my house on the Via dei Banchi in Rome, but six months had passed since I played “O mia cieca” with your uncle. Standing at that same window where the crow had watched us, I looked out across the Tiber River toward the Castel Sant’Angelo and its great tower, which your grandfather built atop that ancient round fortress. It was about the eighth hour of the night, the moon full. The Tiber appeared broken into a series of silver pools, revealed here and there in the gaps between the palazzi and warehouses that fronted the river. There was a distant drone of bullfrogs and occasionally a shout or a barking dog.
    Juan had returned from his winter campaign against the Orsini and the Vitelli, the pope having pursued an uneasy, fragile truce—much like the present negotiations. That evening Juan had gone to supper with Cesare at their mother’s house on the Esquiline, near the ancient Colosseum; one of his servants had brought word that I should expect him at my house no later than the fifth hour of the night. I always begged Juan to wear his armor, because regardless of the truce, I was certain the Orsini and Vitelli would pursue a vendetta against the pope who had attacked them; they knew that if they slit his belovedson’s throat, they would with the same stroke bury that knife in His Holiness’s heart. But Juan thought it was enough to come to my house by different routes, at various times. By the seventh hour I had told one of the bravi who guarded my house to go around and ask if Juan had been seen on the streets; these were very reliable men, who knew the city at night as intimately as a shepherd knows his pasture by day.
    And so I was at my window, looking out on the moon-silvered city, when this bravo called up to me that Juan had been seen near the Santa Maria del Popolo, which was far out of his way. Either he had gone to considerable length to deceive whoever was following him, or he had decided to see a new mistress.
    Juan did not come to my house that night. Nor did he return to his apartments in the Vatican the following day. The second night, the pope sent his most trusted and implacable agent, Ramiro da Lorca, to search my house. As subtle as a Spanish bull, Ramiro turned over every vase and jewelry casket, scattering the leaves of all my books and tossing aside my gowns. Of course he found nothing. In the morning the entire city was turned upside down, the pope’s soldiers all over the streets; there were rumors that the sprawling Orsini palazzo on Monte Giordano was going to be attacked.
    But soon His Holiness’s people discovered a wood dealer who had seen a body thrown into the river on the night Juan disappeared, whereupon every fisherman in Rome was sent to fish the Tiber’s depths. I paced the banks from the afternoon of the sixteenth until well into the next day. During that night I looked over the fetid dark river, its surface obsidian black, and whispered to your father, though I could not be certain if he was in this world or another. “I promise you I will give up everything, even my own soul, to protect this child.”
    You were the child I already felt in my womb.
    At noon the next day shouts came from upstream. The Tiber was no longer dark; a coppery haze colored everything. Fishing drogues had gathered in the middle of the river. I ran like a Fury to the bank opposite, where I commanded one of the fishermen to take me out there.
    I can never stop seeing Juan’s body laid out in the bottom of a little boat floating on the Tiber. The mud had been washed from him andhe